Chapter 17: Skyline Confession
The scent of him was on her skin when she woke. It was in the sheets, in the air, a musky, intimate perfume that had seeped into her pores. Dawn was a dull smear of grey beyond the windows. Tyler was asleep beside her, one arm thrown heavily across her waist, possessive even in unconsciousness. Her mind, clear and cold in the silent morning, went immediately to her phone.
She’d left it in the living room days ago. She’d meant to check it. She’d told herself she would. A flutter of genuine panic, sharp and clean, cut through the sensual fog. Tim. She carefully lifted Tyler’s arm, sliding out from under its weight. He grumbled, shifted, but didn’t wake. She padded naked across the cool floor, her body a catalogue of his attentions—a faint ache between her legs, the memory of his mouth on her breasts, the pleasant soreness in her muscles.
The penthouse was still, a museum of polished surfaces and expensive silence. Her phone lay on the marble coffee table, next to an empty whiskey glass. The screen was dark. Dead. She pressed the button. Nothing. The charger was plugged in by the sofa. She connected it, watching the blank screen anxiously. As it powered up, notifications began to cascade in—a sickening parade of concern.
Tim (3 days ago): Just checking in. Love you.
Tim (2 days ago): Krissy? Everything okay?
Tim (1 day ago): You’re starting to scare me. Please call.
Tim (12 hours ago): I’m getting in the car. I’m coming to the city. I’m calling Tyler.
Tim (4 hours ago): His phone goes to voicemail. I’m at the lobby. They won’t let me up. What’s happening? ANSWER ME.
Missed Call (12)
Voicemail (6)
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She tapped the most recent voicemail, her hand trembling. Tim’s voice, strained and brittle with fear, filled her ear. “Krissy, I don’t know what’s going on. The concierge says Tyler left strict instructions. No visitors. They won’t even call up. If I don’t hear from you in the next hour, I’m calling the police. I swear to God.”
The cold shock of it rooted her to the spot. The police. The fantasy bubble of the penthouse, of Tyler’s worshipful obsession, popped with an almost audible snap. Reality flooded back in, icy and shameful. She was naked in another man’s apartment, her body thrumming with his touch, while her husband feared for her life in a lobby downstairs. The recording device in her purse felt like a lead weight in the closet, a useless, mocking artifact.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She jumped, whirling around. Tyler stood in the doorway to the bedroom, naked, his hair mussed. He leaned against the frame, watching her. His eyes flicked to the phone in her hand.
“You should plug that in more often,” he said, his voice sleep-roughened, casual. As if he hadn’t orchestrated her complete isolation. As if he didn’t know.
“Tim was here,” she said, her own voice sounding thin and strange. “In the lobby. They turned him away.”
Tyler pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. He didn’t look concerned. He looked… pleased. He plucked the phone from her limp hand and placed it back on the table, screen down. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I gave the staff a list. Just us.” He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “This is our time. No interruptions.”
“He was going to call the police, Tyler!” She pushed his hand away, a spark of her old self igniting.
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. The sleepy softness vanished from his eyes. “And say what? That his wife is voluntarily staying with his best friend? That he’s jealous?” He pulled her closer, his body a solid wall of heat against her. “You texted him, Krissy. You told him you were working. You told him you needed time. He has the messages. He looks like a clingy, paranoid husband. The police would laugh at him.”
The logic was a cage. He’d built it around her with her own complicity. Her defiance crumpled. She sagged against him, a sob catching in her throat. “He’s hurting.”
“Good,” Tyler murmured into her hair. His hands slid down her back, over the swell of her ass, pulling her flush against him. She felt him, already hardening against her stomach. “Let him hurt. He should have cherished what he had. He didn’t. I do.”
He walked her backward, not toward the bedroom, but toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. A touch of a remote and the sheer curtains whispered apart, revealing the glass doors to the balcony. The sky was lightening to a bruised purple, the city’s countless windows still glittering like fallen stars. He opened the door. A rush of cool, high-altitude air washed over them, raising goosebumps on her skin.
“He’s down there somewhere,” Tyler said, his voice low in her ear. He guided her through the door onto the balcony. It was a sleek, glass-enclosed space, the barriers made of clear panels, leaving them exposed to the vast, awakening city. The wind caught her hair. “In all that chaos. Worrying. Wondering.” He turned her to face the view, her back to his front. “And you’re up here with me.”
His hands settled on her shoulders, then slid down her arms. He bent her forward, gently but inexorably, until her palms were flat against the cold, unyielding glass of the balustrade. Her breasts pressed against the chill surface. The city sprawled beneath her, a breathtaking, dizzying map of lights and life. She felt terrifyingly exposed.
“Tyler, no,” she whispered, but it was weak. A formality.
“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. He knelt behind her, his hands parting her thighs. His mouth found her core, and she jolted, a sharp cry stolen by the wind. He licked into her with a focused, unforgiving intensity, as if drinking proof of her betrayal from her body. Her knees trembled. Her fingers squeaked against the glass as she tried to push back, to get away from the piercing pleasure, but there was nowhere to go. He worked her with his tongue, with his lips, until her moans were continuous, until her hips began to move of their own accord, pushing back against his face.
He stood. The sound of his fly opening was loud in the morning quiet. He pressed against her, his cock, thick and insistent, nudging through her wetness. He didn’t enter her immediately. He rubbed the head along her slit, smearing her own arousal, teasing them both.
“Look at it,” he commanded, his voice gritted with want. “Look at your city. And know that while it sleeps, I’m the only one who gets to have you. I’m the only one who gets to feel this.”
He pushed inside. The penetration was slow, deliberate, devastatingly deep. The stretch was immense, a filling, claiming invasion that made her cry out. The cold glass against her front, the heat of him buried inside her from behind—the contrast was maddening.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. He pulled back and thrust forward again, setting a slow, grinding rhythm. Each stroke dragged against that deep, sensitive place, each withdrawal felt like a loss. Her nipples, hardened by the cold, rubbed against the glass.
“You take me so fucking good,” he panted, his breath clouding briefly in the cool air beside her cheek. “This perfect, greedy cunt. Made for my cock.” His pace increased, the thrusts becoming harder, sharper. The balcony was silent except for the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies meeting, the low groan of the glass under their weight, and their ragged breathing.
He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “Tell me you don’t think about him. Tell me there’s no room in that pretty head for anything but this.”
She couldn’t. Her mind was a white blank of sensation. The world had narrowed to the punishing pleasure of his thrusts, the dizzying void below her, the sound of his possessive grunts.
“Say it!” He spanked her, once, hard. The sting bloomed, mixing with the deep internal ache.
“No room,” she gasped, the truth of it in this moment undeniable. “Only this.”
“Who do you belong to?” He drove into her, his balls slapping against her.
“You!” The word was torn from her, carried away by the wind over the skyline.
“Damn right.” His control snapped. He fucked her now with a wild, desperate energy, his hips pistoning, his grip on her bruising. The glass rattled. “Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my dick. Do it.
Krissy’s climax shattered through her, a convulsive wave that clenched around his thrusting cock. Her cry was a raw, broken thing swallowed by the vast city morning. She collapsed forward, her cheek smearing against the cold glass, her vision blurring the lights below into fiery streaks.
Tyler’s rhythm fractured into ragged, powerful drives. “Yes… fuck, take it… take all of me,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. His fingers bit into her hips, holding her impaled as he buried himself to the hilt and shuddered. A hot, liquid flood pulsed deep inside her, a final, claiming proof of his ownership.
He stayed there for a long moment, lodged within her, both of them panting. The wind cooled the sweat on their skin. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A wet, warm trickle traced down her inner thigh. He righted her gently, turning her to face him. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs wiping at the tears she hadn’t realized were falling.
“See?” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Nothing else exists.”
He led her inside, back to the warmth of the suite. He drew a bath in the sunken marble tub, pouring in scented oil. He washed her with a soft cloth, his touch tender, reverent. The water swirled with the evidence of their joining. She watched it, mesmerized, her mind empty of everything but the phantom ache between her legs and the weight of his gaze.
He wrapped her in a robe and sat her at the breakfast bar. He made coffee, scrambled eggs. The domestic normalcy was more disorienting than the sex on the balcony. Her phone buzzed again on the table. They both looked at it. The screen lit up with Tim’s name.
Tyler didn’t move to take it. He just watched her.
“You should answer it,” he said softly, leaning against the counter. “Tell him you’re safe. Tell him you’re finishing the job.”
She picked up the phone. Her hand was steady. She answered.
“Tim.” Her voice sounded flat, even to her.
“Krissy! Jesus Christ! Are you okay? What’s happening?” His relief was a palpable, painful thing through the speaker.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry. The phone died. I… I got it.” She stared at Tyler as she spoke. He gave a slow, approving nod.
“Got what? What’s going on? I was so worried.”
“Evidence. I got it. It’s… it’s worse than we thought. I need a few more days to solidify it.” The lies came easily, slick as oil.
A long silence. “Krissy… I don’t like this. Come home. We’ll figure it out another way.”
“No.” The word was firm, final. Tyler’s eyes darkened with pleasure. “I’m close, Tim. I can’t stop now. Just… trust me.”
“I do,” he said, the hurt audible beneath the words. “I just miss you.”
“I know.” She closed her eyes. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She ended the call and placed the phone back on the counter. The silence in the penthouse was absolute.
Tyler crossed the space in two strides. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, deeply, possessively. “My good girl,” he murmured against her lips.
“My good girl,” he murmured against her lips.
The kiss was soft, a reward that felt more damning than any command. When he pulled away, she found herself leaning forward, chasing the warmth of his mouth for a half-second before stopping herself. He noticed. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips as he turned to finish cooking.
They ate in silence. The eggs were perfectly fluffy, the coffee strong. Each bite felt like a consolidation. She was digesting the lie she’d just told Tim, making it part of her physical matter. Tyler watched her over the rim of his mug, his gaze a tangible weight.
“You sounded very convincing,” he said finally, setting his cup down. Its click on the marble was precise.
“I was convincing because it’s true,” she said, the words slipping out before she could cage them. “It is worse than we thought.”
He didn’t ask what she meant. He just nodded, as if she’d confirmed a shared truth. “Go take a shower. A real one. You still smell like me and the city.” He said it like a benediction.
Under the scalding spray, she scrubbed. The water ran in cloudy rivulets down her legs, carrying his scent from her skin. It should have felt like purification. It felt like erosion. She touched herself between the legs, a clinical exploration. She was sore, swollen, tender in a way that whispered of his repeated use. A pulse of heat, sharp and unbidden, flared low in her belly at the memory of it. She snatched her hand away, shocked.
She craved the soreness. She craved the fullness. The realization was a cold fist around her heart. Drying off, she avoided the steamed mirror. She didn’t want to see the woman who would think that.
He was in the walk-in closet when she emerged, towel clutched to her chest. He’d pulled her small suitcase from the top shelf. Her purse, with its hidden camera, was nestled next to it. Her breath hitched.
“We should put your things away,” he said, his tone utterly normal. He unzipped the suitcase. He lifted her folded blouses, her jeans, placing them in an empty drawer he’d cleared for her. The act was disturbingly intimate. It wasn’t just sex now; it was space. He was making room for her.
Then he picked up her purse.
Her blood turned to ice. He hefted it in his hand, seeming to consider its weight. His eyes slid to her, standing frozen in the doorway.
“Heavy,” Tyler observed casually. “What’s in here?”
“Just… girl stuff,” she stammered, the lie pathetic.
“Hmm.” He opened the clasp. He peered inside. She watched, her muscles locked, as his fingers moved past her wallet, her lipstick. They closed around the small, hard rectangle of the camera. He pulled it out. He turned it over in his palm, examining it like a curious insect.
“This is nice,” he said. He pressed the power button. The tiny red recording light glowed for a second before dying. The battery was dead. He looked at her. “Yours?”
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The game was over. The proof was in his hand.
Tyler smiled. It wasn’t angry. It was fascinated. He walked toward her, the camera held loosely between his fingers. He stopped inches away, his body radiating a calm, terrifying heat. “Were you going to show Tim?” he asked, his voice low. “Play him the sounds you make for me?”
She shook her head, a frantic, tiny motion.
“No,” he agreed softly. “You weren’t.” He dropped the camera back into her purse and zipped it closed. He didn’t throw it away. He placed it carefully on the top shelf, next to an empty space. “It stays. A reminder.”
Of what? She didn’t dare ask. He turned his attention fully to her now. The towel was still her only shield. He hooked a finger in the terrycloth where it was tucked between her breasts. He gave a gentle, inexorable pull. It dropped to the floor in a damp heap.
She stood naked before him, exposed in a way that went far beyond skin.
“You see,” he said, his eyes cataloguing every inch of her, from her flushed face to her trembling thighs. “The thing you need to understand is that I don’t care about the camera. I don’t care about your little mission.” He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw. His thumb stroked the line of her bottom lip. “I only care about this. The truth that happens off-camera. The truth of your body.”
He kissed her again, slow and deep. She didn’t chase it this time. She fell into it. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch at his shoulders. A small, broken sound escaped her throat.
He guided her backward, out of the closet, across the bedroom. He laid her on the disheveled bed, the sheets still smelling of their last encounter. He didn’t undress. He simply unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding free with a sinister hiss. He unbuttoned his pants. He pushed them down just enough to free his cock, already thick and heavy.
She stared at it, a mix of fear and a deep, shameful hunger twisting in her gut. He was so much bigger than Tim. The memory of that stretch, that profound filling, made her clench empty around nothing.
“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice not a request.
She obeyed. Her lips parted. He guided himself to them, the broad head pressing against her lower lip. She could taste the salt of her own arousal still on him. He pushed forward, not roughly, but with absolute certainty. The feeling of him on her tongue, the weight, the smooth texture, was overwhelming. She gagged lightly.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his hands cupping her face. “Just get used to it. I want you to taste yourself on me.”
He fed himself deeper. She breathed through her nose, relaxing her jaw. He began a slow, rhythmic glide in and out of her mouth. His eyes were locked on hers, watching her every reaction. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it. Such a pretty little mouth.”
Her own wetness gathered between her legs. The humiliation was acute, but it was fused with a dark, thrilling electricity. She was servicing him. She was good at it. His approving groans were a drug. He pulled out, his cock glistening with her saliva.
“On your hands and knees,” he directed, his breath coming faster.
She scrambled to comply, the position feeling simultaneously submissive and natural. He knelt behind her. She felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against her entrance, slick from her own anticipation. He pushed in with a single, continuous thrust that stole her breath. The fullness was even more intense from this angle, a deep, pervasive invasion that made her see stars.
“Oh god,” she moaned, the words muffled by the sheets.
“Whose?” he grunted, pulling back and driving in again, setting a hard, claiming pace.
“Yours,” she gasped. It was the only answer.
“Damn right.” He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, anchoring her for his thrusts. Each one rocked her forward. The sound of skin on skin, wet and urgent, filled the room. “This cunt is mine now. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she cried, the pleasure coiling tight, a spring about to snap.
“It’s greedy for my cock. It weeps for it.” His pace grew brutal, pounding into her with a force that drove her up the bed. She pressed her face into the mattress, her fingers clutching the sheets. She was close, so close, the edge sharp and beckoning.
He leaned over her, blanketing her back. “Come for me,” he growled into her ear, his voice ragged. “I want to feel you milk me while I fill you up.”
His command was the trigger. Her orgasm exploded, a violent, shaking release that clenched around his driving length. She screamed into the bedding, her body convulsing. He fucked her through it, his own rhythm shattering into short, frantic plunges. With a final, deep grind, he shuddered, a groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed inside her.
He collapsed atop her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She could feel his heart hammering against her back. They lay there, a tangled, sweating heap, joined. The only sound was their ragged breathing.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. The immediate, empty ache was profound. She felt a warm trickle escape, a visceral reminder. She wanted to be filled again. The thought was clear, stark, and entirely her own.
He rolled off her, onto his back. After a moment, his hand found hers on the sheets. His fingers laced through hers. They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. The craving was a live wire under her skin, buzzing louder than any thought of home.