Chapter 35: Honeymoon Claiming
The rain on the courthouse steps was a fine, cold mist, soaking through the thin silk of Stone’s dress before the judge had even finished speaking. It didn’t matter. The words “husband and wife” hung in the damp air, a legal incantation that transformed every forbidden touch from a secret into a sacrament.
Erik hadn’t smiled. His expression was one of fierce, grim acquisition. As they walked out into the grey afternoon, his hand on the small of her back was less a caress and more a claim of territory. The short, white dress was plastered to her skin, outlining the hard swell of her stomach, the heavier curve of her breasts. She was barefoot, her discarded heels dangling from her fingers.
At the bottom of the slick marble steps, he stopped. He turned her to face him, his piercing blue eyes scanning her—the dripping red hair, the visible peaks of her nipples against the wet fabric, the proof of their sin growing inside her.
“Mine,” he growled, the single word leaving no room for contradiction. It wasn’t a question. It was a brand.
He bent and lifted her into his arms, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She gasped, curling into him, her face against his neck. He carried her like that, past the bored driver holding an umbrella, into the waiting town car. He didn’t put her down during the short ride to the new building, his silence a palpable weight. He merely stared out at the blurred city, his fingers tracing possessive circles on her thigh.
The penthouse was his design, a monument of steel, glass, and shadow. The foyer was vast, floored in glacial marble, dominated by a single slab of black walnut table. He shouldered the door shut behind them, the lock engaging with a heavy, final click.
He set her on her feet but didn’t let go. His hands slid to her hips, his thumbs hooking into the fragile silk sides of her dress. With a sharp, downward tug, he ripped it. The delicate material gave way without protest, falling in a sodden heap at her ankles. She stood naked before him in the entryway of her new home, her skin pebbled with gooseflesh, her body marked by his use and his child.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice low.
She obeyed, facing the dark expanse of the living room. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt buckle. Then his hands were on her again, pressing her forward until her belly met the cool edge of the table. He bent her over it, the polished wood smooth against her skin.
His kiss wasn’t on her mouth. It was lower, on the small of her back, just above the swell of her ass. His tongue traced the fresh, dark lines of the tattoo she’d gotten the week before: ‘Mrs. Grey’ in elegant, looping script. He’d watched her get it, his expression unreadable.
Now, he bit it.
Stone cried out, a sharp sound that echoed in the empty space. The sting was perfect, a bright counterpoint to the dull, deep ache of want between her legs. She was already wet, her slickness coating her inner thighs.
“This cunt,” he muttered, his fingers sliding through her folds from behind, rough and demanding. “My cunt. On my wedding day.” He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, and she whimpered, pushing back. “So fucking greedy for it. Always so ready.”
He added a third finger, stretching her, the burn a fleeting thing swallowed by the overwhelming need to be filled by him. He worked them in and out, the obscene, wet sound loud in the quiet room. He scissored them, opening her up, preparing her for what was to come even though she didn’t need it. She was made for him now.
“Please,” she gasped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick table. “Erik… please.”
“What did you call me?” He removed his fingers and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to her ass cheek.
She moaned, the pain blossoming into heat. “Daddy. Please, Daddy.”
He positioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance. He didn’t ease into her. He owned her in one relentless, deep thrust that stole the breath from her lungs and made her see stars behind her eyelids. He was so deep she felt him in her throat.
“Yes,” he hissed, his hands clamping on her hips, holding her immobile as he began to move. “That’s it. Take your husband. Take all of it.”
His pace was brutal, a punishing rhythm that had the heavy table scraping centimeters across the marble floor with every drive of his hips. Each impact jarred through her, a physical echo of the vow they’d just taken. There was no romance in this. It was raw, sweaty, proprietary fucking. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You feel that, Mrs. Grey?” he rasped, his breath hot. “That’s your wedding present. My cock buried in the pregnant pussy I put a baby in. This is what you married. This is what you are. A fucktoy. A breeding ground. Mine.”
The filthy, degrading words poured gasoline on the fire building in her core. She was close, so close, her internal muscles fluttering wildly around his invading length.
“Come,” he commanded, his voice vibrating through her. “Come on your husband’s cock. Now.”
It was the permission she didn’t know she needed. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, a white-hot detonation that had her screaming into the empty room, her body clamping down on him in vise-like pulses.
The feel of her milking him tore his control away. With a guttural shout, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and emptied himself. His release was hot and profound, a flood claiming what was already his, seeding her a second time as their first child grew beneath them. He ground against her, prolonging the feeling, marking her insides as thoroughly as the ink marked her skin.
They stayed like that for a long minute, joined, panting, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city forty stories below.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of her. He straightened up, looking down at her spent form draped over the table, at the evidence of their consummation already leaking from her onto the expensive wood.
He smoothed a hand over her hair, the gesture almost tender. “Get up,” he said, his voice back to its usual, measured tone. “The bed is being delivered in an hour. I want you rested.”
Stone pushed herself upright, her legs shaky. She turned and looked at him, his shirt still on but untucked and wrinkled, his pants open. He looked like a king in a conquered castle. She reached for him, but he caught her wrist.
“Go shower,” he said, his thumb stroking her pulse point. “Then unpack your things. Your closet is the one on the left.”
He turned and walked towards the wall of windows, looking out at the rain-shrouded skyline, already distancing himself, already building the next structure—this life, with her inside it, as his permanent, legally-binding fixture.
Stone stood naked in the foyer, the chill settling back into her skin. She glanced at the ruined dress on the floor, then at the wet spot on the table. A slow smile touched her lips. She had everything she’d ever wanted. The house, the name, the man, the baby.
She just wondered, as she walked barefoot across the cold marble towards the bathroom, why the victory tasted so much like ashes.