Chapter 5: Claiming What's Hers
He didn’t let her break the kiss again. The confession hung in the air between their breaths, a live wire connecting them, and moving was the only way to keep from being electrocuted by the sheer voltage of it. He stood, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist as if they’d practiced the move a thousand times. Her mouth stayed sealed to his, a desperate, hungry dialogue of tongues and teeth.
They moved through the sunlit living room in a clumsy, connected gait. His lower back bumped the edge of the dining table; she gasped into his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He didn’t stop. The polished marble was cool under his bare feet as he carried her past the kitchen island, past the evidence of their shared life—her mixing bowl drying on a rack, his abandoned energy drink can—and into the short hallway that led to the single bedroom.
He shouldered the door open. The room was dimmer, the sheer curtains diffusing the afternoon light into something soft and private. He let her slide down his body until her feet touched the wooden floorboards, the slow friction drawing another sharp breath from her.
“Wait,” she breathed, her voice ragged. Her hands came up to frame his face. She looked at him as if he were a mirage. “Are you… are you sure?”
He answered by pulling his t-shirt over his head in one swift movement. The air in the room was cool on his skin. Her eyes dropped, tracing the lines of his torso, the soft definition of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading down. He saw her swallow.
Her earlier fierceness returned, tinted now with a raw, wanting certainty. Her fingers found the hem of her own dress, a simple sundress, and she drew it up and over her head, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor. She stood before him in only her underwear, lace the color of burnt caramel against her skin. The sight of her—the full, heavy curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the strong line of her thighs—stole the air from his lungs.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, the words sounding woefully inadequate.
A smile, tiny and possessive, touched her lips. “You are mine,” she said, simply, as if stating a natural law. Then she closed the distance, her skin hot against his, and kissed him again. This time it was slower, deeper, a deliberate savoring. Her hands roamed his back, learning the shape of him.
They fell onto the bed in a tangle, the duvet swallowing them. The world narrowed to the square of mattress beneath them, the sound of their breathing, the slick, wet heat of their mouths. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the slope of her breast, his lips closing over the lace of her bra. She arched into him with a choked-off sound, her fingers threading through his hair, not guiding, just holding.
“Off,” she commanded, her voice thick. “All of it.”
He fumbled with the clasp of her bra, his inexperienced fingers trembling. She laughed, a low, breathy sound, and reached back to do it herself. The garment loosened, and he drew it away, exposing her to the muted light. Her nipples were dark and taut. He bent his head and took one into his mouth, his tongue circling the peak. Her back bowed off the bed, a ragged “Yes,” hissing from between her teeth.
His own jeans were a prison. She solved it, her hands pushing at the waistband, shoving them and his boxers down in one impatient motion. He kicked them away, finally, gloriously naked. Her hand found him, her fingers wrapping around his length, and he jerked against her touch, a groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
“So hard for me,” she murmured, her thumb sweeping over the slickness already beading at his tip. She stroked him once, twice, a firm, confident rhythm that made his vision blur. Then she pushed at his shoulder. “Let me taste you.”
He moved, letting her guide him onto his back. She slid down his body, her hair trailing over his stomach, a phantom kiss. Then her mouth was on him, hot and wet and encompassing. He cried out, his hips lifting off the mattress involuntarily. She took him deeper, her tongue working along the underside, her lips creating a perfect, tight seal. His hands fisted in the sheets. It was too much, it was not enough, it was a dizzying plummet into sensation.
“Safa… I can’t…” he gasped, the words splintering.
She released him with a soft pop, looking up his body with dark, knowing eyes. “Not yet,” she said. She crawled back up, straddling his hips, her wetness a searing brand against his skin. She leaned down, kissing him deeply, letting him taste himself on her lips. The intimacy of it was shocking, profoundly erotic.
She reached between them, her hand guiding him to her entrance. She was soaking wet, hot as a furnace. She held him there, just pressing, not taking him in. Her eyes locked on his.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice a husk.
“I love you,” he breathed, the truth powering the words.
A shudder rolled through her. She sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, her body stretching to accommodate him, her head falling back as she took him in to the hilt. He was enveloped in tight, clutching heat. For a moment, neither of them moved, suspended in the overwhelming fullness of it.
Then she began to move. A roll of her hips, experimental at first, then finding a rhythm. Up and down, a slow, grinding torture. He gripped her thighs, his blunt nails digging into her soft flesh. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic pulse that drew guttural sounds from his throat.
“You feel so good inside me,” she chanted, her voice climbing. “Fuck, Amartya, you fill me up so perfectly. Just like this. My good boy. My perfect boy.”
Her words, filthy and praising, unleashed something in him. He flipped them over in a sudden surge of strength, pressing her into the mattress. She let out a surprised yelp that morphed into a moan as he drove into her, changing the angle. He braced himself above her, pounding into her wetness, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. Her legs hooked around his back, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.
“There,” she sobbed, her nails raking down his back. “Right there, don’t stop, oh god, don’t you fucking stop.”
Her words shattered his control. His thrusts became frantic, uncoordinated. He was aware of nothing but the coil tightening in his gut, the sight of her beneath him—her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. The world reduced to this friction, this heat, this woman.
“I’m gonna…” he grunted, the warning ripped from him.
“Come,” she demanded, her eyes flying open, locking onto his with fierce possession. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”
It was the final thread snapping. He plunged into her one last, deep time, and his orgasm roared through him, violent and blinding. He shook with the force of it, spilling into her with a ragged shout, his body collapsing onto hers as the waves crashed over him.
He came back to himself slowly, aware of the frantic hammering of her heart against his, the sheen of sweat between them. He was still buried inside her, softening. She held him there, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He could feel her own climax still fluttering around him, a series of gentle, fading pulses.
They lay like that for a long time, until their breathing evened out and the sweat cooled on their skin. The afternoon light had begun to fade to a deeper gold.
She stirred first, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Come,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “The bath.”
The large jacuzzi tub in the attached bathroom filled with steaming, citrus-scented water. They sank into it together, facing each other, legs intertwining under the surface. She took a soft cloth and washed him with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of their coupling. She soaped his chest, his arms, paying meticulous attention to the faint scratches she’d left on his back.
“I marked you,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
He caught her wrist, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “I don’t mind.”
She leaned forward, the water sloshing around them, and kissed him. It was a different kiss now—slow, languid, tasting of salt and her and a profound, quiet knowledge.
He shifted, turning so his back was to her chest, and leaned against her, letting the hot water and her body support his weight. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder, her hands splayed possessively over his stomach.
“My baby,” she murmured into his damp hair, her voice thick with a drowsy, sated affection. “My sweet, perfect baby.”
He closed his eyes, boneless and content, afloat in the water and in the certainty of her. The city’s lights began to wink on beyond the fogged-up window, but in the warm, scented water, there was only her heartbeat against his back, and the silent, terrifying, wonderful understanding that he was, indeed, completely hers.