Chapter 7: Stolen Hours
The stolen Uber ride felt endless. Krissy stared out the window, the city lights smearing past, each blurry halo a cold eye judging her. Her phone buzzed, a single, expectant word lighting the screen: Tim? Her thumb hovered, trembling. She silenced it, shoving the device deep into her purse like hot contraband. The penthouse, that glass cage overlooking everything, felt a million miles away. What she craved was the opposite: enclosed, hidden, his. The knot in her stomach wasn’t just guilt; it was a terrifying, pulsing need.
Mark’s building was older, tucked between a vinyl record store and a dimly lit bar. She punched in the code he’d texted – Urgent. Need u. Don’t make me beg. – and pushed through the heavy front door. Stale air, laced with dust and the faint, sweet decay of old paper, washed over her. The elevator groaned its way to the fifth floor. Down the hall, under a vintage lamp casting a watery amber circle, his door stood slightly ajar. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage made of silk and shame.
She pushed it open. The warmth hit her first, a dry heat radiating from old radiators. Then the scent: leather bindings, lingering pipe smoke, and beneath it, something uniquely him – warm skin and cedar soap. Soft jazz, crackling with the imperfections of vinyl, floated from an unseen player. The main room was a cozy chaos of bookshelves overflowing onto mismatched armchairs, an old Persian rug swallowing the sound of her hesitant steps, abstract paintings in chipped frames leaning against the walls. It felt lived-in, textured, a stark contrast to Tim’s curated perfection. Safe. Dangerous.
He was leaning against the wide doorframe to his bedroom, silhouetted by the softer light within. No shirt, just worn grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His dark hair was messy, his green eyes fixed on her with an intensity that stole her breath. The playful shy guy from barbecues was gone, stripped away by the penthouse, by the shower stall. This Mark was raw, focused, vibrating with a tension that matched her own.
"You came." His voice was low, rough. Not a question. An acknowledgement charged with too much history.
Krissy couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight. She just nodded, stepping further in, the worn floorboards creaking softly under her thin ballet flats. She felt exposed, foolish in her hastily chosen sundress. His gaze swept over her, lingering where it always did, a familiar heat prickling across her skin. He pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between them in three silent strides. The air crackled.
"Couldn't stay away?" he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. His hand came up, not rough, but deliberate, tracing the line of her collarbone. A shiver ripped through her, cold then hot. "Or was it…" His thumb brushed the swell of her breast above the dress’s neckline. "…this you missed?" He knew. He knew the power he held over her body now, the forbidden pathways he’d unlocked.
She tried to find words, defiance, regret. "Tim…" she started, a weak shield.
Mark’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Don't." His other hand rose, framing her face, forcing her to look at him. His eyes, usually so full of humor, were dark pools. "He’s not here. It’s just us. Just me and you. And this." His hand slid down, palming her breast through the thin cotton, his touch instantly igniting the traitorous ache deep inside her. "Tell me you thought about it. Tell me you thought about me."
Her resolve crumbled. The shame, the guilt, the sheer awful thrill of it – it flooded her, a dam breaking. "Yes," she choked out, the word barely audible. "Every day."
That was all he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and possessive. No softness, no coaxing. This was claiming. His arms banded around her, crushing her to him, one hand fisting in her hair, tilting her head back for deeper access. The other slid down, gripping her ass, lifting her slightly, grinding her against the hard ridge straining against his sweatpants. Krissy gasped into his mouth, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in, not to push away, but to hold on. The taste of him, the feel of his tongue tangling with hers, the overwhelming scent of him – it obliterated thought. Only sensation remained. Raw, desperate, consuming.
He walked her backward, not gently, his mouth never leaving hers. Her back hit the wall beside the bedroom door, the impact shuddering through her. Books rattled on a nearby shelf. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing. Watery light from the hall lamp caught the sweat already beading on his temples. His hands dropped to her hips, bunching the fabric of her dress, shoving it up her thighs. Cool air hit her skin.
"Say it, Krissy," he demanded, his voice gravel scraping stone. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, yanking them down roughly. The flimsy cotton tore. She didn’t care. "Tell me what you want." His hand slid between her legs, finding her slick heat without hesitation. A low groan tore from him. "Fuck. You’re soaked for me already. Just from walking in the door?" His fingers plunged deep, then withdrew, circling her clit with punishing pressure. Her legs buckled; only the wall and his body held her up. A strangled cry escaped her.
"Mark! God!" Her head thudded back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure, sharp and electric, arced through her core, obliterating the last shreds of resistance. It was too much. Too good. Too wrong.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath hot. "Tell me you're mine," he whispered, the command vibrating through her bones. His fingers worked her relentlessly, his thumb pressing hard against her clit while two fingers curled deep inside. "Right now. In this room. Tell me."
The words were a trap, a final surrender. The orgasm built, a terrifying wave cresting, fueled by the illicit thrill, by his rough possession, by the sheer overwhelming wrongness of wanting him this much. It wasn't gentle love she craved; it was this. The loss of control. The forbidden heat. Him.
"I… I'm…" The confession lodged in her throat. His fingers twisted, pressed deeper. The wave broke. White light exploded behind her eyelids. Her body convulsed, clamping down hard on his hand, a sharp, keening cry tearing from her lips as pleasure ripped through her in violent, shuddering waves.
When the tremors subsided, leaving her gasping, trembling, utterly spent against the wall, he pulled his hand away. He looked at his glistening fingers, then slowly brought them to his mouth, his green eyes locked on hers as he sucked them clean. A primal, possessive gesture. He stepped back slightly, letting her dress fall back down, his gaze never leaving her face. She was exposed, vulnerable, her panties ruined around her ankles, her body humming with aftershocks.
"Say it," he repeated, quieter now, but infinitely more dangerous. The challenge was back in his eyes. The demand for ownership.
Krissy stared at him, her vision blurring with tears she couldn’t explain. Shame warred with the bone-deep satisfaction still echoing through her. He knew. He saw it all – the conflict, the surrender, the terrifying depth of her need. Her voice, when it finally came, was a broken whisper, raw with a truth she couldn’t deny any longer.
"I’m yours." The words hung in the quiet room, punctuated only by the crackle of the record and the frantic beating of her own heart. She realized it as she said it. Hadn’t she been, since the moment she stepped into his shower? Since she let him pin her against the penthouse wall? Since before?
Mark’s expression didn’t soften with triumph. Something flickered in his eyes – surprise, maybe? A flicker of the old Mark, the friend, the shy guy, momentarily startled by the sheer weight of her confession in this dim sanctuary of books and secrets. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear streaking down her cheek. The touch wasn't rough anymore. It was… complicated.
But before he could speak, before the silence could solidify into something new, Krissy flinched. Reality crashed back in, cold and sharp. Tim. The torn underwear at her feet. The fresh bloom of a bruise already forming on her hip where the wall had bitten into her skin. The scent of him on her, inside her.
"No," she breathed, the word stark and panicked against her earlier surrender. She shoved past him, sudden strength born of pure terror flooding her limbs. She stumbled over her discarded panties, almost falling, righted herself against a bookshelf that sent a cascade of paperbacks tumbling. She didn't stop. Didn't look back. She wrenched open the apartment door and fled down the dim hallway, the sound of her frantic footsteps echoing like accusations in the quiet building. She didn’t hear if he called her name. She just ran, leaving the warmth, the scent, the terrifying truth, and the man who now owned a piece of her soul she could never reclaim, behind in the cozy darkness.
The city air hit her like a slap – cold, damp, smelling of exhaust and wet pavement. Krissy stumbled, the ripped silk of her underwear catching on her ankle like a guilty reminder. She kicked it off, leaving it on the grimy sidewalk beneath a flickering streetlamp. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale scraping her throat raw. Mark’s fingers. His mouth. The wall against her back. The sensations surged back, vivid and unwanted, warring violently with the image of Tim’s kind, trusting face. She fumbled for her phone, pulling it from her purse with trembling hands. The screen glowed: 11:37 PM. Tim? The notification pulsed. Her thumb hovered over the call button. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not with Mark’s scent still clinging to her skin, the phantom pressure of his body still imprinted on hers.
She walked, aimless, her ballet flats offering no protection against the city’s chill. The sterile perfection of the penthouse windows reflecting the skyline felt like watching a life happening to someone else. "Tell me you're mine." His command echoed, twisting her insides. It hadn’t just been the rough hands, the demanding mouth. It was the absence of Tim’s careful consideration, the sheer, uncomplicated hunger Mark possessed her with. A dangerous heat bloomed low in her belly again, a treacherous counterpoint to the panic. She passed a closed café, her reflection ghostly in the dark glass – wild-eyed, flushed, lips slightly swollen. He did that. A shudder, half-revulsion, half-desire, ran through her. She needed to get home. Shower. Scrub him away. Forget the way his green eyes had held hers as he tasted her climax on his fingers.
"Krissy." The voice cut through the city hum, low and urgent, close behind her.
She froze. Didn’t turn. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Footsteps approached on the wet pavement. Slow, deliberate. She could feel him, that warmth radiating even from a few feet away, cutting through the night air. Cedar soap. Sweat. Him.
"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible, pleading for what, she didn’t know. For him to leave? To touch her again?
"Don't run." Mark’s voice was softer now, stripped of the bedroom’s possessive growl. He stopped beside her, not touching. She could see his reflection blurry in the café window – hair disheveled, t-shirt hastily pulled on, chest still rising and falling quickly. "Just… talk to me. For a minute." He sounded almost hesitant, a trace of the shy friend surfacing. "I shouldn't have… pushed you like that against the wall. After." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "The torn… yeah. Sorry."
Krissy finally turned. His face was pale in the streetlight, eyes searching hers, wide with a vulnerability she hadn't seen before. Not the predator from his apartment, not the awkward barbecue guest. Just Mark, looking as shaken as she felt. "You scared me," she managed, her voice thick. "Back there. When you said… what you made me say."
He flinched. "I know. God, I know. It was… fucked." He shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets, hunched slightly against the cold. "Tim’s my friend. This whole thing… it’s a mess." He let out a shaky breath, fogging the air. "But when you walked out…" He met her gaze, raw honesty in his green eyes. "When you ran… I felt like I’d swallowed glass."
The unexpected admission loosened something tight in her chest. She saw it then, the conflict mirroring her own. The opportunist enjoying the taboo, yes, but also the loyal friend drowning in guilt. The city noise faded – the distant sirens, the rumble of a late bus. It was just them on this dark, wet corner, breathing the same chilled air thick with unsaid things. The memory of his touch, the shocking intensity of her climax against his wall, surged back, not as fear now, but as pure, visceral memory. The ache between her legs, the phantom pressure on her breast, the taste of his kiss. Her body remembered what her mind was screaming to forget.
He saw the shift in her. He always did. A muscle tensed in his jaw. "You came because you needed it," he stated, voice low, resonant. Not a question. An observation that vibrated deep within her. "That thing I give you. The way I touch you. The way you come apart." He took a tiny step closer. The heat intensified. "You’re shaking."
"I'm cold," she lied, wrapping her arms around herself.
"Liar." His lips quirked, almost a ghost of his usual humor, but his eyes remained deadly serious, locked on hers. "It’s still there, isn’t it? That… need." He didn’t move to touch her, but his presence was a physical force, pulling at her. "Even after running. Even now." He tilted his head, studying her. The city lights reflected in his eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong."
She couldn’t. The denial wouldn’t form. The flush on her skin deepened. Her breath hitched. The pleasure. It was still a coiled spring inside her, dampened by panic but far from gone. The memory of his fingers, his mouth, the sheer abandonment… it beckoned with terrifying sweetness. Her gaze flickered towards the direction of his apartment building, then back to his face. The fear was still there, sharp and bright. But beneath it, stronger now, undeniable, was the pull. The deep, primal craving for the pleasure only he unlocked, the pleasure that made everything else – the guilt, the betrayal, the terrifying confession – momentarily cease to exist.
He saw the answer in her eyes. He always did. A slow breath escaped him, a mixture of relief and something darker. He held out his hand, palm up, in the space between them. Not demanding. Offering. A silent question hanging in the cold night air. Behind him, the river glinted blackly under the bridge, a dark mirror reflecting the fractured city lights. Krissy stared at his hand. At the long fingers that had mapped her body with such devastating intimacy. The silence stretched, charged with the weight of her choice. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the city, drowning out reason. The memory of climax, sharp and shattering under his touch, flared white-hot behind her eyes. She took a single, shuddering step forward. Her hand lifted, trembling, reaching towards his. The velvet darkness of his apartment, the scent of old books and cedar, the promise of obliterating pleasure… it pulled her back, a tide she was helpless to resist.