Chapter 36: Spoiled Appetite
The penthouse absorbed the morning sun, turning the marble floors into panels of light. Stone lay sprawled on the deep charcoal sofa, one hand resting on the taut dome of her stomach. She wore one of Erik’s old dress shirts, unbuttoned, the fabric doing little to conceal her body. Erik stood at the wall of windows, his back to her, the city sprawled beneath him like a model of his own design.
The intercom buzzed, a harsh electronic intrusion.
Erik didn’t move. “Get that.”
Stone sighed, a performance of laziness, and padded to the console. She pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Stone? It’s Mom. I was in the neighborhood… I brought a housewarming gift.” Eleanor’s voice, crisp and cultured, filtered through the speaker. It was the voice of a different world, of gallery openings and charity luncheons.
Stone’s eyes found Erik’s reflection in the glass. A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. “Send her up,” she said, her tone sweet.
She released the button and turned to Erik. He had finally turned around, his expression unreadable. “She’s early,” he said, his voice flat.
“She’s lonely,” Stone corrected, walking back to the sofa. She didn’t re-button the shirt. Instead, she lay back, letting it fall open completely, one knee raised and falling outward. An invitation. A display. “You should come here.”
He watched her for a long moment, the conflict a faint tightening around his eyes. Then it was gone, buried under something harder, something final. He walked toward her, not like a man approaching his lover, but like a man going to a predestined point on a blueprint.
He knelt on the floor before the sofa, his hands pushing her thighs further apart. He didn’t look at her face. His gaze was fixed on the swollen, glistening pink folds revealed to him. The pregnancy had made her constantly ready, her scent richer, more potent.
The electronic lock at the front door beeped, then clicked.
Erik’s tongue touched her, a long, flat stroke that made her back arch off the cushions. A low moan escaped her, perfectly timed.
The door swung open.
Eleanor stood frozen in the threshold, a wrapped bottle of champagne in one hand, her keys in the other. She wore a tailored cream suit, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She took in the scene: her daughter, nearly naked, pregnant, writhing. Her husband, on his knees, his head buried between her daughter’s legs. The sound, wet and intimate, filled the silent, sunlit room.
The champagne bottle slipped from Eleanor’s hand. It didn’t shatter on the thick rug, but it fell with a heavy thud, rolling away. The wineglass she’d been holding, a delicate crystal stem she’d brought from her own kitchen, wasn’t so lucky. It hit the marble entryway with a crystalline explosion, shards skittering across the floor like fallen ice.
Erik didn’t stop. His tongue worked deeper, circling her clit with ruthless precision, his hands holding her hips down as she bucked against his mouth.
Stone lifted her head, her red hair fanning out on the cushion. Her green eyes, glazed with pleasure, found her mother’s horrified stare. A breathy, deliberate gasp left her lips.
“Shhh, Mommy,” Stone panted, her voice thick with mock concern and genuine arousal. She reached down, her fingers tangling in Erik’s grey-streaked hair, pushing him deeper into her. “Daddy’s just making sure his wife stays satisfied.” She spread her thighs wider, a grotesque parody of openness. “You remember how he eats pussy, don’t you? Or… did he stop with you?”
Eleanor made a sound, a choked, animal whimper. Her hand flew to her mouth. The color drained from her face, leaving her makeup stark and garish.
Erik chose that moment to pull back. His mouth and chin were slick with her. He looked over his shoulder at his former wife, his blue eyes utterly calm, devoid of shame or apology. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips.
“Eleanor,” he said, as if greeting her at a business meeting.
The normalcy of his tone was the final cruelty. Eleanor staggered, bracing herself against the doorframe. “How… how could you?” The question was a whisper, ripped from a place of profound rupture. “She’s my daughter. Your… she was your…”
“She’s my wife,” Erik stated, standing up. He adjusted the front of his trousers, the outline of his erection still prominent. “The mother of my child. This,” he gestured vaguely between Stone and himself, “is our home. You are a guest here. An uninvited one.”
Stone sat up, not bothering to cover herself. She watched her mother’s disintegration with a detached, almost clinical curiosity. The love she’d once felt had curdled into something else, a bitter residue washed away by the fever of claiming Erik. “He married me, Mom. Last week. At the courthouse.” She stroked her stomach. “You’re going to be a grandmother. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Eleanor’s eyes darted between them, searching for a crack, a sign this was some horrific joke. She found none. Only the cool architecture of their coupledom. “You’re sick. Both of you. It’s… it’s disgusting.”
Erik walked to the wet bar, poured two fingers of whiskey. He didn’t offer any to Eleanor. “Your opinion is irrelevant,” he said, taking a sip. “The law, the church, the paperwork… it’s all settled. You should leave.”
“I loved you!” Eleanor screamed, the sound raw and jagged. “I built a life with you! And you… you fuck my child in my bed?!”
“It was never your bed,” Stone said softly, coldly. “It was always his. You were just sleeping in it.” She swung her legs off the sofa and stood, letting the shirt hang open. She walked to Erik’s side, leaning into him. He didn’t put his arm around her. He just kept drinking, watching Eleanor over the rim of his glass.
The silent solidarity was worse than any embrace.
Eleanor looked broken then. The elegant facade shattered, leaving a hollowed-out woman in its place. She backed out of the doorway, her shoes crunching on the broken glass. She didn’t retrieve her keys. She just turned and disappeared into the hallway, the sound of her hurried, stumbling footsteps fading into the hum of the elevator.
The front door stood open.
Stone let out a long, slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her heart was hammering, but not with guilt. With a savage, exhilarating triumph. She had won. Completely.
Erik set his glass down with a sharp click. He turned to her, his hand snaking out to grip the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into the muscles there. It wasn’t a caress. It was a reminder of ownership.
“That was unnecessary,” he said, his voice low.
“It was true,” she whispered, tilting her head back to look at him, challenging him.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then he pushed her, turning her, bending her over the back of the same sofa. He shoved the tail of the shirt up over her back, exposing the full curves of her ass, the ‘Mrs. Grey’ tattoo. He unzipped his trousers, freed himself, and without a word, without any preparation, he drove into her from behind.
The entry was a brutal, dry burn that made her cry out, her nails digging into the sofa fabric. He was punishing her. For the scene. For the cruelty. For making him see the wreckage he’d chosen.
“You like to play games?” he grunted, his hips pistoning against her, each thrust a jarring impact. “You like to show off what you stole? Then take it. Take all of it, you greedy little cunt.”
He fucked her with a focused, mechanical rage. One hand remained clamped on her neck, holding her down. The other gripped her hip, surely leaving bruises. The sounds were brutal, flesh slapping against flesh, the sofa legs scraping the floor. He didn’t touch her clit, didn’t try to make it good for her. This was about dominance, about reasserting control after her display.
And yet, perversely, her body responded. The initial pain melted into a deep, spreading ache of fullness. The humiliation of being taken like this, so clinically, after destroying her mother, sparked a dark fire in her gut. A choked moan escaped her.
He heard it. His rhythm faltered for a second. Then a harsh, humorless laugh barked out of him. “Of course. You get off on this, too. On the ruin. You’re fucking empty, just like this penthouse. All pretty surfaces and nothing inside.”
His words were meant to wound, but they felt like a revelation. He saw her. The real her. And he was still here, his cock buried deep inside that emptiness.
His pace became frantic, losing its measured control. His breath came in ragged gusts against her ear. “This pussy… this tight, fucked-out pussy… is mine.” He slammed into her, once, twice, three more times, then stiffened, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, his release hot and copious.
He stayed there, slumped over her, his weight pressing her into the cushions. His breath gradually slowed. The city stretched out beyond the windows, indifferent.
When he pulled out, he didn’t look at her. He zipped his trousers, walked to the open door, and closed it quietly. He locked it.
“Clean up the glass,” he said, without turning around. He retrieved his whiskey and went back to the windows. “Then order dinner. I’m hungry.”
Stone straightened up, her legs unsteady. She felt his cum starting to leak down her inner thigh. She looked at his rigid back, the set of his shoulders. The victory, for a moment, tasted different. Not like ashes, but like something metallic and necessary, like blood.
She fetched the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and knelt on the marble floor, sweeping the glittering shards of her mother’s wineglass into a small, sharp pile.