Chapter 3: The Weekend
The first thing I became aware of was heat. A solid, radiating warmth along my back, and a heavy, possessive weight across my waist. The scent of him—sex, clean skin, and something indefinably male—was in the sheets, on my skin, in my very lungs. I opened my eyes to the soft, golden light of morning streaming through Jake’s floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the minimalist room in shades of honey and dust.
His arm was slung over me, fingers splayed possessively on my belly. Even in sleep, his grip was firm. I lay perfectly still, cataloging the aches. A deep, pleasant throb between my legs. A tenderness in my breasts where his mouth had been. The stretch in my muscles, a testament to the positions he’d folded me into. I felt ravaged. I felt spectacular.
I turned my head slowly on the pillow. He slept on his stomach, his face turned toward me. In the quiet light, the harsh, commanding lines of his face were softened. He looked younger. The constant smirk was gone, replaced by a slack, peaceful mouth. I studied him with a hunger that had nothing to do with sex. The powerful cords of his neck, the sweep of his shoulder, the way his dark blond hair fell across his forehead. My husband, Callum, was fine-boned, elegant. Jake was hewn from stone and oak.
A different hunger stirred, low and insistent.
The memory of last night—of my knees on the hard floor, of his taste, of the choking, submissive fullness—flooded me with a fresh wave of heat. I wanted that again. I wanted to claim this morning, this quiet moment, and twist it into something he wouldn’t forget. I wanted to serve him, to please him so thoroughly he’d never consider letting me go.
I began to move with infinite care, sliding out from under his arm. He grunted in his sleep, his hand patting the empty space where I’d been before settling. I slipped from the bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on my naked skin. The grand, ornate mirror across the room caught my reflection: a pale, dark-haired phantom covered in faint bruises and bite marks, a living canvas of his ownership. I didn’t look away. I let myself see it.
I padded to his side of the bed and sank to my knees on the plush rug. The sheets were tangled around his hips, revealing the muscular V of his back tapering down. I leaned forward, my breath ghosting over the skin of his lower back. I pressed my lips there, a soft, worshipful kiss.
He stirred. A low, sleepy sound rumbled in his chest.
I trailed my mouth lower, over the swell of his ass, following the line of the sheet. I hooked my fingers in the fabric and pulled it down, just enough. He was already half-hard, resting thick and heavy against his thigh in the morning light. My mouth watered. I leaned in, letting my tongue trace a long, slow stripe from his base to the tip.
He jerked awake.
“What the fuck,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. He tried to roll over.
I placed a hand on his hip, holding him in place. “Stay,” I whispered, my voice husky. “Just let me, Daddy.”
The word did its work. He stilled, a tense, waiting stillness. I heard his breathing deepen.
I took my time. I nuzzled him, kissing the heavy weight of his balls, inhaling his deep, sleep-warm scent. I used my tongue, licking broad, flat strokes along his length, feeling him swell and harden under my ministrations. This was different from last night. There was no force, no command. This was my offering. My worship.
“Fuck, Cheyenne,” he breathed, his fist clenching in the sheets.
I took him into my mouth, slow, excruciatingly slow. I relaxed my jaw, letting him fill me without resistance. I focused on the texture, the silken skin over iron, the prominent vein I traced with the tip of my tongue. I built a rhythm, deep and languid, my head bobbing in the quiet room. One of my hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently; the other reached between his legs to press a finger against his perineum.
He swore, a string of filthy, beautiful curses. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, meeting my mouth. “Just like that,” he growled. “Take it all. You’re so fucking good at this.”
The praise ignited me. I took him deeper, until my nose pressed against the skin of his lower belly. I held him there, my throat working around him, tears pricking my eyes from the effort. In the mirror, I could see the arch of my own back, the desperate, devoted movement of my head. The sight of my own submission was its own kind of aphrodisiac.
I felt his muscles coil, the tension gathering. He tried to pull back. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained.
I didn’t let him go. I tightened my lips, increased the suction, and swallowed him down. With a raw, shattered shout, he came, his body bowing off the bed. I took every pulse, every hot, salty burst, swallowing relentlessly until he was spent and softening in my mouth.
I released him gently, resting my forehead against his thigh, breathing hard. His hand, trembling slightly, came down and tangled in my hair, not pulling, just holding.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted. After a moment, he turned onto his back, looking down at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before. The predatory gleam was gone. In its place was a dazed, open warmth. He tugged me up by my hair until I was kneeling beside the bed, eye level with him.
He cupped my face, his thumb wiping a stray tear from the corner of my eye. “You’re full of surprises, princess.” His voice was soft. He leaned in and kissed me, deeply, tasting himself on my tongue. It was shockingly tender.
“Come on,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed. He stood, pulling me up with him. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
He led me not to a shower, but to a vast, sunken marble tub in his ensuite. He turned on the taps, pouring in a generous amount of sandalwood oil. The steam began to rise, fragrant and luxurious. He stepped in first, then helped me in, settling me between his legs, my back against his chest. The hot water lapped at our bodies.
He was quiet. His hands, so often demanding, now moved over my skin with a soothing, almost reverent touch. He washed me, methodically and gently, squeezing water over my shoulders, massaging shampoo into my scalp. He traced the bruises on my thighs, not with pride, but with a contemplative curiosity.
“Does your husband know you’re here?” he asked finally, his chin resting on my head.
“He knows I didn’t come home.”
Jake was silent for a long minute. The water swirled around us. “He’s not going to fight for you,” he stated, not unkindly. It was a simple observation.
“How do you know?”
“Because a man who lets another man’s bite marks go unanswered has already surrendered.” His arms tightened around me. “His loss.”
It wasn’t comfort. It was a realignment of the universe. I sank back against him, letting the truth of it sink into my bones along with the heat of the water. I had crossed a line from which there was no return, and the man holding me was the only anchor I had left.
Later, wrapped in his thick robes, he made us coffee and omelets in the stark, modern kitchen. He moved with an efficient, physical grace, his biceps flexing as he chopped herbs. He served me at the island, his eyes watching me eat.
“You should stay today,” he said, sipping his black coffee. “Call in sick. Play hooky with me.”
The normalcy of it was the most shocking thing of all. The raw, brutal sex I had expected. This quiet, domestic morning was a disorienting gift. I thought of my empty studio, of the fabric swatches and client emails. I thought of Callum, alone in our apartment, staring at the ceiling.
“Okay,” I said.
A genuine smile touched his eyes. “Good.” He reached over, his hand covering mine. His grip was warm, sure. “We’ll just see where the day takes us.”
But as I looked at our joined hands, at the sheer size of his engulfing mine, I knew exactly where it was taking me. Deeper. Further away from the woman I used to be. The path was set, and the momentum was terrifying, and I had never wanted anything more in my life.
The path was set, and the momentum was terrifying, and I had never wanted anything more in my life. “I’ll stay,” I said, the words solidifying it. Jake’s smile deepened, a flash of white in his tanned face, and he drained his coffee. “Go get your phone. Call your office.” The command was gentle but left no room for debate.
In the bedroom, the silk sheets were a tangled monument to the night. My phone, buried in my discarded purse, showed seven missed calls from Callum and a single, stark text: We need to talk. I stared at it, my thumb hovering. The guilt was a dull, familiar ache, but it was buried under layers of new sensation—the soreness in my muscles, the memory of Jake’s taste, the phantom weight of his arm across me. I powered the phone off and dropped it back into the abyss of the bag.
“All done?” Jake asked from the doorway. He’d shed his robe. He stood naked, leaning against the frame, completely at ease in his own skin. The morning light carved the definition of his abdomen, the powerful lines of his quadriceps. I felt a jolt of pure, wanton hunger. It was a physical pull, a need to touch and be claimed by all that strength.
“All done,” I whispered.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hands cupped my face, tilting it up to him. “No more thinking about him. Not in here.” His kiss was possessive, a brand. I melted into it, my fingers finding the hard planes of his chest. He walked me backward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress and I sat down abruptly. He looked down at me, his cock already thickening, rising against his thigh. It was obscenely large, a blunt, heavy fact that made my mouth go dry. Callum was slender, almost delicate there. Jake was a fucking monument.
“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice low.
I obeyed instantly, my lips parting. He fed himself to me, not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that filled me. I gagged reflexively, tears springing to my eyes. “Relax,” he murmured, his hands in my hair. “Get used to it. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I whimpered around him, the sound vibrating through him. He groaned. “Yeah. That’s it. Your pretty little mouth stretched fucking wide for me.”
He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper. I focused on breathing through my nose, on relaxing my throat. The sensation of being used like this, so deliberately, was a drug. Spit dripped down my chin. I looked up at him through my lashes, watching the concentration on his face, the flex of his jaw. He was watching himself disappear into my face. “Look at you,” he breathed. “You’re a natural cocksucker, Cheyenne. A perfect, filthy little slut for this dick.”
The filthy words, paired with the tender way he brushed hair from my forehead, shattered me. I moaned, the vibration making him curse. His hips snapped forward, and he hit the back of my throat. I took it. I swallowed around him. His control frayed. “Fuck, I’m gonna—” He tried to pull out. I clutched his hips, holding him in, desperate for the finish, for the proof. He came with a shout, flooding my throat with bursts of salty heat. I swallowed convulsively, milking him with my throat until he shuddered and pulled back, slick and spent.
I gasped for air, wiping my chin. He sank to his knees before me, his eyes blazing. “On the bed. On your hands and knees. Now.” His voice was ragged. I scrambled to obey, my body singing with submission. The cool silk was a shock against my knees and palms. He positioned himself behind me, one broad hand splaying on the small of my back, pushing down to arch my spine. “Ass up,” he grunted. “Show me what’s mine.”
I felt the blunt, wet head of him nudge against me, not at my entrance, but lower, at the tight, forbidden pucker. I flinched. “Jake… daddy, please, not there, I’ve never—”
“Shhh.” His hand smoothed over my hip. “I’ll go slow. But I’m having this. All of you.” He spat, a crude, wet sound, and the warm fluid trickled down my cleft. He used his thumb, circling, pressing, a relentless, insistent pressure. The burn was intense, a sharp, splitting feeling. I cried out, my fists clutching the sheets. “Breathe out,” he commanded, and as I exhaled a sob, he pushed forward, an inch of impossible, fiery fullness.
It was a violation so complete it bordered on spiritual. I shook, overwhelmed. He held still, letting my body clench and flutter around that invading tip. “So fucking tight,” he groaned, his own voice strained. “Take it for me. Just this.” He pushed again, another agonizing, glorious inch. The pain began to mutate, to blend with a shocking, full sensation that reached places inside me I never knew existed. He began to move, tiny, shallow strokes that set my nerves on fire.
“See?” he panted, his rhythm growing more confident as my body yielded. “You can take it. You can take all of me.” And I could. The pain receded, replaced by a overwhelming, dizzying fullness. Each thrust jolted through me, a raw, primal claiming. He leaned over me, his chest hot against my back, his mouth at my ear. “He’s never had this, has he? Never fucked this perfect little ass. It’s mine now. Say it.”
“It’s yours!” I screamed, the words torn from me. “Daddy, it’s all yours!”
That undid him. His thrusts became punishing, driving me forward on the bed. One of his hands snaked around my hip, his fingers finding my clit, rough and clever. The dual assault, the filthy, profound fullness and the frantic circles on my sensitive flesh, coiled a spring tight in my belly. I came with a shattered cry, my vision whiting out, my inner muscles spasming around the impossible intrusion. He followed, slamming into me one final time, his roar muffled in my shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside that clenched, hot channel.
We collapsed, a heap of sweating, trembling limbs. He was still inside me. He nuzzled the bite marks on my shoulder, the ones Callum had traced with such confusion. His breath was hot on my skin. “You’re staying the weekend,” he said, a statement devoid of negotiation. “Tell him you’re with a girlfriend. Tell him whatever you want. But you’re not leaving here until Monday.”
I was broken open, filled with him in every way. There was no other answer. “Okay,” I breathed, the word barely a sigh. “I’ll stay.”