Chapter 23: The Apology
The scream ripped through the penthouse, raw and jagged, bouncing off the cool marble and vast windows. "FUCK YOU, JULIAN!" It was fury and release twisted together, echoing the city lights sprawling below, indifferent witnesses to the battle raging against the glass. Julian didn’t flinch. He drove deeper, harder, the punishing rhythm against the unyielding windowpane a counterpoint to her cry. His hand fisted tighter in her hair, holding her head back, forcing her gaze onto the glittering abyss below as he pistoned into her slick, clenching heat. "Mine," he rasped, each thrust punctuating the word. "Always fucking mine."
The anger was still a live wire in him, crackling beneath the surface of his lust. The image of Carter’s shocked face, the humiliation radiating off Imani earlier, the way she’d thrown his privilege in his face – it all coalesced into this relentless claiming. Her body betrayed her, meeting his fury with its own desperate hunger, clenching rhythmically around his invading thickness, her inner muscles fluttering in involuntary spasms that made him groan. She was wet, impossibly wet, despite the rage, the slick sounds obscene in the stark silence broken only by their ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of skin on glass.
He felt her tipping, her inner muscles seizing, clamping down hard as she arched back against him, a choked gasp escaping instead of another scream. He rode her through it, his thrusts turning shallow and grinding, prolonging the spasms that shook her frame. Then, abruptly, before the last tremor had faded, he pulled out.
Imani sagged against the glass, trembling, sweat cooling on her skin, the city lights blurred by unshed tears of fury and overwhelming sensation. Before she could gather herself, his hands were on her, rough, turning her. He spun her away from the window and shoved her forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the king-sized bed, the pristine white duvet crumpling under her palms. The cool leather headboard loomed above.
"No," she gasped, pushing back, a flicker of defiance reigniting, but Julian was on her. His knee shoved between her thighs, forcing them apart. One large hand planted firmly between her shoulder blades, pressing her upper body down into the mattress. The other gripped her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the curve of her ass, hauling her back until she was presented, kneeling, bent over the bed, her face pressed into the duvet, her ass raised high. The position was brutally exposed, vulnerable.
"Julian—" Her protest was muffled by the bedding.
He ignored her. He grabbed his cock, still glistening with her arousal, thick and rigid, and guided it to her entrance. He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask. He just slammed home.
"Christ!" The breath punched out of Imani. The angle was different, deeper, more invasive. He filled her completely, stretching her, the suddenness stealing her breath. Then he started moving. Hard, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out only to drive back in with brutal force. His hips snapped against her ass cheeks with sharp, rhythmic smacks. The headboard, solid wood against the wall, began to thump in time with his relentless pace. Thump. Thump. Thump.
She tried to push back, to gain some leverage, some control, but his hand between her shoulders held her pinned. Her fingers clawed at the expensive sheets, twisting them into knots. Pleasure, sharp and demanding, lanced through her again, tangled inextricably with anger and the raw, animalistic sensation of being taken like this. Each deep plunge sent shockwaves through her core, reigniting the embers he’d just stoked against the window.
"Fuck!" she screamed into the duvet, the curse swallowed by the fabric. "You bastard! Get off me!"
He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth finding her ear. His breath was hot, ragged. "Tell me," he growled, his voice thick, guttural. His thrusts didn’t slow; they intensified, each one making the headboard thump louder. "Tell me who owns this tight fucking cunt, Imani." He punctuated the demand with a particularly vicious thrust that drew a sharp cry from her. "Whose name do you scream when it milks my cock?"
She bit her lip, refusing, fighting the overwhelming tide building inside her again, fueled by the relentless friction, the powerful slap of his body against hers, the sheer dominance of his possession. Her body arched, trying to escape the intensity, but only succeeded in pushing herself harder back onto him. He groaned, a sound of pure savage satisfaction. His hand left her hip and snaked around her front, fingers plunging into the wet heat between her legs, finding her swollen clit.
"Tell me!" he commanded, his thumb circling the sensitive nub with ruthless pressure while his cock hammered her from behind.
The dual assault shattered her resistance. A sob tore from her throat. "Yours! Julian! It's yours!" The words spilled out, desperate, humiliating, undeniable in the face of the sensations ripping through her. "Fuck! Julian! Yours!"
Her body convulsed. Orgasm slammed into her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock like a vise, rhythmic, pulsing spasms that milked him, drawing a ragged, guttural groan from deep in his chest. She screamed again, wordlessly this time, the sound muffled by the bedding, her body shuddering uncontrollably under his.
He kept fucking her through it, his thrusts becoming jagged, losing their brutal rhythm, driven by his own rising peak. Just as the last tremors of her climax began to subside, before she could even catch her breath, he hauled her up. He flipped her onto her back, the movement rough. Her legs were still splayed, her hips twisted awkwardly sideways on the mattress as her upper body faced him. Before she could orient herself, he was between her thighs again, his cock, impossibly hard still, pushing back into her sensitive, swollen flesh.
"No... too much... Julian, wait—" she pleaded, her voice hoarse, her body still vibrating with aftershocks.
He didn't wait. He sank deep, seating himself fully. His eyes, dark with lust and something feral, locked onto hers. Then his hand came up, not to caress, but to settle firmly around the base of her throat. Not choking, but applying undeniable pressure, holding her gaze captive, a physical manifestation of his control. He held her there, pinned by his cock inside and his hand on her throat, unmoving for a long, suffocating moment. She could feel the pulse hammering against his palm, the vulnerability of the position stealing her breath as effectively as the pressure.
Then he moved. Slow, deliberate thrusts at first, an agonizing drag out followed by a deep, grinding push back in. The angle was torturous, hitting spots already oversensitized. The pressure on her throat remained constant, a dark counterpoint to the fullness below. His eyes never left hers, watching the panic, the helpless arousal, the dawning shock as her body betrayed her yet again, responding to the violation.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low, dangerous. "Look at me while I take what’s mine."
She couldn't look away. Her hips moved restlessly beneath him, caught between pushing him away and demanding more. The slow, deep strokes built a different kind of fire, one laced with a terrifying edge. Tears pricked her eyes again, this time born from overwhelming sensation and the sheer, disorienting power of his hold on her. She was completely at his mercy.
He increased the pressure on her throat slightly, just enough to make her gasp, as his thrusts began to deepen and accelerate. The slow torture shifted back towards urgency. The friction, the impossible fullness combined with the constriction, the intensity of his gaze – it was too much. Her vision started to blur at the edges. A keening sound escaped her, high and thin. Just as white spots began to dance in her vision, he slammed home hard, grinding deep, and her body detonated.
This orgasm was different. Silent. Merciless. It tore through her like a lightning bolt, leaving her rigid, back arched off the bed, mouth open in a soundless scream. She shattered, completely and utterly, waves of electric agony-ecstasy crashing over her, drowning her. Her cunt convulsed violently around his cock, squeezing, pulsing.
With a roar that ripped from his own chest, Julian drove into her one final, brutal time. His hips jerked erratically as he came deep inside her, his release hot and flooding, his own body shuddering with the force of it. The pressure on her throat lessened, became almost an afterthought as he collapsed forward slightly, bracing himself over her, his forehead dropping to hers, their sweat mingling.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by their harsh, gasping breaths. The relentless thumping had stopped. The city lights still glowed, indifferent. Imani lay beneath him, trembling uncontrollably, tears tracking silently down her temples into her locs. The fury was gone, burned away, leaving only a hollowed-out ache and the raw, overwhelming evidence of his possession still pulsing deep within her. Julian stayed braced over her, his breathing ragged against her skin, the hand that had been on her throat now resting limply beside her head. The fight, for now, was spent. Only the wreckage and the lingering scent of sex remained.
The wreckage wasn't just the tangled sheets or the lingering musk of sex hanging thick in the cool air; it was the shattered silence between them, sharp as the glass Carter dropped. Julian pushed himself off her, the sudden absence of his weight leaving Imani feeling strangely untethered and cold despite the sweat cooling on her skin. He stood beside the bed, his back to her, his breathing finally slowing to something approaching normal. The city lights painted stark shadows across the hard lines of his shoulders, the muscles still tense. He didn’t look at her as he found his discarded pants, stepping into them with quick, efficient movements, the zipper's rasp unnaturally loud.
His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of its usual smooth charm, edged with the gravel of spent anger. "So much for my 'gilded little bubble' crashing in," he muttered, a bitter echo of her earlier accusation tossed carelessly over his shoulder. He didn’t wait for a response, just strode towards the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of finality.
Imani lay still, the sting of his words landing like a physical slap. She stared at the ceiling, the vast white expanse mirroring the hollow ache inside her. Carter’s shocked face flashed behind her eyelids, unwanted, persistent. The shame returned, hot and prickly, warring with the deep, trembling fatigue in her muscles. She heard the shower start, the distant hiss of water hitting tile. Minutes stretched. The cold seeped deeper into her bones, the silence amplifying the chaos in her head.
Slowly, mechanically, she pushed herself up. Every muscle protested. She found her discarded silk robe, the cool fabric a small comfort against her skin. She walked to the full-length mirror near the bathroom door. Her reflection was jarring: locs wild and tangled, eyes shadowed and red-rimmed, the faint red mark from Julian’s hand on her throat a stark reminder of the possession, the punishment, the terrifying intensity. She gathered the thick ropes of her hair, twisting them with practiced ease into a high, tight bun, securing it with an elastic she found on the dresser. It felt like armor. The act of taming the chaos grounded her, pulling the frayed edges of herself back together.
The steam billowed out as she pushed the bathroom door open, warm and fragrant with Julian’s expensive cedarwood soap. He stood directly under the powerful jets, head bowed, water sluicing down the taut muscles of his back, over the curve of his ass. The tension radiated off him, visible even through the steam. He didn’t turn. She stepped into the warm spray, the water instantly soaking through her thin robe, plastering it to her skin. Without a word, she moved behind him, pressing her body flush against his wet back. Her arms slid around his waist, holding him tightly, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the water, the steady thud of his heart.
For a long moment, they stood like that, the only sounds the drumming water and their mingled breaths. The anger, the violence, the raw claiming, it all dissolved in the simple, profound warmth of skin against skin. The steam enveloped them, a private cocoon. His hands came up, covering hers where they rested on his stomach, his fingers lacing through hers. His grip was firm, anchoring.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words muffled against his wet skin, carried on the steam. "I don't want to fight." She paused, swallowing hard, the vulnerability raw and exposed. "I'm just... I'm so fucking upset about Carter. About being seen like that." Her voice hitched. "Having my business... all over Tribeca. My body. Like some... spectacle." The fear of whispers, of judgment from his polished world, of her hard-won reputation dissolving into gossip, tightened her arms around him. "I didn't like it."
The steam thickened, swallowing her choked words. Julian stood motionless under the pounding water, her arms locked around his waist, her cheek pressed to the slick heat of his back. Her confession hung between them, raw and vulnerable: I didn’t like it. The fear of being exposed, dissected by Carter’s privileged gaze, of becoming gossip fodder in Julian’s detached world, vibrated through her embrace. She felt the rigid tension in his spine, the way his muscles corded beneath her touch.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned within the circle of her arms. Water sluiced down his face, plastering dark strands to his forehead, dripping from his sharp jawline. His storm-grey eyes, usually guarded, were wide open, stripped bare. He looked wrecked. Not by anger now, but by a deeper ache. He framed her face with both hands, calloused thumbs tracing the fragile skin beneath her damp eyes, smudging tears she hadn’t realized were still falling. His gaze travelled downwards, lingering on the faint, red pressure mark encircling the base of her throat – a stark testament to his earlier fury. A muscle flickered in his jaw.
“Fuck, Imani,” he breathed, his voice ragged, the sound almost lost under the shower’s roar. The words weren’t smooth, weren’t controlled. They were rough, scraped raw. “Look at you.” His thumb brushed the mark again, a feather-light touch now, a silent apology etched onto her skin. “Seeing him… seeing you like that…” He shook his head, water flying, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. “It guts me. Knowing I made you feel… exposed. Like that library all over again, but worse. So much fucking worse.” His jaw tightened. “My carelessness. My world crashing into yours, leaving bruises.” He pulled her closer, his wet skin sliding against the soaked silk of her robe. “That mark… Fuck. I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry, baby.”
The raw sincerity in his voice, the genuine remorse shadowing his eyes, cracked something brittle inside her. The defensive walls, hastily rebuilt after the argument and the punishing sex, began to crumble. His thumbs kept tracing her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw, the sensitive skin of her throat where his hand had pressed. Each touch was a whispered plea, a desperate mapping, as if reassuring himself she was whole, she was here. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, a silent question hanging in the steam-filled space between them. The roaring water cocooned them, a private world of heat and confession. The anger was gone, burned out. What remained was a shuddering vulnerability, and a different, deeper hunger – not for possession, but for connection, for reassurance, for the obliteration of the shame Carter’s intrusion had inflicted.
He dipped his head, his lips brushing hers – not a demand, but a tentative exploration. Soft. Questioning. A stark contrast to the brutal claiming against the window. Imani melted into it, a soft sigh escaping her as her hands slid up his slick back, fingers digging into the hard muscle. The kiss deepened slowly, a tangle of tongues and shared breath, tasting salt and cedarwood and the lingering echo of tears. The soaked silk robe clung to her like a second skin, outlining every curve. His hands slid down, fingers finding the tie at her waist. He didn’t rip it. He undid the knot slowly, deliberately, letting the heavy, wet fabric fall open, then slide off her shoulders to puddle at her feet on the marble tiles. She stood naked before him, the water cascading over her skin the color of smooth peanut butter, beads catching in her tightly bound locs.
His gaze swept over her, not with the assessing coolness of the corporate lawyer, but with a reverence that stole her breath. His large hands followed the path of his eyes, calloused palms sliding up her slick sides, over the swell of her hips, tracing the dip of her waist. He cupped her full breasts, thumbs circling her stiff, dark nipples, a groan rumbling deep in his chest at the gasp she couldn’t suppress. “Beautiful,” he murmured, the word almost lost in the spray, but she felt it vibrate against her lips as he kissed her again, deeper, hungrier now. “So fucking beautiful.” His hands kept moving, exploring, worshipping – down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass, fingers tracing the cleft before sliding around to her inner thighs. He lifted one of her legs, hooking it over his hip, the movement effortless, bringing her core flush against the hard ridge of his erection. She could feel his heat, his thickness, even through the wet fabric.
His mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, lower. He caught one pebbled nipple between his lips, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak. A sharp cry tore from Imani, her head falling back, water splashing her face as her fingers twisted in his soaked hair. He switched to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, his free hand sliding between her legs. His fingers parted her folds, finding her already slick and swollen, ready. She whimpered, pressing herself against his seeking touch. He stroked her clit in slow, deliberate circles, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp.
“Julian…” His name was a plea, a command.
He nipped at her breast, sending a jolt through her. “Tell me what you need, baby,” he rasped against her wet skin, his fingers still working her clit with torturous precision. “After… after everything. Tell me.”
“You,” she gasped, her hips rocking against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. “Just you. Inside. Now.” The raw need in her voice surprised her, banishing the last ghost of Carter’s stare. This was theirs. Only theirs.
He didn’t hesitate. With a low growl, he fumbled with the button and zipper of his soaked pants, shoving them and his boxers down just far enough to free his cock. It sprang free, thick and rigid, the flushed head glistening. He gripped himself, guiding the broad tip to her entrance, slick with her arousal and the streaming water. He looked into her eyes, his storm-grey gaze holding hers with an intensity that felt like a vow. Then, keeping her leg hooked over his hip, he pushed forward.
The stretch was immediate, profound. He filled her slowly, deliberately, sinking inch by thick inch into her tight, wet heat. Her inner walls stretched, fluttered, then clamped down around him as he seated himself fully, hilt-deep. A guttural moan escaped them both, mingling with the shower’s roar. He held himself there, buried to the root, his body pressed flush against hers, her back against the cool, wet tile of the shower wall. He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath hot and ragged on her face. “Mine,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a claim of conquest this time. It was a raw affirmation, laced with the echo of his apology, a desperate clinging.
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged every nerve ending alive. Withdrawing almost completely, leaving her achingly empty, then pushing back in with relentless, grinding pressure, filling her impossibly full again. Each deep stroke hit that perfect spot inside her, a steady, building friction. His hips rolled against hers, the movement sinuous, sensual. His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh, holding her open, angling her perfectly to take every inch of him on every thrust. The water pounded down on them, slicking their movements, plastering their bodies together. Steam billowed, cocooning them in a private world of heat and sensation.
“Fuck, Imani… so tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure, his eyes locked on hers. “Taking me so deep. Fuck.” His thrusts gradually gained speed, the slow burn igniting into a hotter flame. The slap of wet skin against wet skin joined the symphony of the shower and their ragged breathing. He shifted, lifting her other leg, wrapping both her legs around his waist, holding her pinned between his body and the tile. The angle changed, even deeper, more direct. He fucked her with powerful, driving strokes now, the force driving her back against the wall with each deep plunge. Her head thumped lightly against the tile, her eyes squeezed shut, lost in the relentless rhythm, in the overwhelming fullness, in the sheer physicality of his possession – no longer violent, but no less absolute.
“Harder,” she gasped, her nails scoring his shoulders. “Julian, harder!” The dread of exposure, the lingering humiliation, dissolved under the tidal wave of pure sensation. This was obliteration. This was reclaiming what was theirs.
He obeyed, his hips snapping forward with renewed force, driving into her with deep, piston-like thrusts that stole her breath. His mouth found hers again, a fierce, claiming kiss that mirrored the rhythm below. She kissed him back just as fiercely, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. One of his hands slid between their slick bodies, his thumb finding her clit again, pressing hard, circling in time with his powerful thrusts.
The dual assault was too much. The coil deep in her belly wound impossibly tight, then shattered. Her orgasm hit like a freight train, silent at first, a seismic locking of every muscle, her cunt convulsing violently around his invading thickness, milking him. Then the scream tore loose, raw and primal, echoing off the tiles, lost in the steam and the water. Wave after wave of electric pleasure ripped through her, leaving her trembling, clinging to him like a lifeline as he fucked her through the relentless spasms.
Feeling her clench and pulse around him, Julian lost his rhythm. His thrusts became frantic, jerky. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep, and roared her name, a sound ripped from the core of him. Hot pulses of his release flooded her depths, joining the slickness already there. His hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering violently against hers, his forehead pressed to the tile beside her head.
He stayed buried deep, his harsh breaths gusting against her neck, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her legs, letting her weight settle onto her feet, though she leaned heavily against him, her arms still locked around his neck, her body humming with spent sensation. The water continued to pour over them, washing away sweat, tears, the physical remnants of their clash. The steam softened the harsh edges of the bathroom. The frantic pounding of their hearts gradually slowed to a shared, heavy thud against each other's skin. The silence, now, wasn't shattered. It was shared. Exhausted. Quietly reclaimed.