Chapter 9: Morning Claim
The first hint of dawn bled through the windows, painting the room in shades of steel and ash. Marissa woke to the slow, deliberate pressure of Adrian’s hands parting her thighs, his breath hot against her inner skin before his mouth sealed over her. He licked into her with a languid, possessive thoroughness that drew a broken sound from her throat; her fingers twisted in the dark sheets as he worked her, his stubble a delicious friction against her tender flesh. “Just like this,” he murmured into her, the vibration setting her nerves alight, his tongue circling her clit with a precision that felt like cruelty and worship combined. She came against his mouth with a shuddering gasp, her hips lifting off the mattress, her body arching taut as a bowstring before collapsing back into the sweat-damp linen.
Without a word, his hands gripped her hips and flipped her onto her stomach, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin. He mounted her from behind, his weight pressing her down, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her face upward. “ You’re all mine ,” he commanded, his voice gravel-rough with sleep and desire. His powerful back straining, her own features slack with pleasure, their bodies a relentless, driving union. He fucked her deep and rough, each thrust a solid, punctuating claim, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. “You take me so perfectly,” he groaned, his pace punishing, his gaze locked on their tangled image. “Every inch. God, look at you.” He possessed her, unraveling her completely a second time, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. He cursed, low and filthy, his control snapping as he drove into her a final, brutal time, his release wracking through him with a guttural cry.
He pulled out with a wet sound, his cock still pulsing in his hand as he stroked himself over the curve of her ass. "Fuck, look at that," he grunted, his release painting hot, sticky stripes across her skin, marking her with his essence. She shuddered beneath him, her breathing ragged, spent, as she looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes dark and glazed.
He climbed off the bed, his own breaths heavy in the quiet room, and returned a moment later with a soft towel. With a care that contrasted sharply with his earlier force, he wiped the slick evidence from her skin, his touch almost clinical before turning tender. "Come on," he said, his voice roughened, offering a hand to help her up.
He led her to the expansive bathroom where steam soon fogged the glass enclosure. Under the hot spray, he took his time, his strong hands soaping every curve and hollow, washing away the sweat and salt of their night. He was thorough, methodical, his fingertips tracing the path his mouth had taken hours before, a silent reminder.
After, wrapped in thick towels, they moved to the kitchen where the early light now streamed in brightly. "Sit," he instructed, nodding toward a stool at the island. He moved with an easy efficiency, grinding coffee beans and cracking eggs into a bowl. The domesticity of it felt more intimate than anything that had happened against the glass.
He placed a plate of perfect scrambled eggs and buttered toast before her, then a mug of rich, black coffee. "Eat," he said, leaning against the opposite counter to watch her, his own mug cradled in his hands. The silence between them was charged, not with tension, but with something new and unexamined, as tangible as the steam rising from their cups.
The silence between them was charged, not with tension, but with something new and unexamined, as tangible as the steam rising from their cups. She looked at the precise way he’d arranged the food, at the commanding expectation in his eyes that she consume it. A slow smile touched her lips as she picked up her fork. “You’re so fucking bossy, you know that?” she said, her voice still husky from the morning.
He set his mug down with a soft click and came around the island, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hands framed her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “And you like it,” he stated, his voice a low vibration that wasn’t a question. He claimed her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that tasted of coffee and a possessiveness that stole her breath, his tongue sliding against hers with a lazy certainty.
The sharp, electronic trill of his phone shattered the moment. He broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away, resting his forehead against hers for one fractured second before stepping back. He retrieved the phone from the countertop, his expression shifting into an unreadable mask as he glanced at the screen. “DeLuca,” he answered, his voice now all business, flat and cool. He listened, turning to stare out at the awakening city. “Tell him the numbers are non-negotiable. I’ll be there in forty.”
He ended the call and turned back to her, the ghost of their kiss still lingering on his mouth. “I have to head to the office,” he said, picking up his coffee and draining it. She watched the strong line of his throat work, the finality of the gesture.
“Do I have to leave?” The question was out before she could stop it, sounding smaller than she intended.
He set the empty mug down. “No.” He was already moving toward the bedroom. “If you want to stay, stay.” She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the decisive pull of a zipper. Moments later, he emerged, fully dressed in a suit that cost more than her rent, his transformation back into the heir complete. He paused at the entryway, a silhouette against the elevator’s soft glow. Without another word, he was gone. The door sealed shut with a definitive whisper, leaving her alone in the vast, silent penthouse.
The door sealed shut with a definitive whisper, leaving her alone in the vast, silent penthouse. The echo of his departure lingered in the charged air, a phantom pressure against her skin. She stood there for a long moment, the damp towel her only armor, listening to the absence of him.
Marissa wandered from the kitchen’s sterile gleam into the sprawling living area, her bare feet silent on the cool stone. Her fingertips trailed across the back of the leather sofa where he had tossed his coat the night before, the material still holding a faint trace of his cologne. She moved past the monolithic abstract paintings, their chaotic slashes of color feeling suddenly hostile.
She explores the bedroom. She enters a walk in closet and she runs her fingers along all his suites and expensive dress shirts feeling the quality of the shirts. She pulls one off the rack and buttons it over her body. Smelling his sandalwood scent engulfing her , comforting her. She lays on the bed looking at the ceiling thinking about what happened last night and this morning. Her cheeks growing hot. She smiles to herself. She curls up as she dozes off.
She wakes and checks her phones; 1pm and a message from Adrian at 12pm : Miss you. I should not be much longer. Hope to see you when I return. She smiles at his message and gets up from the bed. She continues exploring the penthouse and she found a door of dark, matte wood she hadn’t noticed, slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she entered a library, floor-to-ceiling shelves holding orderly rows of books whose spines betrayed titles in languages she didn’t know. In the center stood a severe metal desk, utterly clean save for a single, framed photograph facing away from her.
Curiosity, a sharp and sudden prick, overrode caution. She walked around the desk to see the image: a younger Adrian, perhaps in his late teens, standing stiffly beside an older man with the same cutting bone structure but colder eyes. Behind them stretched a manicured lawn leading to a colossal, gated estate. Neither of them was smiling.
A low drawer on the desk was not fully closed, a thick manila folder caught in its jaws. The tab read “H. S. Acquisition - Due Diligence.” She tugged it, the drawer sliding open with a soft sigh to reveal not financial reports, but surveillance photos. Her own face, caught leaving her apartment building, stared back from the top of the pile.
Her own face, caught leaving her apartment building, stared back from the top of the pile. The air left her lungs in a cold rush. She flipped the photo, her fingers clumsy, to find another of her at the café , then another of her laughing with a friend on a sidewalk she recognized. A detailed log noted dates, times, her routines.
Beneath those lay a different file. This one was thinner, the tab blank. She opened it. Financial statements, all under the name "HS Holdings," showed massive, regular transfers to an offshore entity. A familiar, looping signature authorized each one—Adrian’s.
A newspaper clipping was paper-clipped to the last statement. The headline screamed about a factory fire two years prior, a tragic accident with casualties. The address listed was the same as HS Holdings’ main asset. Her stomach twisted. A sticky note in Adrian’s sharp hand was affixed to the clipping, bearing a single, damning sentence: Liability concluded. Clean.
The soft snick of the elevator door opening downstairs fractured the silent room. Her head snapped up.
His footsteps were unhurried on the stone floor, a familiar, measured cadence that now sounded like a threat. She stood frozen, the incriminating folder clutched against the borrowed shirt that smelled of him. Adrian appeared in the library doorway, his tie loosened, his expression one of relaxed expectation that hardened into immediate calculation when he saw her face and what she held.
“Find anything interesting in my private study?” he asked, his voice dangerously smooth.
She threw the folder onto the desk; the photos slid across the polished surface like accusations. “You had me followed,” she stated, her voice trembling not with fear but with a cold, rising fury. “What is this ‘liability concluded’? What did you do?”
He didn’t glance at the papers, his gaze locked on her. “That’s not for you.”
“People died in that fire.” She stepped closer, driven by a courage that felt like vertigo. “And your money was all over it. You’re not just some rich bastard, are you? You’re a monster.”
In two strides he closed the distance, his hand snapping up to cradle her jaw, his grip firm enough to stop her words. “You came into my home,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her pulse point where it hammered wildly. “You wore my skin, slept in my bed, and now you rifle through my business.” His other hand slid down to the first button of the shirt she wore, his fingers deft. “You don’t get to call me names after you begged for my cock last night.”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his eyes darkening with a possessive heat that utterly disregarded her anger. He backed her slowly toward the desk, his body crowding hers. “But it’s not just rage, is it?” His palm flattened against her stomach, pushing her until the desk’s edge bit into her thighs. “You’re terrified, and it’s making you so fucking wet for me.”
His words were a violation, a twisted truth that coiled in her gut. She could feel the damp proof against her thighs, a traitorous response her mind screamed against. "Fuck you," she spat, the fury in her voice undercut by a betraying tremble.
"You already have," he said, his voice a low rasp against her ear as his hands went to her waist. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the cold, hard edge of the metal desk. The files crunched underneath her. "And you will again."
He shoved her shoulders back, pressing her down until her spine met the unyielding surface. He pinned her down, his full weight a brutal anchor against her hips, one hand clamping both her wrists above her head. The cold metal bit into her bare skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of him. "Stay," he commanded, the word leaving no room for rebellion.
With his free hand, he ripped the shirt open, buttons pinging across the library floor. His mouth was on her breast, sucking a nipple deep, biting just enough to make her cry out. She strained against his grip, a futile struggle that only made him grind his hardening cock against her core through his suit pants. "See?" he growled, dragging his teeth down her stomach. "Your body knows what it owes."
He released her wrists only to yank her hips to the very edge of the desk, her legs hanging limp. He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock, already thick and angry. He pushed her thighs apart, his gaze locked on hers, and rubbed the swollen head through her wetness, coating himself in her. "This is what you wanted when you put on my shirt," he said, not asking. He notched himself at her entrance, a blunt, unavoidable pressure. "This is what you were asking for."
He drove into her in one relentless thrust, a filled, stretching burn that stole her breath. "Adrian—" His name was a gasp, a protest, a plea. He didn't answer, just withdrew and slammed back in, setting a ruthless, deep rhythm that made the desk screech against the floor with every impact. The surveillance photos of her life, his damning signature, were pressed into her bare back as he fucked her. He leaned over, his breath hot on her neck. "Now you know," he panted, pounding into her. "Now you're part of it."
His cock stroked something deep and secret inside her as he said it, filling her with a truth more invasive than his length. “Fuck your lies,” she choked out, arching against the hard desk, but her hips lifted to meet his next thrust. He laughed, a low, dark sound that vibrated through her own body as he pinned her harder, his pace turning brutal and efficient. “Your cunt says otherwise,” he grunted, each powerful drive of his hips punctuating his words. She could feel the cold edge of the financial statements digging into her shoulder blades, a stark contrast to the slick heat he was pounding into her. He leaned down, his mouth at her ear, his voice ragged with exertion. “Come for me while you think about my signature on those papers.” The command, fused with the relentless friction, coiled a terrifying wire of pleasure in her gut. She fought it, teeth clenched, but her body betrayed her, convulsing around him in a sharp, shuddering climax that tore a broken cry from her throat. “That’s it,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering as her inner muscles clenched him. He fucked her through it, dragging out her orgasm until she went limp, breathless and ashamed on the bed of his crimes. Only then did his own control shatter; with a final, deep grind, he came inside her with a guttural groan, his release hot and claiming. He stayed there, buried in her, both of them panting, the only sound their ragged breath and the rustle of disturbed paper.
He stayed there, buried in her, both of them panting, the only sound their ragged breath and the rustle of disturbed paper. He finally withdrew, his semen trickling down her thigh onto the financial statements as he zipped his trousers with a sharp, definitive sound. She didn’t move from the desk, the cold metal and the damning papers stuck to her skin. “I had to know you weren’t another vulture,” he said, his voice stripped bare, as he righted his suit. “That you weren’t just here for the name, the money.” She pushed herself up, his torn shirt hanging open, and faced him. “So you had me followed like a mark? You fucked me on evidence of your own crimes?” “I fucked you because I wanted you,” he corrected, stepping closer, his gaze holding hers. “The file was just… due diligence.” She laughed, a bitter, shattered sound. “Due diligence? People died, Adrian.” “I know,” he said, the words flat and heavy. “And that factory was a rotting liability my father built on bribes; I shut it down.” “By burning it?” she shot back, her voice rising. He was silent for a long moment, the shadows in his eyes deepening. “The fire was an accident, but the closure wasn’t,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I lied. About the investigation. And for finishing inside you just now—that was a violation.” She wrapped the shirt around herself, the admission softening the sharp edge of her anger. “I’m on birth control,” she said quietly, watching him. “That’s not the point,” he replied, his hand reaching out slowly to touch her cheek. “The point is I shouldn’t have.”
His hand fell from her cheek as if the skin there had burned him. “You think this is just about me finishing inside you?” she asked, her voice scraping raw over the words. “It’s about you finishing inside me on top of evidence that you’re… what? A corporate arsonist?”
He turned away, his shoulders rigid. “I told you, it was an accident.”
“And the surveillance?” she pressed, sliding off the desk, the papers sticking to her thighs. “Was that an accident too?” She stepped around him, forcing herself into his line of sight. “You watched me. You knew where I lived, where I worked.”
“I needed to know who you were,” he said, his gaze finally meeting hers, stripped of its usual guarded calculation. “Before I let you in here. Before I let you in here.” He tapped a fist against his own sternum, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable it disarmed her. “Everyone wants something, Marissa. I had to be sure what you wanted wasn’t just a headline.”
The raw honesty in his words, the faint tremor in his clenched hand, warred with the cold proof still scattered across the desk. She stared at him, at the restless shadows now swimming openly in his eyes, and felt the sharp edge of her fury begin to dull into a confused, weary ache. He moved first, closing the small distance between them, his hands coming up to frame her face again, but this time with a desperation that felt entirely new. “Tell me what you want right now,” he whispered, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “Tell me to leave you alone forever, and I’ll call my driver for you. Or tell me to fucking prove it.”
Her breath hitched. “Prove what?”
“That it’s you,” he said, the words a rough confession against her lips. “That it’s only ever been you.” Then his mouth was on hers, not claiming or punishing, but searching, a question she answered by opening for him, her hands fisting in his ruined suit jacket. He walked her backward, past the damning desk, through the library door, and into the muted light of the bedroom. He laid her down on the disheveled sheets they had shared, his movements slower now, deliberate. He peeled the torn shirt from her shoulders, his lips following the path of the fabric, worshiping the marks his own desperation had left. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat, his breath warm. “For the lies. For the desk.” His hand slid between her legs, wet and ready. “But not for this.” He entered her with a deep, measured thrust that made her back arch, a sigh catching in her throat. “Never for this.”
He moved inside her with a deep, relentless rhythm that felt less like an apology and more like a branding. Each thrust was a silent vow, a physical argument against the lies still scattered on the library desk. “Look at me,” he growled, his voice frayed at the edges, and she forced her eyes open, meeting his stormy gaze. Sweat tracked down the corded muscle of his neck as he drove into her, the bed frame groaning in protest against the wall. “Tell me you feel it,” he demanded, his palm sliding between them to press against her clit with a rough, circular pressure that made her gasp. “Tell me this is real.”
“It’s real,” she choked out, her nails biting into the hard planes of his shoulders, her hips lifting to take him deeper. The confession unleashed something in him; his pace became punishing, a raw piston of flesh that chased away every thought but the feel of him. “Then prove it,” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Let me feel you forget everything else.” The command, fused with the exquisite friction of his fingers, shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with a silent, open-mouthed scream, her internal muscles clenching around him in frantic, fluttering waves. He swore, a guttural sound torn from his chest, and followed her over the edge, his own release pumping into her with a final, shuddering drive.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a solid, anchoring warmth, his face buried in the sweat-damp hair at her neck. They lay like that for long minutes, listening to the synchronized slowing of their heartbeats. “The factory was insured,” he finally murmured, the words muffled against her skin. “The payout went to the families.” He lifted his head, his expression raw. “I’m not the hero. But I’m not the monster you think I am, either.”