Chapter 5: The Claiming
“You’re despicable,” sighed my wife in the aftermath of their shared orgasm, the words slurry and warm. She reached out and poked his chest with a limp finger. “A real bastard, you know that?”
Tom grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”
Her hand slid down his stomach, her fingers walking through the sweat-damp hair. They closed around his semi-rigid member, giving it a lazy, exploring stroke. “You're such a pervert,” she murmured, almost to herself, as his cock twitched and swelled again under her ministrations.
"So are you!" Tom retorted as he hardened fully in her grip, a rapid response to her casual, claiming touch. “Look at yourself,” he said, his voice rough. “You are begging to be fucked again”
“No I'm not,” she whispered, but she was already shifting her weight in anticipation for the next round of sex, leaning back against the window sill for support. She let go of him only to hook her thumbs into the ruined lace at her hips, pushing the last barrier down her legs with a clumsy kick. With a deliberate, silent motion, she drew her knees up and let them fall apart, holding his eyes the entire time. The invitation was absolute, her body a lush, open contradiction to her soft, chastising words.
Tom looked at her, at the raw, offered truth of her, and his smirk softened into something quieter, more possessive. He stepped into the space she had opened, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her from the sill. She was pliant, her arms already rising to loop around his neck as he carried her the few steps to the broad, cluttered dining table.
He swept a cluster of empty glasses aside with his forearm. They clattered, one rolling off the edge to shatter on the floor. Neither of them flinched. He laid her back on the polished wood, the surface cool against her skin. The Christmas lights strung along the bookshelf painted her body in shifting hues of green and red.
“You're awful,” she repeated, her voice a husky thread as he positioned himself between her knees. She drew him down, her legs encircling his waist, locking him to her. Her ankles crossed at the small of his back. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“It's my pleasure,” he said, and entered her again in one smooth, deep glide.
This time, there was no frantic urgency. The claiming was absolute, so it could afford to be slow. He braced his weight on his elbows, cradling her face, and began to move with a deliberate, grinding rhythm. Each stroke was a full, deep possession, a languid exploration of the territory he’d already conquered.
She met his eyes, her own dark and unfocused. Her hands came up to frame his jaw, her thumbs tracing the stubble there. “I hate you for this,” she whispered, pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was deep, thirsty, a silent conversation that contradicted her words. She kissed him like she was trying to drink him in, her tongue tangling with his, her breath hitching around every slow, rocking thrust. She broke away, gasping. “You’re a bastard, Tom.”
“I know.” He kissed her throat, his hips never breaking their steady cadence.
“A real prick.” Her complaint was muffled against his shoulder, her teeth grazing his skin.
He chuckled, the vibration moving through both of them. “You love it.”
She didn’t deny it. She arched beneath him, her body bowing to take him deeper, her head tipping back to expose the long line of her throat. The pace was a slow burn, a torturous build that coiled the tension in her stomach tighter with every passing second. Her earlier climax had only made her more sensitive, every nerve ending singing.
Her whispered insults became a litany against his skin. “Arrogant.” A kiss to his collarbone. “Insufferable.” A roll of her hips. “You have no right.” Her legs tightened around him, heels digging into his back, urging him on even as she scolded.
He took his right, proving it with every measured stroke. He watched her unravel, watched the conflict in her eyes melt into a dazed, helpless surrender. Her chastisements faded into soft, pleading sounds. Her hands slid from his face to clutch at his back, her nails leaving faint, parallel trails. The frantic energy from before was gone, replaced by a heavy, drugging intensity. This wasn’t about taking. It was about having. It was about proving she was his, in every slow, deep, undeniable way.
Enthralled, I watched my wife make desperate love to a man she professed to hate. The way her body moved with his, the way her mouth sought his even to whisper insults, the complete entanglement of their limbs—it spoke of a terrifying physical compatibility between the two of them that I could not hope to match, even in our most intimate moments.. And once again, I found myself pondering if Dani had been thinking about Tom all along during our recent lovemaking sessions.
He slowed his hips almost to a stop, leaning over her, his breath hot on her cheek. “You thought about this.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was a low, insistent rasp. “When you were with him. In your bed. You pictured me.”
Dani’s eyes flew open. The dazed pleasure snapped into something sharper, a defensive panic. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He thrust once, deep and deliberate, making her gasp. “Don’t tell the truth?”
“That’s not the truth.” She turned her head away, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. A shudder ran through her, but he held her fast, pinned. “I never thought of you.”
“Liar.” He said it softly, almost affectionately. He began moving again, a slow, torturous rhythm designed to unravel her. “You’d lie there next to him, letting him do his thing, and you’d close your eyes. And it was me. Wasn’t it?”
“Stop it, Tom.” Her voice cracked. She pushed weakly at his chest.
He caught her wrist, pinning it beside her head. His other hand cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. The movement below their waists never ceased, a relentless, sensual counterpoint to the confrontation. “Admit it. You imagined my hands. My mouth. You imagined it was my cock, not his.”
My wife's face burned bright, brilliant and shameful in the flickering light. “You’re vile.”
“But you imagined it.” He drove into her harder, the table creaking. “Tell me.”
A ragged sob broke from her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut him out, but her body was wide open, accepting every stroke. “No…”
“Tell me, Dani.” His voice dropped, a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you touch yourself after, thinking of me? Did you have to finish what he started?”
The humiliation was a live wire across her skin. Her breath came in short, sharp hitches. She was shaking her head, a frantic, involuntary denial, but her hips lifted to meet his, betraying her completely. The conflict was a physical thing, twisting her features.
“I didn’t… I wouldn’t…” she choked out.
He changed his angle, a slight adjustment of his hips, and her words dissolved into a sharp cry. Her back arched off the table, her free hand clawing at his shoulder. Pleasure, acute and undeniable, ripped through her resistance.
“You did,” he murmured, watching her come apart. “And you know what?”
She was panting, her body pulsing around him, teetering on another edge. Her eyes found his, helpless and full of a horrified wonder. “What?” The word was a breath, a surrender.
He smiled, a ruthless, beautiful thing. “The real thing is so much better than you imagined, isn’t it?”
For a second, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the city. Her guard was obliterated, washed away by the chemical flood he’d triggered in her. She nodded, a tiny, convulsive jerk of her chin.
“Say it.”
Her lips parted. The confession was a ghost, barely audible. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
She swallowed, her throat working. The last fortress fell. “It’s better.” Her voice broke. “You’re… better than I imagined.”
A low, triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. The admission had broken something final, a seal on a pressurized vessel.Now, he owned it all.
“Yeah,” he breathed against her lips, the word hot and satisfied. “I know.”
His grip on her pinned wrist tightened. The other hand slid from her face, down her throat, over the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, coming to rest possessively on her hip. His languid, grinding rhythm snapped.It fractured into something urgent and punishing.
He drove into her, a sharp, staccato piston.The table legs screeched in protest against the floor.
Dani cried out, a sound stripped of words, of anything but raw sensation. Her free hand flew to his back, fingernails digging in, holding on as he dismantled the last of her control. Every thrust was a claim, a brutal reinforcement of her confession.
“You’re mine now,” he grunted, the sentence punctuated by the slap of skin.“Say it.”
She couldn’t. Her world had narrowed to the feeling of him filling her, to the electric charge building in her core. Her head thrashed side to side on the polished wood, her hair sticking to her damp temples. A high, thin whine escaped her clenched teeth.
He leaned down, his breath a harsh gust in her ear.“Come on, Dani. Who do you belong to?”
Her body answered for her.A violent tremor racked her frame, a prelude to the collapse. Her back arched, lifting her breasts towards him, her nipples brushing against his chest. Her legs, still locked around him, began to shake uncontrollably.
“Tom—oh, God—” His name was a sob, a prayer, a surrender.
“That’s right.” His pace became frantic, a raw, driving need.He was chasing his own end now, but he was taking her with him. “Look at me.”
Her eyes, glazed and desperate, found his. In them, I saw the last ghost of my wife vanish. There was no pretense left, no memory of a wedding ring or a husband sleeping steps away. There was only him, and the shattering pleasure he was giving her.“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice ragged.
“Do it,” she gasped, her hips meeting his with a fierce, demanding tilt.“Inside. Please.”
The ‘please’ undid me.It was earnest, greedy. It was a wife begging another man to mark her.With a final, deep snarl, Tom buried himself to the hilt and held there. His body locked, every muscle corded and trembling. A guttural, almost pained sound was torn from his throat as he pulsed within her.Dani’s reaction was instantaneous and total. Her eyes flew wide, her mouth a perfect, silent ‘O’. Then a wave of convulsions seized her, so intense her vision surely whited out. Her spine bowed impossibly, only his weight on her hips keeping her from sliding off the table.
She milked him with a series of deep, greedy contractions, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his shaft, drawing his release out. A choked scream finally broke loose, ragged and full of relief, as her own climax roared through her, syncing perfectly with the hot flood filling her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the faint drip of wine from an overturned bottle. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, a human anchor. Dani’s body went utterly limp, a puppet with cut strings.Her legs slid from his back to dangle over the table’s edge, utterly spent.
He finally shifted, pulling out of her.The sight was deliberate, intimate, and devastating. She didn’t close her legs. She lay there, exposed and glistening in the dim light, his semen already beginning to seep from her.Tom looked down at her, at his work. He trailed two fingers through the mess on her inner thigh, then brought them to her lips. Without hesitation, her tongue darted out, cleaning them.The gesture was automatic, submissive, perfect.
She was his woman.Not mine. The proof was cooling on the table beneath her.