Chapter 4: Carter slams Sloane against the cold glass, biting her shoulder as his fingers tear through the delicate lace of her dress. 'This is what you wanted, isn't it princess?' he growls, shoving her panties aside to thrust his thick cock into her dripping pussy without warning. Sloane moans loudly, not caring who hears as he pounds her mercilessly, her breasts pressed against the window while wedding guests' cars still pull away below them.
The silence in the honeymoon suite was thick, cloying, broken only by Vivian’s soft, rhythmic snores drifting from the bedroom doorway. The scent of expensive champagne and wilting peonies hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, sweet perfume Vivian always wore. Empty bottles glittered on the coffee table beside discarded high heels and Vivian’s crumpled wedding gown, a shimmering ghost draped over an armchair. Carter stood silhouetted against the vast glass balcony doors, the city lights a sprawling tapestry of gold and white far below. He hadn’t changed out of his wedding suit, though the jacket was gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up his tattooed forearms. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, untouched.
Sloane hovered near the plush sofa, still in her dark green bridesmaid dress, the silk clinging uncomfortably. Her carefully pinned curls had loosened, fiery strands escaping around her flushed face. The Polaroid was gone, tucked back into Carter’s pocket after the alcove confrontation, but its image burned behind her eyes: neon, laughter, his possessive grip. The ceremony had been a blur of nausea and forced smiles. The reception, a torture chamber of champagne toasts and Carter’s hand resting possessively on Vivian’s waist. Now, Vivian was blissfully unconscious, exhausted by joy and Veuve Clicquot, leaving them alone in this gilded cage.
"You should go," Carter said, his voice low and rough, not turning from the view. He took a shallow sip of the whiskey, the ice clinking sharply in the stillness.
"And go where?" Sloane countered, her own voice tight. "My room’s down the hall. Past everyone. Past questions." She gestured vaguely towards the hallway. "Mom expects me to be here when she wakes up. To hear about the ‘magic’." The word tasted like bile.
He finally turned. The city lights haloed him, casting his face in shadow, but she felt the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. "Then stay quiet. Stay over there." He gestured dismissively towards the sofa. "Read a fucking magazine."
The dismissal, the cold practicality after the searing heat in the alcove, ignited the fury simmering beneath her skin. "Or what?" she challenged, taking a step forward. The plush carpet muffled her footsteps. "You’ll ‘handle’ me? Like you told Derek?" The overheard courtyard confession hung between them, ugly and undeniable.
His glass hit the marble bar top with a sharp crack. He moved then, a predator closing the distance in three long strides. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was overwhelming, filling the space, radiating heat and tension. "Don’t," he warned, his voice a dangerous growl. "Don’t push me tonight, Sloane."
"Why?" she hissed, tilting her head back to meet his shadowed eyes. The scent of him – whiskey, clean sweat, the faint leather from earlier – flooded her senses. "Because your precious plan worked? You got the ring on her finger? The money’s practically in your pocket? Mission fucking accomplished?" She jabbed a finger towards the bedroom door. "She’s in there, Carter! My mother! Passed out because she trusted you! Because she thinks you love her!"
Something savage flashed in his eyes. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to grip her jaw, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her ears, forcing her gaze up to his. "And what do you think?" he demanded, his breath hot on her face. "You think this is easy? You think I wanted this?" His other hand swept out, encompassing the suite, the sleeping Vivian, the unbearable tension. "You think I wanted you here, tearing me apart?"
His grip was punishing, but the raw pain in his voice, the desperation beneath the anger, was a siren song to the traitorous heat pooling low in her belly. The memory of his mouth on her throat in the alcove, the promise of minutes, surged back. Her breath hitched. "You don’t get to play the victim," she whispered, but the fight was leaching out of her voice, replaced by a trembling anticipation she couldn’t deny.
"I’m not playing," he rasped. His thumb stroked roughly over her bottom lip. "I’m drowning." His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the neckline of her dress where her pulse hammered visibly. "And you… you’re the fucking storm."
He kissed her then. Not like in the staff corridor – that had been desperation and anger. This was annihilation. His mouth crashed down on hers, hard, demanding, silencing any protest before it could form. His tongue plunged past her lips, claiming, tasting the champagne and bitterness on her breath. It wasn’t gentle. It was a possession, rough and consuming. A groan ripped from his throat, vibrating against her mouth, as his hand left her jaw to fist in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, deepening the kiss until she saw stars.
Her hands, trapped between them, pushed weakly against his chest, but the gesture was meaningless. Her body arched into his, seeking the hard heat of him, the friction against her aching nipples. The silk of her dress felt suddenly suffocating. He broke the kiss, panting, his eyes black pools of hunger fixed on hers. "Tell me to stop," he breathed, the familiar lie ragged and unconvincing. His hand slid down from her hair, over her shoulder, fingers tracing the strap of her dress. "Say it."
She couldn’t. The word died in her throat. All she could manage was a ragged gasp as his fingers found the delicate zipper at her side. He yanked it down in one harsh motion, the sound loud in the quiet room. Cool air hit her skin as the dress gaped open. He shoved the fabric roughly off her shoulders, down her arms. It pooled around her waist, leaving her breasts bare, pale and tipped with hard, flushed nipples in the dim light.
"Fuck," he hissed, his gaze devouring her. His hands were rough, calloused palms scraping over her soft skin, fingers pinching a nipple sharply, making her cry out – a sound swallowed instantly by his mouth crashing back onto hers. He walked her backwards, his body driving hers towards the expanse of glass doors overlooking the glittering abyss of the city. Her bare back hit the cool, smooth surface with a thud that vibrated through her. The city sprawled beneath her, a thousand indifferent witnesses.
He didn’t pause. His hands went to his belt, the buckle clinking loudly, the zipper rasping down. He shoved his trousers and boxers just past his hips, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and rigid, the head already slick and dark in the low light. He was huge, intimidating, the memory of Vegas momentarily eclipsed by the visceral reality pressing against her belly.
"No foreplay," he growled, his voice thick with lust and something darker. "No fucking games tonight." His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, lifting her slightly. He hooked one of her legs over his forearm, hiking it high against his side. The other leg braced against the glass. He positioned himself, the blunt, heated head of his cock pressing insistently against her entrance. She was wet, embarrassingly so, her body betraying her fury with slick readiness, but she wasn't stretched, wasn't prepared for his size.
He thrust upward, hard and deep.
A choked scream tore from Sloane’s throat, muffled against his shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The stretch was immense, a burning, tearing sensation that stole her breath. He filled her completely, stretching her unbearably tight, a shocking invasion that was equal parts agony and electric pleasure. "Oh god! Carter!" she gasped, her nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders through his shirt.
"Tight," he groaned, his voice strained, his forehead pressed against the cool glass beside her head. "So fucking tight." He didn't wait for her to adjust. He pulled back, almost out, then slammed back in, harder this time, his hips pistoning against her ass. The glass vibrated faintly with each powerful thrust. "Take it," he commanded, his breath hot on her ear. "Take every fucking inch."
He fucked her with relentless, punishing strokes. Deep, hard thrusts that shoved her body against the unyielding glass, that drove the breath from her lungs and forced ragged cries from her throat. There was no tenderness, no finesse. It was raw, animalistic coupling. His hands gripped her hips like vices, controlling her, using her body for his own desperate release. The silk of her ruined bridesmaid dress bunched around her waist, a ridiculous counterpoint to the savage intimacy.
Each withdrawal was a cruel tease, leaving her achingly empty before the next brutal invasion stretched her, filled her, pushed her towards a precipice she hadn't asked for. Pain blurred into a shocking, shameful pleasure. The friction was intense, the angle deep, hitting spots inside her that sparked white-hot behind her closed eyelids. Her inner muscles clenched involuntarily around his thick shaft, drawing a guttural groan from him.
"Yeah," he rasped, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. "Fuck, Sloane… squeeze me… squeeze my cock…" He bit her shoulder, hard, through the silk strap still tangled there. The sharp pain mingled with the overwhelming sensation of him pounding into her. "You feel that?" he hissed against her skin. "Feel how deep I am? How fucking deep inside you?"
She couldn’t speak. Her world narrowed to the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of their joining, the hard press of the glass against her cheek, the overwhelming fullness and the terrifying coil tightening low in her belly. Vivian’s soft snores were a horrifying counterpoint, a reminder of the betrayal happening just feet away. The dissonance was dizzying, sickening… and perversely arousing.
He shifted his grip, one hand sliding around her front, fingers finding her clit. He rubbed it roughly, urgently, through the slickness gathered there. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice thick and strained. "Come while I’m buried inside you. While your mother sleeps."
The command, the crude touch, the sheer wrongness of it, tipped her over the edge. A silent scream ripped through her as her orgasm detonated. It was violent, convulsive, tearing through her with shocking force. Her inner walls clamped down hard on his invading cock, milking him, pulling a ragged shout from his throat.
"Fuck! Yes!" Carter roared, his hips stuttering, losing rhythm. He drove into her one last time, hilting himself impossibly deep, and held there. She felt the hot, pulsing surge deep inside her as he came, his body shuddering violently against hers, his forehead pressed hard against the glass, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that fogged the pane.
They stayed locked together, panting, trembling, slick with sweat. The city lights blurred below. The scent of sex, sharp and musky, overpowered the champagne and flowers. Slowly, carefully, Carter pulled out. The sudden emptiness was profound, followed by a hot trickle down her inner thigh. He slumped back against the glass door beside her, breathing heavily, his trousers still bunched around his thighs, his softening cock glistening in the dim light. He ran a trembling hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair.
Sloane slid down the glass, her legs trembling too much to hold her. She landed hard on her knees on the plush carpet, the torn green silk pooling around her. She stared at the intricate pattern, unable to look at him, unable to look towards the bedroom door. The reality crashed down, cold and suffocating. What they’d done. Where they’d done it. Who slept just yards away.
Carter pushed himself away from the glass, adjusting his clothes with jerky movements. He didn’t look at her either. He walked stiffly to the bar, poured another whiskey with a hand that wasn’t quite steady, and downed it in one gulp. The silence stretched, thick with shame and the fading echoes of violence.
He turned then, his eyes finding her crumpled form on the floor. His gaze was unreadable, exhausted, haunted. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, perhaps to curse. But before he could, something fluttered from his pocket as he moved – a small, square piece of cardstock. It landed face-up on the carpet near Sloane’s knee.
The Polaroid. Vegas neon. Her laughing face. His possessive grip. The incriminating evidence, lying exposed on the plush white carpet of her mother’s honeymoon suite, glistening faintly under the city lights. Carter stared at it, then at Sloane kneeling beside it, her dress torn, his release slick between her thighs. A single, harsh word escaped him, low and filled with a profound, sickening finality.
"Fuck."