Chapter 2: Caesar's muscular frame pinned Christine against the floral wallpaper, his calloused hands hiking up her ruined bridesmaid dress as he spat 'You think my brother wrecked you? Watch how a real man claims what's his,' before tearing through her tender pussy with zero mercy, his thicker cock stretching her abused cunt beyond what she thought possible.
The champagne tasted like acid. Christine sipped it because it was expected, because her hand needed something to do, because the flute gave her a place to look other than at the head table where Augustus’s hand rested possessively high on Bianca’s thigh. Every time she blinked, she saw the afternoon’s golden light, felt the ghost of the silk comforter against her cheek, the deep, throbbing ache that remained between her legs—and elsewhere.
She moved through the reception on autopilot. She smiled for the photographer, her cheeks aching. She gave her maid of honor toast, her voice surprisingly steady as she recited the practiced lines about childhood and love, all while her sister beamed with a secret, complicit glow. She danced with uncles, with her father, feeling like a doll whose stuffing had been ripped out.
And through it all, Caesar watched her.
Augustus’s brother was a slightly younger, sharper version. Same powerful build, same confident set to his shoulders, but where Augustus’s gaze had been hungry conquest, Caesar’s was analytical, assessing. As the best man, he’d been her paired counterpart all day—standing beside her during the endless photos, his hand a steady, warm weight on the small of her back as they were arranged and rearranged. He’d been polite, even charming in a brusque way, but his eyes, a cooler shade of green, missed nothing: the slight wince when she sat down, the way her gaze skittered away from Augustus, the hollow look behind her smile.
Now, the reception was winding down. The older relatives had departed, the dance floor was populated by drunk friends swaying to a slow song, and the air was thick with cigar smoke from the patio. Christine slipped out, seeking the empty, echoing hallway that led to the restrooms. She just needed a minute. A minute where no one was looking at her.
She leaned her forehead against the cool, patterned wallpaper, closing her eyes. The memory of the pain, the shocking fullness, the filthy words whispered in her ear, all of it churned in her stomach. But beneath the shame, a low, persistent hum of arousal still vibrated, a traitorous echo her body wouldn’t relinquish.
“Running away, maid of honor?”
She jerked upright. Caesar stood a few feet away, having moved with a silence that belied his size. He’d shed his tuxedo jacket and loosened his tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looked like a predator who’d decided the formalities were over.
“Just needed air,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.
“Air’s in short supply around here,” he remarked, stepping closer. The hallway was narrow, and his presence immediately consumed the space. He smelled of whiskey and clean, masculine sweat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or fucked one.”
Christine’s breath hitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He closed the final distance, not touching her, but caging her against the wall with his arms on either side of her head. His eyes scanned her face. “I saw you this morning. Sneaking out of the groom’s suite. Hair a mess, walking like you’d been rode hard and put away wet.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “I know my brother. I know what he thinks is a proper send-off. And I saw Bianca’s face afterward. She looked like the cat who got the cream, the canary, and the whole fucking petting zoo.”
Tears of humiliation pricked Christine’s eyes. She looked away, at a generic landscape painting on the wall. “It’s none of your business.”
“It became my business when I watched you flinch every time a man touched you today,” he said, his tone losing its mocking edge, turning flat and hard. “When I saw you look at my brother with a mix of terror and fucking worship. He wrecked you, didn’t he? Used that monster cock of his to split you in two and fuck whatever innocence you had left right out of you.”
“Stop it,” she whispered, a tear escaping down her cheek.
He didn’t stop. His hand came up, his thumb roughly wiping the tear away. “He’s a brute. An effective one, but a brute. He takes what he wants, leaves a mess, and calls it a gift.” Caesar’s gaze was intense, drilling into her. “I saw you before today, Christine. At family dinners. Laughing. Smart. A fire in you. He just saw a tight hole to break.”
His words were a bizarre kind of solace, an acknowledgment of the violation that also felt like a twisted form of praise. She didn’t know what to say.
“He doesn’t deserve to be your first,” Caesar stated, as if it were a simple fact. “He doesn’t deserve to be your only.”
His hips pressed forward then, pinning her firmly to the wall. The hard, thick ridge of his erection, every bit as formidable as his brother’s, pressed against her lower belly through the layers of their clothing. A jolt, equal parts fear and that traitorous heat, shot through her.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was a shaky breath.
“Giving you a comparison,” he growled, his mouth descending to her ear. His lips brushed her skin as he spoke, his breath hot. “Now you’ll learn which Grey brother fucks better.”
He didn’t kiss her. He took her hand and pulled her, not towards the fading party, but down a quieter, more opulent hallway lined with suite doors. His grip was unbreakable. Christine’s mind screamed a dozen protests, but her body, still humming with the aftershocks of the afternoon, followed numbly. He used a keycard on a door at the end, shoved it open, and pulled her into a suite almost as lavish as the groom’s.
The door slammed shut, sealing them in a world of quiet luxury. A single lamp cast a pool of light over a sitting area.
Caesar turned her to face him, his hands coming up to frame her face. This time, his touch wasn’t rough. It was deliberate. “Look at me.”
She did. His green eyes were fierce, focused.
“This isn’t a wedding day favor,” he said, each word deliberate. “This isn’t your sister’s sick gift. This is me. Caesar. Seeing you. Wanting you. And I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name, until you forget how to spell his.”
Then he kissed her. It was nothing like Augustus’s consuming assault. It was demanding, yes, but slower, deeper, more calculated. His tongue explored her mouth with a languid precision that made her knees weak. He tasted of whiskey and mint. One hand slid into her hair, holding her steady for his exploration, while the other found the zipper of her dress. He drew it down with a slow, grating sound that seemed louder than the entire reception.
The dress fell. He broke the kiss to look at her, standing in her heels and simple white lace. His gaze was appreciative, hungry, but different. “Beautiful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Now the rest.”
He made her step out of the dress, then knelt before her, removing her shoes with a strange, ritualistic care. His hands slid up her calves, behind her knees, pushing her to step out of her panties. When she stood bare before him, he didn’t immediately pounce. He looked. His thumbs traced the faint, red marks on her hips—Augustus’s fingerprints. A dark flicker passed through his eyes.
“He marked you,” he said, his voice low. “But they’ll fade.”
He stood then, and pulled his own shirt over his head, revealing a torso carved with the same relentless discipline as his brother’s. He unbuckled his pants, pushed them and his boxers down, and freed himself.
Christine’s eyes widened. He was right. A comparison. He was just as long, just as thick, a heavy, veined column of flesh that stood rigid against his stomach. But the sight now sparked a direct, visceral reaction deep within her sore, sensitive flesh—a pulse of anticipation that drowned out the lingering pain.
“On the bed,” he commanded, his voice husky.
She moved backwards, the duvet cool and soft. He followed, crawling over her, but his weight was distributed differently, his movements more controlled. He kissed her again, his hand cupping her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard, aching peak. He moved his mouth there, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking, before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. He nudged her legs apart with his shoulders and looked at her, at the swollen, glistening evidence of her arousal—and the earlier brutality.
“Still sore?” he asked, his finger gently tracing her outer lips.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth.
The sensation was electric, shocking. Augustus hadn’t done this. Caesar’s tongue was flat and broad, laving her in long, slow strokes that soothed and inflamed simultaneously. He focused on her clit, circling it with a relentless, knowledgeable pressure that made her back arch off the bed. He inserted one finger, then two, curling them inside her, finding a rhythm that made her gasp. He was stretching her, preparing her, but it was a world away from the brutal claiming of before. This was a deliberate seduction, an orchestrated unraveling.
“Caesar…” she moaned, her hands fisting in the sheets.
He added a third finger, stretching her more fully, his mouth never leaving her. The stretch burned, but it was a clean burn, chased by dizzying waves of pleasure. He was scissoring his fingers, opening her, his tongue dancing over her clit until she was trembling on the edge, her hips rocking against his face.
He pulled back, his chin glistening. He looked up her body, his eyes blazing. “You’re ready. More than ready. You’re fucking dripping for it.”
He moved up her body, aligning himself. The broad head of his cock pressed against her entrance, a familiar, daunting pressure. He held himself there, watching her face.
“This is mine,” he stated, no room for argument. “This fuck is mine. You understand? You say my name.”
He pushed forward.
It was still an immense, stretching fill, but the careful, torturous preparation made it different. The slide was smoother, the burn a manageable cresting wave rather than a tearing rupture. He sank in slowly, inch by devastating inch, until he was fully seated, their hips pressed together. He groaned, a deep, ragged sound of pleasure. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So tight and hot and willing.”
He began to move. His strokes were long, deep, and controlled. Each thrust was a deliberate claim, a measured possession. He held her gaze, his eyes locked on hers as he moved inside her.
“Feel that?” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a solid, impactful rhythm. “Feel how deep I go? But I’m not just taking, sweetheart. I’m giving. I’m making you feel it all.”
He was. The angle was different, the friction precise and devastating. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing firm, circular patterns as he fucked her. The dual assault was overwhelming. The soreness melted, transformed into a deep, resonating pleasure that built with every stroke.
“Who’s fucking you?” he demanded, his pace increasing slightly.
“You… Caesar,” she gasped.
“Who do you belong to right now?”
“You!”
“Say it again.”
“You! Caesar!” The confession tore from her, part plea, part surrender.
He bent his head, capturing her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as his hips pistoned. The sensations collided—the pull on her breast, the relentless friction inside, the magic of his thumb on her clit. She felt the orgasm building, a terrifying wave about to break from a different, deeper place.
“Come for me,” he ordered against her skin. “Come on my cock. Show me what my brother didn’t bother to find.”
It was the permission, the command, that shattered her. Her climax detonated, a silent, screaming rush that clenched around his driving length, milking him, pulling a guttural roar from his throat. He drove into her once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt as his own release erupted. She felt the hot, pulsing flood, a second claiming in as many days, but this one felt earned, wrenched from a place of mutual fire.
He collapsed onto her, his weight solid and grounding. His breath was hot against her neck. For long minutes, they lay tangled, the only sound their slowing breaths.
Slowly, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping her close. His hand stroked her hair, her back, in a way that felt almost… tender.
“See?” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Different.”
She couldn’t argue. Her body was spent, thrumming, but the haunting violation of the morning was overshadowed by this new, complex sensation—a feeling of being utterly used, yet somehow seen.
He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. The asshole smirk was back, but it was softer at the edges. “Augustus gets his wedding night. He gets Bianca. That’s his life.” He traced the line of her jaw. “You’re coming home with me tomorrow. We’re going on a proper date. A fucking dinner where we talk. And then I’m going to take you back to my place and fuck you in my bed. Properly. As often as you want.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a plan. And in her exhausted, re-wired state, it sounded less like a threat and more like a lifeline—a promise of something beyond being a wedding day secret. She looked up at him, at the confident, brutal man who’d just wiped his brother’s taste from her mouth and his memory from her body, and gave a small, shaky nod.
Caesar smiled, a real one this time, and pulled her closer. “Good girl.”