Chapter 3: Second Claiming
The bathroom door clicked shut, sealing them in the fluorescent buzz. It was colder now, the adrenaline sweat drying sticky on their skin. Josh didn’t give her a chance to speak. He turned her roughly, hands on her shoulders, positioning her before the smeared mirror. Her wide green eyes met his in the reflection.
“Look,” he said, his voice a low command. “Watch what happens.”
He bent her forward over the sink, the porcelain biting into her hips. Her palms slapped against the cold, damp surface. She saw herself—hair tangled, lips swollen, a wildness in her own gaze she barely recognized. And behind her, Josh, all lean muscle and intent, his eyes locked on hers in the glass.
He hooked his foot around her ankle, kicking her legs wider apart. The position was achingly vulnerable, her ass offered to him, the soft, slick folds between her thighs exposed in the mirror’s unforishing light. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He was already hard, jutting and eager from their interrupted sleep. He guided himself, the broad, slick head nudging against her entrance. She was still wet from him, stretched and sensitive, but he pushed in with a single, relentless thrust that stole her breath.
A sharp gasp ripped from her throat, fogging the mirror. He filled her completely, a deep, burning stretch that made her toes curl. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch. His hands came down on her, one flat on her lower back, pinning her, the other snaking around to cover her mouth. His palm was warm, smelling of salt and sleep.
“Quieter than last time,” he muttered into her ear, his breath hot. “They’re right there.”
He began to move. It was a different rhythm now—not the frantic pace of their first time, but something deeper, more possessive. Each withdrawal was slow, deliberate, making her feel the drag of every ridge, followed by a hard, punctuating drive back into her depths. The wet, filthy sound of their joining was loud in the tiled room. His hips pistoned against her ass, a steady, devastating beat.
His left hand stayed clamped over her mouth, muffling her whimpers. His right hand abandoned her back and traveled up her body. His fingers wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive collar. Then they slid down, over the damp cotton of her tank top, which he shoved up roughly. His hand closed over her breast, kneading the full weight of it, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it to a stiff, aching peak through the fabric.
“See that?” he grunted, nodding at the mirror. “See how you take me?”
She did. She saw the obscene glide of him, in and out of her body. Saw the flush spreading across her chest, saw the helpless, wanton slackness of her own mouth against his hand. The sight of it, the raw reality of being fucked like this, sent a new bolt of pure, degrading heat straight to her core.
“You love it,” he said, a statement, not a question. “Your tight little cunt is sucking me right back in.” He shifted his angle slightly, and the next thrust hit a spot so deep and perfect her eyes rolled back. A high, desperate sound vibrated against his palm.
“Yeah, there it is,” he breathed, chasing that angle, his own control fraying. His rhythm became erratic, harder, faster. The sink groaned in protest, rattling against the wall. His hand left her breast and slid down her quivering stomach, through her damp curls, finding the swollen bud of her clit.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice frayed at the edges. “Come on my cock while you watch yourself get used.”
The dual assault was too much. The rough penetration, the skilled pressure of his fingers, the dizzying visual in the mirror—it detonated her. Her climax tore through her without warning, a violent, silent convulsion that clamped around him like a fist. Her body bowed, her internal muscles fluttering wildly, milking his length.
The intense squeeze pulled his own release from him. With a choked, guttural groan, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into her, pulse after hot, claiming pulse. He held himself there, deep, as the last shudders racked them both.
Slowly, the world reassembled. The buzz of the light. The drip of a tap. The distant, steady proof of Marcus’s snoring.
His hand fell away from her mouth, leaving a cool patch on her skin. He gently pulled out, and she winced at the sudden, empty ache, feeling the immediate, warm trickle of their mixed release down her inner thigh. He turned her around, his hands clumsy now, softening. He leaned his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard, slick with sweat.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word encompassing everything.
She just nodded, her legs trembling. He reached for a wad of rough paper towels, ran them under the cold tap, and carefully cleaned her first, his touch tender now, almost reverent. He cleaned himself afterward, avoiding her eyes for a moment, a sudden vulnerability in the set of his shoulders.
He tossed the towels into the overflowing bin. The first pale, sickly light of dawn was bleeding through the frosted window, turning the room a sterile grey. Their time was up.
He looked at her, really looked, his brown eyes searching hers. The quiet intensity was back, but it was clouded with a dawning, complicated reality. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“Back to bed,” he said, but it sounded different now. It sounded like an ending.
They slipped back into the room, now faintly visible in the dawn gloom. Tasha was a still lump. Marcus had slid further down the armchair. They assumed their positions on the separate beds, the gap between them now an ocean.
He didn’t reach for her hand. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. Demi curled onto her side, facing away from him, the physical soreness a stark reminder. The heat was fading, replaced by a chill that crept into her bones. She listened to his breathing, waiting for it to even out into sleep.
It didn’t.
After ten minutes of rigid silence, his voice cut through the grey light, quiet and raw.
“This is a problem, Demi.”
She didn’t turn. She closed her eyes, feeling the truth of it, cold and heavy, settle in her stomach. The night was over. The sun was coming up. And whatever they had just broken, was now lying in sharp, messy pieces between them, waiting for the world to wake and see.