Chapter 9: The Sharing
Three days later, the notification chimed on Marie’s phone while she was washing dishes, her husband Dave drying beside her. She wiped her hands, a flutter of anxiety in her throat. It was from Marcus.
Her married cunt is mine. So is her ass.
Her breath hitched. The screen seemed to burn her palm. Dave glanced over. “Everything okay? You’ve gone pale.”
“Just… a wrong number. Some vile text,” she managed, forcing a shaky laugh. “People are disgusting.” She deleted the message, her fingers clumsy. A part of her, a deep and shameful part, thrilled at the possessiveness in the words.
Another chime, almost immediate.
This weekend. I’m sending your husband to the Denver conference. Be at my house Saturday. 9 PM. Wear that sexy black dress you wore to the Christmas party. The one I couldn’t stop staring at.
Dave was talking about the Denver trip, his voice tinged with grateful excitement. “Marcus just emailed the details. Can you believe it? This is a huge opportunity for me.” He looked at her, his eyes kind, trusting. “You sure you don’t mind holding down the fort?”
“Of course not,” Marie said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. She looked at the phone again, at the command. She knew, with a certainty that felt both terrifying and inevitable, that she would go.
Two days later, with Dave’s suitcase by the door and her children happily packed off to her in-laws, Marie stood before her mirror. The black dress was as he remembered: demure from the front, but backless, clinging to every curve. She applied her lipstick with a steady hand she didn’t feel.
The drive to Marcus’s neighborhood was a blur of shadowed streets and towering gates. At precisely nine, she stood before the imposing modern facade, her heart hammering against her ribs. The door opened before she could ring the bell.
A man filled the doorway. He was enormous, taller and broader than Marcus, with a shaved head and a face that looked carved from stone. His eyes, dark and assessing, swept over her without a word before he stepped aside.
“He’s expecting you,” the man rumbled, his voice a low bass.
He led her through the stark, minimalist living area, his presence a silent wall behind her. Marcus stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He turned, and his smile was a predator’s.
“Marie. You look exquisite.” He came to her, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was not the passionate kiss from the bedroom days before; this was a claiming, deep and deliberate, his tongue exploring her mouth as his hands slid down her back, finding bare skin. She melted into it, a soft moan escaping her.
When he pulled away, he gestured to the large man. “This is Nabil. He handles security. A simple man, but very effective at protecting what’s mine.”
Nabil gave a barely perceptible nod, his gaze fixed somewhere past them, yet Marie felt utterly seen, utterly exposed.
Marcus took her hand. “Come.”
He led her not to the living room, but back towards the private wing of the house, to the bedroom she remembered. The black silk sheets gleamed under low light. He turned her to face him, his hands beginning a slow, possessive exploration. They traced the line of her spine through the open back of the dress, his thumbs pressing into the muscles there. They cupped her breasts through the fabric, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which hardened instantly.
“You thought about this,” he stated, his voice a low murmur against her ear.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Say it.”
“I thought about you. About… this.”
His hands slid down her hips, gathering the hem of her dress. In one smooth motion, he pulled it up and over her head, leaving her in only her black lace panties and heels. The cool air kissed her skin, but his gaze was hotter. He backed her toward the bed until her knees hit the edge.
“Lie back.”
She did, sinking into the sinfully soft silk. He stood at the foot of the bed, drinking her in. Then he crawled over her, his body caging hers, and kissed her again, more fiercely. His hands were everywhere—kneading her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped, sliding down her stomach to the lace covering her.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband. “Lift up.”
She arched her hips, and he pulled her panties down her legs, discarding them. He settled between her thighs, his own still clothed. The rough texture of his trousers against her inner thighs was a thrilling contrast to her nakedness. He propped himself on one elbow, his other hand trailing through the dark curls between her legs, then along her slit.
She was already wet, embarrassingly so. His fingertips glided through her slickness, circling her clit with a torturous, knowing pressure. Her back arched off the bed.
“Look at you,” he breathed, a dark pride in his voice. “Soaked for me. A married woman, dripping on another man’s sheets.”
He pushed two fingers inside her, and she cried out, her body clenching around the sudden, delicious invasion. He curled them, stroking a spot deep within her that made her vision swim. He pumped his fingers slowly, watching her face contort with pleasure.
“I’m going to take my time tonight, Marie,” he said, his voice thick with intent. “I’m going to show you that I can give you everything you need. Everything you’ve been missing.”
He scissored his fingers, stretching her, preparing her, his eyes never leaving hers as he felt her body yield and gush around his hand. The chapter of her resistance was closed. This was the beginning of something else entirely.