Chapter 17: Dinner, Wine, and the Professor's Confession
The robe pooled at her feet like a shed skin.
Melissa stood in the center of Victor's bedroom, the black lace cupping her breasts, hugging her hips, doing nothing to hide the heat radiating from her core. The evening light had shifted—gold giving way to amber—and it painted her body in shades of honey and shadow.
Victor hadn't moved from the bed.
He lay there propped on his elbows, towel still slung low, eyes traveling her like he was reading a map of somewhere he'd been before. Somewhere he planned to go again.
"Turn around," he said.
She did.
Slow. Deliberate. Letting him see the curve of her spine, the muscles she'd earned through years of discipline, the ass that had caught his attention long before either of them would admit it.
"Stop."
She stopped. Facing the window now, the garden below a blur of green and stone. She could feel his gaze on her back like a physical weight.
"Take off the bra."
Her fingers found the clasp. Undid it. The lace slid down her arms and she let it fall, watched it pool on the hardwood beside her robe.
"Panties."
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband. Bent at the waist as she pushed them down—slow, theatrical, a performance she hadn't known she was capable of until this moment. When she straightened, she was completely naked.
Completely exposed.
"Come here."
She turned. Walked toward him. Her breasts swayed with each step, nipples hard enough to cut glass, and she watched his jaw tighten as she approached.
He sat up. Caught her wrist. Pulled her onto the bed and positioned her on her back, head on his pillow, legs slightly parted.
"Stay."
"I'm not a dog."
"No." He smiled. "You're my stepmother. Which makes this so much worse, doesn't it?"
Melissa's breath caught.
Victor stretched out beside her. Propped his head on one hand. Let the other drift across her stomach—light, teasing, the barest brush of fingertips against skin.
"You watched me fuck Emma."
"Yes."
"You touched yourself."
"Yes."
"You liked it."
"I—" She swallowed. "Yes."
"Tell me what you liked."
Melissa closed her eyes. "The way you controlled her. The way you made her wait."
"Go on."
"The way you looked at her. Like she was—" She paused. "Like she was something to be consumed."
"Is that what you want? To be consumed?"
"I want—" She opened her eyes, met his. "I want you to stop teasing me."
Victor laughed. Low. Dangerous. "That's not how this works."
"Then tell me how it works."
"It works because I say it works." His hand moved lower. Skipped over her mound. Traced the inside of her thigh. "You came into my room uninvited. You filmed me without permission. You stood in my closet and got yourself off while I was inside another woman."
"I know."
"So now you wait. You take what I give you. And when I decide you've earned it—"
"Earned what?"
"Everything."
His fingers found her. Slid through the slick heat of her folds—once, twice—before pulling away.
Melissa whimpered.
"Patience," he said.
"I've been patient. For weeks. For months."
"And look where it got you." He brought his fingers to his mouth. Tasted her. "Standing in my bedroom, naked, dripping onto my sheets, begging for something you're not sure you deserve."
"I deserve—"
"What? Tell me what you deserve."
She didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one that fit inside the neat little boxes she'd built around her life—wife, stepmother, put-together woman with a put-together house and a put-together marriage.
"I don't know," she whispered.
"That's the first honest thing you've said all night."
He moved. Fast. One second he was beside her; the next, he was on top of her, towel gone, body pressed against body, his cock hard and hot against her thigh.
Melissa gasped.
"You want this," he said.
"Yes."
"You want me to fuck you."
"Yes."
"Then say it. Say you want your stepson to fuck you."
The words stuck in her throat. Not from shame—from something else. Something older. Something that had been building since the first time she'd caught him looking at her across the kitchen island.
"I want—"
"Say it."
"I want you to fuck me."
"Who?"
"You. Victor. I want—"
"Say my name."
"Victor—"
"Say it like you mean it."
"I want you to fuck me, Victor. Please. Please fuck me."
He kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tender. The kind of kiss that bruised, that claimed, that left no room for doubt about who was in charge. His tongue pushed past her lips and she opened for him, took him in, moaned against his mouth while her hands found his back and dug in.
He broke away.
"Not yet."
"What?"
"I said not yet." He slid down her body. Positioned himself between her legs. "I'm going to taste you first."
"Victor—"
"Shh."
His mouth found her.
Melissa's back arched off the mattress. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and he laughed against her clit—that low, infuriating laugh—before getting to work.
He ate her like he had something to prove. Long strokes of his tongue, flat and wide, before circling her clit with the tip. Two fingers pushed inside her, curled upward, found the spot that made her vision go white.
"Oh god—"
"Not god." He pulled back just long enough to speak. "Me."
"Victor—"
"That's right."
He didn't let her come.
Every time she got close—every time her thighs started to shake, her breath started to catch—he pulled back. Slowed down. Kissed her inner thigh instead of her clit. Licked lazy circles around her navel while she squirmed and cursed and begged.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come—"
"Not yet."
"It's been—"
"I know how long it's been." He nipped at her hip bone. "I've been counting."
"You're cruel."
"I'm thorough." His fingers slid inside her again. "There's a difference."
She lost track of time.
Minutes. Hours. She couldn't say. The world narrowed to the space between her legs, the pressure building and receding like a tide controlled by something that didn't care about her need.
When he finally let her come, it was with his mouth on her clit and three fingers inside her, and she screamed loud enough that she wondered if the neighbors could hear.
She didn't care.
Victor crawled up her body. Kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips.
"Good girl," he said.
"Now—"
"Now what?"
"Now fuck me."
"Ask nicely."
"Please fuck me, Victor. Please. I need your cock. I need you inside me."
He smiled.
Positioned himself at her entrance. Pushed in—slow, steady, letting her feel every inch as he stretched her open.
Melissa sobbed.
"Shh." He stroked her hair. "I've got you."
"Move—"
"Not yet."
"Victor—"
"Feel it." His hips pressed flush against hers. "Feel how deep I am."
She did. God, she did. He was in her to the root, so deep she could feel him in her throat, and when he finally started to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her—she thought she might die.
"You're so tight," he groaned. "So fucking tight. How long has it been since someone fucked you properly?"
"I don't—"
"David doesn't count. I've seen the way you look at him. Like he's a chore you forgot to finish."
"That's—"
"True." He thrust harder. "You want to know what I think?"
"Yes—"
"I think you've been waiting for this. For someone to take you. To use you. To fuck you like you're nothing but a hole to fill."
Melissa moaned.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"You're not—"
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I want it—"
"Tell me you don't want to be my little slut."
"I—"
"Say it."
"I want to be your little slut."
He fucked her faster.
Not rough—not yet. Just deeper, harder, each thrust hitting that spot inside her that made her gasp. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, biting and sucking and leaving marks she'd have to hide tomorrow.
"Yesterday," he said against her skin. "When you were standing in my closet—you were touching yourself."
"Yes—"
"You were watching me control her."
"Yes—"
"You wanted it to be you."
"It was—"
"But it wasn't." He pulled out. Flipped her onto her stomach. Pushed back inside before she could protest. "It was her. She got to feel me. She got to come on my cock. And you got to watch."
"Victor—"
"I'm going to come inside you." His hips slammed against her ass. "I'm going to fill you up so deep you'll feel it for days. And then—"
"And then?"
"I'm going to do it again."
Melissa's fingers clutched at the pillows. He was relentless now—pounding into her, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other tangled in her hair.
"You're mine," he grunted. "You know that?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"You're my little slut."
"I'm your little slut."
"You come when I tell you to come."
"When you tell me—"
"Now."
She came.
It ripped through her like lightning—violent, electric, leaving her shaking and sobbing. Victor didn't stop. Didn't slow.
"Again."
"I can't—"
"You can."
"It's too—"
"Feel it." He thrust deeper. "Feel me inside you. Feel how good this is."
She felt it.
The second orgasm built slower, rolling through her like thunder. By the third, she was hoarse from screaming, her voice shot, her body nothing but a vessel for sensation.
"One more."
"No—"
"One more. For me."
"I can't—"
"Look at me."
She twisted her head. Met his eyes.
"You can," he said. "Because you're mine. And I don't let what's mine quit."
When she came that time, it was with his name on her lips and his cock buried deep, and she felt him lose control right after—felt him pulse inside her, filling her, marking her, claiming her in a way no one ever had.
They collapsed together.
Melissa couldn't move. Couldn't think. Her whole body was liquid—boneless, weightless, wrung out like a rag.
Victor pulled out slowly. His come leaked onto her thighs, warm and wet and utterly obscene.
He leaned down. Kissed her shoulder.
"Don't think that's over," he said.
"What?"
"You're mine now." He rolled off the bed. Grabbed the towel from the floor. "And I don't share what's mine."
"Victor—"
"Get cleaned up." He walked toward the bathroom. "We're going to dinner tomorrow. You're going to wear something pretty. And you're not going to touch yourself without permission."
"Excuse me?"
He stopped. Turned.
"You heard me." His eyes were dark. Fiery. "You want this. You want me. But I'm not going to be your dirty little secret. If this happens—if we do this—it happens on my terms."
"And what are your terms?"
"I own you." Simple. Direct. No room for negotiation. "Your body. Your pleasure. Your secrets. All of it. You give me everything, or you walk out that door and we pretend this never happened."
Melissa stared at him.
"And if I don't want to give you everything?"
"Then you don't get anything."
She should have left. Should have told him he was insane, told him she'd made a mistake, told him to forget the whole damn thing.
Instead, she pointed her face toward the wet heat of the shower. Toward the future she could feel changing by the second.
Toward the descent.
"Okay," she said.
Victor smiled. Held out his hand.
And Melissa took it.