Chapter 2: Steam and Screams - Taking Her Against the Glass
next day
The silence after the phone stopped buzzed louder than the sound itself. Jen lay perfectly still, listening to the steady thump of Marcus’s heart. The world outside the velvet chaise felt suddenly closer, sharper. The salt on her skin was drying, tightening.
“I should probably…” she began, her voice raspy.
“Shower,” he finished for her, his tone leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a question. He shifted, sitting up, taking her with him. He stood, a tower of muscle and spent energy, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. “Come on.”
He carried her through the penthouse, past the grand bed, into the master bathroom. It was a temple of white marble and chrome, vast and echoing. Sunlight, real and artificial, gleamed off every surface. He set her on her feet on the cool, polished floor. Her legs trembled.
He reached into the shower—a cavernous space behind a panel of clear glass—and turned the handles. Water roared, hitting the marble floor with a sound like a waterfall. Steam began to billow, carrying a scent of citrus and lavender from expensive bottles lining a niche.
“Arms up,” he said quietly.
She obeyed, lifting her arms. He gently pulled the remnants of her bikini top away, then knelt to help her step free of the tangled bottoms. He did it with a detached, efficient care that felt oddly intimate. He stripped his own shorts off, tossing them onto a heated towel rack.
Naked, he was even more imposing. Every cut and plane of him was evident, from the powerful shoulders to the thick thighs. The evidence of their time on the chaise was stark on his skin: faint, red scratches from her nails down his back. A possessive thrill, sharp and sudden, shot through her.
He took her hand, leading her into the shower. The water was a perfect, searing cascade. It hit her shoulders, sluicing away the sweat and salt and him. She tipped her head back, letting it stream over her face.
He watched her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable through the steam. Then he reached for a bottle, squeezing clear gel into his palm. He started with her shoulders, his hands working the tension from her muscles with a firm, practiced pressure. She groaned, her head lolling forward.
“You’re all knots,” he murmured, his thumbs digging into a tight spot near her shoulder blade.
“You’re not exactly a gentle experience,” she breathed, the water filling her mouth.
He chuckled, a low rumble lost in the spray. “You seemed to enjoy it.”
“I did.” She turned to face him, the water plastering her hair to her skull, running in rivulets between her breasts. “It’s a lot. In every way.”
His hands slid down her arms, slick with soap. He took her wrists, lifting them, pinning them gently against the fogging glass wall behind her. He didn’t press his body against hers. Not yet. He just held her there, looking down.
“The phone,” she said, because she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The crack in the bubble.
“Business,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s dealt with.”
“At eleven p.m.?”
“My business doesn’t keep bank hours, Jen.” There was an edge there, a warning. This was a line. The owner of the hotel, not the man who’d held her on a railing.
She held his gaze, the water stinging her eyes. “Okay.”
He searched her face, his expression softening incrementally. He released one wrist, his hand coming up to trace her jawline. “This,” he said, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “This is what matters right now.”
He kissed her then, a deep, claiming kiss under the relentless water. It tasted different here—clean, desperate. His body pressed hers back against the glass, the heat of him cutting through the shower’s steam. The cool, solid surface was a shock against her back.
She felt him, hard again already, against her stomach. A jolt of pure, wanton need mixed with a flutter of apprehension. She was sore, stretched, sensitive in places she’d never been aware of before. The memory of the chaise, of being filled so completely from behind, was vivid and raw.
“Again?” she whispered against his mouth.
“Always again,” he growled, his hands sliding down to grip her waist. His fingers almost met around her. He lifted her effortlessly, her back sliding up the wet glass until she was at his height, her legs wrapping around his hips. The position opened her, exposed her completely to the beating water and his hungry gaze.
He adjusted his grip, one arm banding around her back to hold her secure, the other hand guiding himself to her. The broad head pressed, a familiar, daunting pressure.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained with restraint.
She forced her eyes open, locking onto his. There was no playfulness now. Just a stark, intense focus. He pushed forward.
The water provided a false slickness, but it did nothing to ease the breathtaking stretch. She was tighter than before, sensitive from overuse. A sharp gasp ripped from her throat as he sank in, an inch, then two, a slow, devastating conquest. Her nails bit into the hard muscles of his shoulders.
“Breathe, baby,” he coaxed, but his own breath was ragged. He was fighting for control. “Just breathe into it.”
She tried. She exhaled shakily, and he sank deeper, seating himself fully with a final, grinding thrust that made her cry out, a sound swallowed by the shower’s roar. He held there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to the glass beside her head, his body trembling with the effort of staying still.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word a prayer or a curse. “You’re so tight. Like a fucking fist.”
He began to move. Short, shallow strokes that gradually deepened. The friction was exquisite, brutal. Every nerve ending was alive, screaming. The water pounded on his back, streaming over their joined bodies. Her moans were choked, desperate things, lost in the steam.
His pace increased, becoming a relentless, driving rhythm. Each thrust pushed her body up the glass, only for his arm to haul her back down onto him. It was a savage, mechanical perfect. She was full, so utterly full, and the overstimulation was tipping from pain into a pleasure so acute it bordered on unbearable.
“Mine,” he grunted, his voice guttural, raw. “Say it.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only gasp.
He slammed into her, a deliberate, deep impact that made her see white. “Say it, Jen.”
“Yours!” she cried out, the admission torn from her. “God, Marcus, I’m yours.”
It was what he needed. His rhythm fractured, turning frantic, possessive. His mouth found her neck, sucking a bruise into the tender skin just above her collarbone. The dual claim—his mark, his body—unraveled her.
Her orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. It seized her without warning, a violent, total-body convulsion that clamped down on him with vicious strength. She screamed, her head thrown back against the glass, her vision bleaching to pure, white light.
He roared, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the marble. He plunged into her one last, deep time, his own release pumping into her in hot, pulsing waves that seemed to go on forever, mingling with the spray and the steam.
Slowly, the world swam back. The roar of the water. The hiss of steam. The feel of his weight, slackening against her, still pinning her to the glass.
He was heavy. Solid. Real.
He carefully lowered her until her feet found the shower floor. Her legs buckled immediately, and he caught her, holding her up against his chest. They stood there, under the cascading water, for a long time, just breathing.
Eventually, he reached out and turned the water off. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the drip from their bodies and the ragged sound of their lungs.
He reached for a vast, fluffy towel, wrapping her in it before securing one around his own waist. He led her, silent, back into the bedroom. The bed was an expanse of white linen, untouched. He pulled back the covers and guided her in, then climbed in beside her, pulling her back against his chest, her body spooned in the curve of his.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 a.m.
Her body hummed with a deep, spent exhaustion. Her mind, however, was clearing. The shower had washed away the physical immediacy, leaving the reality of the situation crystal clear.
She was in the bed of a man she’d met hours ago. A powerful, complicated stranger who owned hotels and made her scream his name against glass walls. Who had a business that called at all hours. Who had looked at her on a pool deck and decided he wanted her, and took her with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
And she had let him. More than let him. She had craved it.
“What happens tomorrow?” she asked into the darkness, her voice small.
His arm tightened around her. His breath was warm against her damp hair. “What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth.
“The shoot wraps at four,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her spine. “My driver will take you. After… we’ll have dinner. Here. Talk.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a plan. The certainty in his voice was both unnerving and deeply comforting.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed.
She closed her eyes, listening to his breathing even out into sleep. The penthouse was silent. The city lights still glittered outside, but they felt farther away now. The bubble was gone, shattered against a shower wall. What was left in its place felt more solid, more dangerous, and infinitely more real. She lay awake for a long time, feeling the new ache in her body, and the older, subtler one taking root in her chest.
She lay awake for a long time, feeling the new ache in her body, and the older, subtler one taking root in her chest. Sleep, when it finally came, was a thin and restless thing. She awoke to empty sheets and the sound of a coffee machine grinding in the main room.
The shoot that afternoon was a mechanical exercise. Every pose highlighted the faint bruises on her hips, the tender mark on her neck she’d covered with concealer. The photographer’s commands sounded distant. Her body, usually so compliant, felt foreign—a well-used instrument remembering a different, more demanding tune.
“Jen, sweetness, arch that back! Think luxurious! Think expensive!” the photographer shouted.
She arched, the movement sending a deep twinge through her core. She thought of marble walls and steam.
Marcus’s driver, a silent man in a dark suit, collected her precisely at four. The car was cold and quiet. It delivered her back to the penthouse elevator, its mirrored walls reflecting a woman who looked like her but felt rearranged.
He was waiting, changed into dark jeans and a simple black shirt. The casual elegance suited him, amplifying his size. The room smelled of herbs and searing meat.
“How was the shoot?” he asked, pouring her a glass of wine.
“Fine. Usual.” She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. “You own the hotel. You know what it’s like.”
He gave a half-shrug. “I know what it looks like from the outside.” He gestured to the dining table, set for two near the windows. “Sit. Eat.”
Dinner was seared scallops, a salad, steak. The food was impeccable. The conversation was a minefield.
“So,” she said, pushing a scallop through its citrus glaze. “Business that doesn’t keep bank hours. What does that mean, exactly?”
He looked at her over the rim of his wine glass. “It means I invest in things. Properties. Brands. The call last night was about a warehouse in Cartagena that suddenly isn’t available anymore.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“It’s just cost.” He said it flatly. “There’s always another warehouse.”
She felt childish. His world was transactions and assets. Hers was coconut oil and timed smiles. “And this?” she asked, gesturing between them with her fork. “What’s this?”
He set his glass down slowly. “This is dinner. With a woman I can’t stop thinking about.” His gaze was unwavering. “That’s a first for me in a long time.”
The honesty disarmed her more than a slick line would have. She didn’t know what to do with it.
They finished eating in a quieter space. He cleared the plates himself, stacking them in the sleek kitchen. She watched the muscles shift in his back, the memory of her nails marking that skin a private, thrilling scar.
When he turned, the look on his face had changed. The casual host was gone. The man from the shower, from the balcony, was back. His eyes were dark, focused. The air thickened between them.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low.
She stood, her heart starting a familiar, frantic rhythm. He didn’t move from the kitchen island. He simply waited.
When she was within reach, he hooked a finger into the waistband of her jeans, pulling her close. He smelled like wine and salt. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, his mouth hovering near hers. “How you sound. How you feel.”
“Even after this morning?” she whispered. “I’m still sore.”
“I know.” He kissed her then, deep and searching. “I don’t care.”
His hands went to the button of her jeans, popping it open, sliding the zipper down. He pushed them, along with her panties, over her hips in one rough movement. They pooled at her ankles. The cool air kissed her skin.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice leaving no space for hesitation. “Hands on the island.”
She obeyed, the cold marble striking her palms. She heard the soft rustle of his clothes behind her. The vast window in front of her showed the night sky, her own wide-eyed reflection a pale ghost over the city lights.
He didn’t touch her at first. She felt the heat of him, close. He was looking. She felt utterly exposed, the curve of her spine leading down to the dramatic, perfect swell of her ass. The position arched her back, making each cheek taut and round, a lush invitation. The slender gap between her thighs led to a shadowed, vulnerable wetness.
“God, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick. A calloused thumb smoothed over the crest of one cheek, a possessive, admiring stroke. “This view is fucking ruinous.”
She trembled. His hands settled on her hips, his grip firm, anchoring. He pressed himself against her, the thick, blunt head of his cock nudging through her folds, finding her wet but impossibly tight from the night and day before.
He pushed.
A sharp, bitten-off yelp escaped her. It was an intrusion, a breathtaking stretch that burned. Her body clenched in automatic, shocked defense. He was so much thicker from this angle, her petite frame struggling to accommodate him.
“Easy,” he groaned, his own tension evident in the single word. He held still, letting the brutal, initial pressure subside. “Breathe out, Jen.”
She forced a shaky exhale. He pushed forward again, another relentless, impossible inch. A low whine built in her throat. The stretch was beyond anything she remembered, a raw, filling burn. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the smooth marble.
“Tight,” he gasped, his hands tightening on her hips. “So fucking tight like this. Taking it so good.”
Another inch. She cried out, a raw sound of overwhelming sensation. Her vision spotted. He was opening her, rearranging her, and the painful stretch was already morphing, twisting into a pleasure so deep it felt dangerous.
He began to move. Shallow, gradual strokes that made her gasp each time he retreated and moan each time he pressed back in. Every thrust was a struggle, a tight, hot clasp around him that drew ragged breaths from both of them.
“More,” she heard herself beg, the word slurred.
He gave her more. His strokes deepened, gaining force. The slap of skin on skin filled the modern kitchen. Her noises were unchecked—sharp yelps when he hit a breathtaking depth, broken moans as he established a ruthless rhythm, a continuous, pleading sound that was just his name.
“Marcus… please…”
He leaned over her, his chest a hot weight against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You feel that? Every inch. You’re taking all of it.”
He was. The burning had become a brilliant, full-body glow. The ache was now a primal need for the very friction that threatened to undo her. Her orgasm built not as a wave but as a tension wire pulled to its singing limit.
When it snapped, it was a silent, shocking rupture for a second before the sound followed. A scream tore from her, raw and echoing off the hard surfaces. Her body clamped around him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking him, dragging his own release from him.
He swore, a harsh, gutteral string of words, and drove into her one final, deep time, his heat flooding her as he shuddered against her back.
They collapsed together over the cold island, his weight heavy and welcome. Her cheek was pressed to the marble. Her body hummed, utterly spent and strung out. His breathing was a storm in her ear.
Slowly, he softened and slipped from her. A new, profound ache settled in. He righted himself, his hands gently pulling her up. He turned her, catching her as her legs gave way, and lifted her into his arms.
He carried her to the bedroom, to the rumpled sheets that smelled of them. He didn’t speak. He just laid her down and drew the covers over her, sliding in beside her and pulling her close. His fingertips traced the line of her shoulder.
In the dark, the silence felt different. Not empty, but full. She listened to his heart. The subtle ache in her chest was still there, but it was now intertwined with something else—a recognition. This wasn't just chemistry. It was a collision. And she had no idea what either of them would look like in the wreckage.
And she had no idea what either of them would look like in the wreckage. The quiet stretched, soft and heavy. His fingers still traced idle patterns on her arm, a silent language of aftermath.
“You okay?” Marcus finally asked, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
“Mmhmm.” She shifted, wincing at a deep, specific soreness. “Feels like you rearranged my internal organs.”
A chuckle vibrated through his chest. “I tried.”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. In the dim light from the window, his profile was all stark angles and shadow. “You’re not exactly… standard issue.”
“Neither are you,” he said, turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were soft, contemplative. “What you have isn’t just for photos, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His free hand landed on her stomach, his fingers splayed wide. Her skin prickled under his touch. “This,” he said, his palm skimming the flat plane of her abdomen, down to the severe, tucked-in curve of her waist. “I can get my hands all the way around here. It’s like a grip.”
His hand drifted lower, over the flare of her hip bone. “And these narrow hips. They give me purchase. Leverage.” He demonstrated, his big hand gripping the bone, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh below. “I can hold you right where I want you. Move you. Even a few inches changes everything for you, doesn’t it?”
She swallowed, remembering the kitchen island, the balcony railing. “Yes.”
“And this.” His touch slid over the powerful swell of her glutes, the muscle firm and rounded under his palm. “Perfect bubble butt. It’s not just for show. It’s strength. You can push back against me. You can take it.” His hand cupped her, squeezed. She gasped softly.
“My legs are just legs,” she murmured, a weak protest.
“No.” His hand slid down the outside of her thigh, tracing the long, smooth taper from the curve of her cheek down to her knee. “These are powerful. Athletic. They wrap around me and lock. And here,” his fingers brushed the inner space between her thighs, “this gap? It’s a gift. It gives me access. Lets me get right where I need to be, even when you’re so tight I can barely think.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. The clinical, appreciative analysis was more intimate than any poetic compliment. “It’s just my body. The one I got.”
“It’s a fucking masterpiece, Jen.” His voice was thick, sincere. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers. “Your face… Christ. Those full lips. I watch them part when I push into you. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like shared history. When he pulled back, his thumb traced her lower lip. “And up here,” he said, his hand drifting up to cradle one of her breasts. His thumb stroked the firm, pebbled peak. “Perfectly shaped. They don’t even need support. They’re just… right there. I can taste them whenever I want.”
He dipped his head, taking her nipple into his mouth through the thin sheet. She arched into the warm, wet pull, a sharp bolt of sensation shooting straight down her core. He released her with a soft pop, his eyes dark.
“And all of it,” he whispered, his hand sliding between her legs, his fingers finding her still-swollen folds, “leads here. To these full lips.” He touched her, just a gentle press. “And this impossible, perfect tightness. Everything about you is designed to drive me out of my mind. It’s form and function. Beauty with a purpose.”
He kissed her again, deeply. “Your body isn’t just for pictures. It’s for this. For me.”
The possessiveness in his words should have sparked a rebellion. Instead, it settled something restless in her. He saw the utility of her. The purpose. It was crude and real and it made her feel powerful in a way a magazine spread never could.
“You make it sound so tactical,” she breathed against his mouth.
“It is.” He smiled, a rare, genuine flash of teeth. “And I’m winning.”
She laughed, a real laugh that shook her sore body. He gathered her closer, and she let her head rest on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. The wreckage, for now, felt warm. And she was nestled in the center of it.