Chapter 2: Their naked bodies tangle in silk sheets as Will pins Mary beneath him, his cock stretching her deliciously with each measured thrust, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that tastes like coffee and sin.
The first sliver of dawn cut across the floorboards, a pale, sharp line of gold in the half-light. Will’s breath was warm against her temple, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across her waist. They had stumbled from the kitchen to the bed some indeterminable time ago, collapsing into the cool, white linens in a tangle of exhausted limbs.
Mary lay still, watching the light creep closer. Her body felt used, thoroughly worked over, a map of faint bruises and aching muscles. The soreness between her legs was a persistent, pleasant throb. She could still feel the ghost of him inside her, the stretch and fullness. She shifted slightly, and his arm tightened, pulling her back against the solid warmth of his chest.
“You’re thinking too loud,” his voice was a sleep-roughened murmur against her hair.
“I’m not thinking anything,” she whispered, though it was a lie. Her mind was a whirlwind, replaying the feel of cold granite, the taste of his skin, the raw, claiming look in his eyes.
“Liar.” He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his lips soft. His hand slid from her waist, down over the curve of her hip, his fingers splaying across her bare stomach. “I can hear the gears grinding.”
She smiled in the dimness, relaxing into him. This was the calm after the storm. The frantic energy of the night had burned away, leaving this… quiet intimacy. It was somehow more terrifying.
The hand on her stomach drifted lower, fingertips tracing idle patterns through her pubic hair. It wasn’t a demand, just a lazy, proprietary exploration. She sighed, arching into the touch.
“Sore?” he asked, his voice low.
“A little.”
“Good.” There was a dark thread of satisfaction in the word. His fingers dipped lower, parting her, and she gasped as he found her still-sensitive flesh. He circled her clit with a feather-light touch that was closer to torture than pleasure. “I want you to feel me all day. Every time you shift in your chair at that coffee shop, I want you to remember how you got this sore.”
His words, filthy and direct, sent a fresh bolt of heat straight to her core. He felt her clench around nothing and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“See? Your body remembers.”
He shifted behind her, and she felt him, hard and ready, press against the cleft of her ass. The night had done nothing to diminish his hunger. He moved her hair aside and kissed the slope of her shoulder, his teeth scraping lightly.
“I’m not done with you,” he whispered, echoing his words from the kitchen. This time, the promise was slower, more deliberate.
He rolled her onto her stomach. The cool, high-thread-count sheets were a shock against her feverish skin. He settled over her, not his full weight, but enough to pin her. His knees nudged her legs apart. The first touch of his cock, slick from her own arousal, against her entrance made her jump.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his hands sliding up her back, pushing her shoulders down into the mattress. “Just relax.”
He entered her with a single, slow, devastating thrust. It was a different kind of fullness this way, deeper, more consuming. She cried out, the sound muffled by the pillow. He didn’t move, just let her adjust to the sensation of being completely filled, impaled.
“God, you take me so well,” he groaned, his voice thick. He leaned down, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth next to her ear. “You’re so fucking tight this morning. Like you’ve been dreaming about this.”
He began to move, a slow, deep, rhythmic rocking that stole the air from her lungs. Each stroke was a deliberate claiming, a reinforcement of every mark he’d made on her the night before. His pace was relentless, a steady, piston-like drive that focused entirely on his own pleasure, on the simple, brutal act of possession.
“You like this, don’t you?” he grunted, his fingers digging into her hips. “Being my little fuck-toy first thing in the morning. My personal cocksleeve.”
The crudeness of his words, combined with the primal angle of his thrusts, unraveled her. She was moaning, pushing back against him, meeting his rhythm. The headboard tapped a soft, steady beat against the wall.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Tell me you love my cock in your greedy little cunt.”
“I love it,” she gasped, the confession torn from her. “I love your cock.”
He swore, a guttural, heartfelt sound, and drove into her one last, deep time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her with a long, low groan.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome burden. They lay like that for long minutes, his breath hot on her shoulder, his heartbeat a wild drum against her back.
Slowly, he rolled off, pulling her with him so she was curled against his side. The room was fully light now, the city sprawled out below them in a panorama of steel and glass. The silence was comfortable, filled only with their slowing breaths.
His fingers traced the line of her spine. “I have to go out of town,” he said quietly.
The words landed like a physical blow. “What?”
“A client. In Chicago. Just for three days.” He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. His blue eyes were unguarded, softer than she’d ever seen them. “I leave this afternoon.”
“Oh.” The sound was small. She looked away, at the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. The bubble they’d been in for the last twelve hours threatened to pop. The real world, with its schedules and distances, was seeping back in.
He hooked a finger under her chin, turning her face back to his. “It’s three days, Mary. Not three years.”
“I know.” She tried for a smile, but it felt weak.
“I’ll text you. I’ll call.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “And when I get back, I’m taking you out. A proper date. Somewhere that doesn’t involve a countertop.”
A real date. The concept felt foreign, fantastical. She nodded, her throat tight.
He kissed her, slow and deep, a kiss that tasted like promise and goodbye. Then he threw back the covers. “Come on. I’ll make coffee. The good stuff, not that swill you serve at the shop.”
She watched him walk naked to the kitchen, the morning sun gilding his skin. Her body was a testament to him, every ache a memory. Three days. She could feel the absence already, a cold spot taking root deep in her chest. He was a mystery, and she had just gotten a glimpse inside. Now the door was swinging shut, just a crack, and she was terrified it would lock.
The three-day absence loomed like a physical space between them, a chasm she didn’t know how to bridge. She watched him move around the minimalist kitchen, his back to her, and the cold spot in her chest expanded. He was already halfway to Chicago.
“Hey.” His voice cut through her thoughts. He was looking at her over his shoulder, two mugs in hand. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Thinking I’m not coming back.” He put the coffees down and walked to her, his bare feet silent on the polished concrete. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “It’s three days. I have your number permanently etched on a coffee cup, remember?”
He kissed her, a soft, lingering press of his lips that tasted of promise and expensive espresso. Then his hands slid from her face to her wrists, his grip firm. “I need you to trust me.”
He led her back to the bedroom, the vast cityscape now bright and demanding behind the glass. The disheveled bed held the scent of their night. He sat her on the edge of the mattress and turned to the nightstand, opening a drawer she hadn't noticed before.
He pulled out two long, soft strips of grey silk.
Her breath hitched. “Will…”
“I told you,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m not done with you.” He knelt before her, taking her left wrist first. The silk was cool and shockingly smooth against her skin. “This isn’t about leaving. This is about now.”
He looped the material around her wrist with a practiced ease, tying a secure, firm knot. He attached the other end to the wrought-iron headboard. The silk was strong, unyielding. He repeated the process with her right wrist, spreading her arms, leaving her open and exposed before him. A thrill of pure, undiluted fear and anticipation shot through her.
“You’re mine for the next few hours,” he stated, his blue eyes holding hers captive. He trailed a single finger from the hollow of her throat, down between her breasts, over her quivering stomach. “Every single part of you. I want to remember you just like this when I’m in that boring fucking boardroom.”
He pushed her back onto the pillows. The position arched her spine, pushing her breasts up, making her completely vulnerable. He stood at the foot of the bed, just looking, his gaze a physical weight roaming over her tethered body. “God, look at you.”
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her splayed legs. He didn’t touch her yet. He just drank her in, his cock hard and thick against his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Then his hands were on her, rough and possessive. He groped her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching her nipples until she gasped. He leaned down and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the peak. The contrast of the gentle silk on her wrists and the rough demand of his mouth was maddening.
His mouth traveled down her body, a hot, wet trail of ownership. He nipped at the skin of her inner thigh, and she jumped, the silken bonds pulling taut. He chuckled, the sound dark and warm against her sensitive skin. “Nowhere to go.”
He buried his face between her legs without preamble. His tongue delved into her, fucking her with it, lapping at her juices with a greedy, animal hunger. She cried out, tugging instinctively at her restraints, the helpless movement only fueling her arousal. He ate her with a focused intensity, his hands holding her hips down, his stubble rough on her tender flesh.
“Please, Will,” she begged, her back arching off the bed.
“Please what?” he growled, not stopping his relentless assault.
“I need you inside me. Now.”
He lifted his head, his mouth glistening. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. He pushed in slowly, a devastating, stretching intrusion that made her whimper. With her wrists tied, she could do nothing but take it, feel every inch as he filled her completely.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start. Each thrust slammed into her, the force rocking her body against the headboard. The silk restraints bit into her wrists with every jarring movement, a sharp counterpoint to the deep, filling pleasure. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin, using her body for his own gratification.
“This is what you are,” he grunted, his pace relentless. “My perfect, tight little hole. My good girl, taking my cock so deep.”
His filthy words, combined with her absolute helplessness, shattered her. An orgasm built, faster and harder than any before, coiling in her core with terrifying force. She was sobbing, her pleas lost in the sound of skin slapping against skin.
“That’s it,” he urged, driving into her harder. “Come all over my cock. Make a mess.”
The command broke her. She came with a strangled scream, her body convulsing around him, clenching and milking his thrusting length. Feeling her climax, he lost his rhythm, his own control snapping. With a final, deep roar, he slammed into her and held, his body shuddering as he pulsed hotly inside her.
He collapsed forward, his sweaty chest heaving against her bound form. For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Slowly, gently, he leaned up and untied the silken bonds. He rubbed her wrists where the fabric had bitten in, his touch now tender.
“See?” he murmured, kissing each red mark. “I’ll always come back to undo the knots.”
He gathered her against him, and she buried her face in his neck, the lingering ache in her wrists a tangible promise. The fear was still there, a quiet hum, but it was now laced with a fierce, desperate hope. He had bound her, and in doing so, had somehow set her free from doubt. For now.