Chapter 2: The Inheritance
The keypad beeped loudly in the empty hallway. Julie pushed the door open onto darkness. She had send him the code before but there was no signs of him. The air inside was still and warm, smelling of coffee and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe. She stepped across the threshold, her heels clicking on bare hardwood, and let her small bag drop from her shoulder. Light carry on, only for two days. Still, It thudded to the floor. The forged papers in her purse felt like a lead weight.
Before she could breathe, before her eyes could adjust, the door slammed shut behind her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her back against a solid, unfamiliar body. A hand—broad, calloused—clamped over her mouth, stifling her gasp. Her heart seized, then hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
His other hand slid up her skirt, the fabric whispering against her stockings, and found her. There was no fumbling, no tentative exploration. His fingers pressed against the damp silk of her panties, already soaked through from the uber ride over, from the sheer terror and anticipation of this moment.
“You kept your promise,” a voice growled into her ear. It was lower than she remembered, roughened by desire. Mark kept his too.
His teeth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder and bit down, not a love bite, but a sharp, claiming puncture. She cried out against his palm, the sound muffled and desperate. Pain and dizzying pleasure bled together. His fingers shoved the silk aside, dipping into her, finding her slick and swollen. He worked her clit with a cruel, precise rhythm, his thumb rubbing rough circles while two fingers pushed inside her. It was an invasion and a homecoming, all at once.
“Now let’s see if you can keep quiet,” he whispered, his breath hot and damp against her skin. He withdrew his wet fingers, and she whimpered at the loss. He brought them to her lips, smearing her own wetness across them. “When he calls to find out about the honey pot.”
As if summoned, her phone buzzed in her purse. The vibration hummed through the quiet gloom. Julie froze. Mark’s hand left her mouth, sliding down to join the one at her waist, holding her pinned against him. He was hard, the rigid length of him pressing against the small of her back through his jeans.
“Answer it,” he commanded, his voice a dark thread in the darkness.
She fumbled with the purse clasp, her fingers trembling. She got the phone out, the screen illuminating her face. Husband. She took a ragged breath and swiped to answer, putting it on speaker.
“Hi,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice. “You’re up late.”
“Just wanted to make sure you landed okay,” his voice came through, tinny and distant. “The flight was fine?”
Mark’s hands began moving again. One stayed at her waist, possessive and tight. The other resumed its work under her skirt, fingers sliding back into her with ease, his palm grinding against her clit. She bit her lip, hard.
“Y-yes,” she managed, clearing her throat. “Flight was fine. A bit bumpy over the Atlantic, but fine. The apartment is… it’s small. But it’ll do for one night.”
“And the lawyer? The meeting?”
Mark added a third finger, stretching her, a slow, deliberate burn. She pressed her head back against his shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut. “Tomorrow at ten,” she breathed. “I’ll go over the papers. It’s… it’s all very sad. I'll be the only one.”
Mark’s free hand came up and closed gently around her throat, not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. A threat. A promise.
“You sound tired,” her husband said.
“I am,” she gasped, as Mark’s fingers curled inside her, finding a spot that made her legs buckle. He held her up effortlessly. “Just… jet-lagged. Disoriented.”
“Get some sleep. Call me after the meeting.”
“I will. Goodnight.”
She ended the call and dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor. The second it was gone, Mark spun her around, shoving her back against the cold door. In the faint, jaundiced light filtering from a cracked balcony door, she finally saw him. His eyes were dark, intense, hungry. He looked her up and down like she was a feast.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough.
“What?” she panted.
“Say you feel me inside you.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “I feel you inside me.”
He kissed her then, a hard, bruising kiss that tasted of coffee and want. It wasn’t sweet. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a reclamation. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the buttons of her blouse, pulling her skirt up around her waist. He broke the kiss only to yank her blouse and bra down, freeing her breasts. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth scraping the sensitive peak. She cried out, her hands fisting in his hair.
“I kept backups of every scream,” he muttered against her skin, his hands working at his belt. “Now I want the live version.”
He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, hard, the head glistening. He didn’t ask. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, lined himself up, and thrust into her in one brutal, searing stroke.
She screamed. A raw, unfiltered sound that tore from her throat. He was everywhere, filling her, stretching her, a shocking, perfect fullness after so many years of polite, predictable emptiness. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed against the door above her shoulder.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his own composure cracking. “Jesus, Julie.”
Then he moved. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming her body against the door. It was raw and messy and profoundly obscene. The wet, slapping sound of their coupling filled the dark apartment. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises, the other braced against the door.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he grunted, his pace becoming erratic. “3 months… and you’re dripping for me.”
She could only moan, each drive punching the air from her lungs, building a coil of tension so tight she thought she might break. She was close, teetering on an edge she hadn’t visited in months.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice guttural. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.”
His words, filthy and direct, tipped her over. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, her inner muscles clamping around him in fierce, rhythmic pulses. She sobbed into his shoulder, her body shuddering uncontrollably.
Her sobbing subsided into ragged, hiccupping breaths. He was still inside her, still rock-hard, her own wetness making a sticky mess between them. Her right leg, the one hooked over his arm, began to tremble violently from the strain.
Her standing leg gave up. Her knee buckled, a complete failure of muscle and will. She clung to him, her arms looping around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders, heels on his bum pushing him further in. He held her up entirely and lifted her whole body, his own stance widening to take her weight.
He kept fucking her through it intensely until it passed. The angle was deeper now, each upward thrust hitting a raw, new place that made her gasp. Her feet now dangled above the floor as he moved her, a doll in his grip, impaled and helpless. Her orgasm always made her limbless.
Then he carried her to the sofa, still inside her. Every step was a small, jolting movement that sent fresh shocks through her overstimulated nerves. He lowered them both onto the stiff, unfamiliar cushions with a grunt, his body settling heavily atop hers.
“I made some research,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear. He shifted his hips, pulling out of her slowly, making her whimper at the sudden, empty ache. He rolled her onto her back.
He slid a cushion under her waist, raising her hips. The position felt obscenely open, vulnerable. “It actually take both of us,” he murmured, his gaze fixed between her splayed legs, glistening. “You, you close your eyes and relax. If you feel like peeing, just leg go. It's normal. And I…” and he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them as a hook inside her, fingering her with the strength of his wrist. The pressure was immediate, a deep, internal massage that had nothing to do with the frantic pistoning against the door. This was specific, skilled.
His tongue started to lick her clitoris, swollen and exposed. It was a flat, broad stroke, then a tight, focused circle. His left hand grabbed her breast, his thumb scraping over her nipple. He would alternate between kneading her breast and pressing his palm firmly against her clit, the heel of his hand creating a steady, demanding counter-rhythm to his fingers.
“Yes, that feeling,” she gasped, her head pushing back into the sofa cushion. It was a building, different kind of peak, not a sharp explosion but a deep, mounting flood.
Then he intensified his fingering. Now his finger a hook, pressing and lifting her up with his arm and shoulder. He had found the spongy place high inside her, and bearing down on it with relentless, focused pressure.
And she squirted, profusely. It wasn’t a gentle trickle. It was a hot, sudden gush that soaked the cushion beneath her and spash the armrest. The sound a wet release that shocked her. Her back arched off the sofa, a silent scream on her lips.
His mouth went down on her again, drinking from her, his tongue lapping at her convulsing flesh as another wave built instantly from the sheer stimulation.
She squirted a second time. This one was less a torrent, more a pulsing stream, her muscles clenching around his buried fingers in frantic, rhythmic waves.
She was left shaking, her eyes white, convulsing. The sensations didn’t stop; they echoed through her nervous system in crashing waves, leaving her limbs jerking involuntarily. She couldn’t form a thought, only a high, thin sound of utter depletion escaping her throat.
Mark watched her come down, his own breathing harsh in the quiet. He looked down at his glistening fingers, then back at her wrecked face. A slow, possessive smirk touched his lips.
“Still with me?” he asked, his voice rough.
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. She managed a slight nod, her throat too raw for speech.
“Good.” He didn’t withdraw his fingers. Instead, he shifted his weight, his body moving over hers. The movement was deliberate, practiced. He guided his cock, slick with her own fluids, through her parted lips and into her mouth.
She wasn’t active; she was in another place entirely. A numb, floaty space beyond exhaustion. Her jaw went slack on instinct, accepting him.
So He started to pump into her mouth, a shallow, controlled rhythm. He kept his fingers working inside her, the slow curl and push a stark counterpoint to the thrusts against her tongue.
Tears welled in her eyes from the sheer, overwhelming totality of it. The taste of herself, the feel of him, the deep, internal pressure. She gagged lightly, her throat fluttering around him.
“Breathe through your nose, relax, take everything in” he instructed, his voice calm, almost clinical. His hips didn’t stop.
She obeyed, sucking in air through her nostrils. Her body, thoughtlessly responsive, clenched around his fingers. A third squirt came, almost dry, just a weak, shuddering trickle that made her spine twist and back arched, an echo of the previous convulsions.
He watched her face, her tears tracking through the mess on her cheeks. His pace in her mouth quickened, growing less controlled. His breath hitched.
“Gonna come,” he grunted, a raw warning.
He released into her, a hot, bitter flood hitting the back of her throat. She almost choked on it as it spilled over, dripping from the corners of her mouth down her chin onto the already-sticky sofa. He held himself there, pulsing, until he was spent.
Finally, he slid out of her mouth with a soft, wet sound. He withdrew his fingers from her. The sudden emptiness was profound.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. The neon sign from the alley below flickered through a gap in the curtains, painting a sickly blue stripe across the ceiling.
He collapsed beside her on the floor, his head a heavy presence on her chest.
Julie stared at the ceiling, the high, thin whine in her ears slowly fading. The ache between her legs was a deep, throbbing reality. The taste of him and her own release was a film on her tongue. She felt flayed open, hollowed out, and inexplicably whole.
He stood up, his body a pale, solid shape in the dark room. He walked, naked and unconcerned, to a small kitchenette. She heard the flick of a switch, the rumble of an old refrigerator, the clink of glass.
He returned with two glasses of water. He handed her one. She was asleep. He pulled the throw on her.