Chapter 13: The Morning After
Emma woke to the weight of his arm across her waist and the low, insistent throb between her legs. For a moment, she didn't move. Didn't breathe. The room was a dim cavern of black marble and shadow, the curtains doing their job, keeping the world out. The sheets beneath her were impossibly soft, twisted around her legs, and she could smell him everywhere—on the pillow, on her skin, in her hair.
She shifted an inch toward the edge of the bed.
Craig's arm tightened.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
His voice was gravel and honey, rough with sleep, and it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Emma swallowed. "I was just—"
"Just what?" He pulled her back against him, her ass fitting perfectly against his hips, and she felt him—hard and hot and already pressing against her. "Trying to sneak out before I woke up?"
"No, I—"
"Bullshit." His lips brushed her ear. "You were gonna run."
"I wasn't running. I was just... I need water."
"Liar."
His hand slid from her waist, down her stomach, lower. Emma's breath caught as his fingers found her—slick and swollen from the night before, still tender, still aching. He didn't rush. He just traced lazy circles around her clit, barely touching, and she bucked against his hand before she could stop herself.
"Look at that," Craig murmured. "Already wet for me."
"I—"
"Don't." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Don't you dare say you're sorry."
He pressed harder, two fingers sliding through her folds, spreading her wetness, teasing her entrance without pushing inside. Emma's hands fisted in the sheets. Her hips rolled against his palm, seeking more, and Craig laughed—a low, dark sound that vibrated through her entire body.
"You want something, baby?"
"I—"
"Use your words."
Emma's face burned. "I want—"
"What?"
"You know what."
"I want to hear you say it."
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"Craig—"
"That's not what I asked for."
His fingers stilled. Emma wanted to scream. She wanted to grab his hand and shove it where she needed it. But he was waiting—patient and cruel—and she knew he wouldn't move until she gave him what he wanted.
"Please," she whispered. "Please touch me."
"Where?"
"My—" Her throat tightened. "My clit.Please."
"Good girl."
His fingers resumed their lazy circles, and Emma moaned. The sound was raw and desperate and completely unlike her. Craig groaned against her neck, his hips pressing forward, his cock sliding against her ass.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he said. "Lying here, wet and wanting, letting me touch you like this. Fuck."
She was close. So close. The pressure was building low in her belly, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Then his hand disappeared.
Emma made a sound that was half whimper, half protest.
"Not yet," Craig said. "I'm not done with you."
He shifted behind her, and Emma felt him move—felt the mattress dip, felt his hands on her hips. He pulled her onto her hands and knees with an ease that made her breath catch. The sheets were cool beneath her palms. The room was still dark. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him—the heat of his body, the weight of his gaze, the way his hands gripped her hips like he owned them.
"Spread your legs."
She did.
"Wider."
She did.
Craig groaned. "Fuck, look at you. All pink and wet and ready for me."
"Craig—"
"Shut up."
He thrust into her without warning.
Emma screamed—not in pain, but in shock, in pleasure, in the sheer overwhelming fullness of him. Her arms buckled, and she collapsed onto her elbows, her face pressed into the pillow. Craig didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed forward again. And again. And again.
The pace was punishing. Brutal. Each thrust drove her into the mattress, the headboard hitting the wall with a rhythmic thud that matched the pounding of her heart. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back at an angle that bordered on painful. The other hand gripped her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Say my name," he growled.
"Craig—"
"Louder."
"Craig—"
"Again."
"Craig!"
"That's it." He drove deeper, hitting something inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. "Say it like you mean it."
"Craig, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop—"
"I'm not going to stop." His voice was ragged, frantic. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until every time you close your eyes, you feel me inside you."
Emma sobbed into the pillow. The pleasure was too much—too intense, too overwhelming. She was going to come. She was going to come harder than she ever had in her life, and she was going to do it with his name on her lips.
"I'm—" Her voice broke. "I'm close—"
"Come for me."
"Craig—"
"Now."
Emma shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning, her body convulsing around him, her throat raw with a cry she couldn't contain. Craig fucked her through it—relentless, merciless—his own release building, building, building.
"That's it, baby," he rasped. "That's my girl. Take it. Take every fucking inch."
She was still trembling when he started moving again.
Emma whimpered. "I—I can't—"
"You can." He pulled her hair harder. "You're going to come again."
"I can't—"
"You can."
He pressed her flat onto the bed, his body covering hers, his weight pinning her down. Then he spread her legs wider—one hand between her shoulder blades, the other guiding himself deeper—and slammed into her at a new angle.
Emma cried out. It felt like he was splitting her in half.
"You love my cock," he growled. "Don't you?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I love your cock—"
"Want me to split you in half, baby?"
"Yes—"
"That's it." He drove into her so hard the bed shook. "Take every inch in that pretty pussy."
Emma sobbed. Her body was beyond pleasure now—existing only as a vessel for him, a thing to be used and filled and claimed. And she loved it. God help her, she loved every second of it.
"I'm going to come," he said. "And you're going to take all of it."
"Yes—"
"Every drop."
"Yes—"
"Good girl."
His hips stuttered. His grip tightened. Then he was pouring into her—hot and thick and endless—and Emma felt every pulse, every twitch, every shudder of his release. She came again, too—a smaller, quieter orgasm that rippling through her like an aftershock. Craig collapsed on top of her, his breath hot and ragged against her shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Craig rolled off her—slowly, gently—and pulled her against his chest. Emma's eyes were closed. Her body was boneless. She could feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, under her cheek.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
Craig laughed. "Yeah."
"I think you actually did."
"Did what?"
Emma opened one eye and looked up at him. "Put me in half."
He grinned—a real grin, not the sharp, sarcastic thing he usually wore. "You're still in one piece."
"I don't feel like it."
"Good."
She closed her eyes again. The room was quiet now, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of Craig's breathing.
"Hey," he said after a while.
"Hmm?"
"About what you said earlier."
Emma stiffened. "What did I say?"
"That night at the club. You said I was trying to get your attention."
She didn't answer.
"Were you right?"
Silence.
"Emma."
She sighed. "Yes. I was right."
"How did you know?"
"Because I was watching you too."
Craig went very still.
"Say that again."
Emma lifted her head and met his eyes. "I was watching you. From the moment you walked into the bookstore. I saw the way you looked at me—like you hated me and wanted me at the same time. I just didn't know which one would win."
"And which one won?"
She traced a finger along his chest. "You're here, aren't you?"
Craig caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles—soft, almost reverent—and Emma's heart did something dangerous in her chest.
"This is insane," she said.
"I know."
"We barely know each other."
"I know."
"You're—" She hesitated. "You're a Moretti."
"I know."
"And I'm—"
"You're Emma Whitmore." He said her name like it meant something. "And you're in my bed. And I don't want you to leave."
Emma's throat tightened.
"Craig—"
"Shut up." He pulled her closer. "Just... shut up and stay."
She should have said no. She should have gotten up, found her clothes, called a cab, gone back to her tiny apartment and her quiet life and her carefully constructed order. She should have run as far and as fast as she could from the Moretti name and everything it meant.
But she didn't.
She stayed.