Chapter 7: Possession Awakened
The penthouse was tomb-quiet when the keycard clicked in the lock. Hande pushed the heavy door open, the fatigue of a brutal negotiation session clinging to her like a second skin. Her tailored emerald green skirt skimmed her thighs, the black silk blouse beneath her jacket clinging to curves that usually commanded attention. She’d dressed for power, for intimidation. Now, she just craved the silent sanctuary and the presence waiting within.
She dropped her briefcase and jacket carelessly onto a minimalist console, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Padding barefoot across the cool marble towards the bedroom corridor, she felt the city’s glow seep through the vast windows, painting long, distorted shadows. The door to her room stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, she froze.
Amartya wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t reading. He stood by the window, silhouetted against the Bosphorus nightscape, bathed in the soft, artificial starlight of Istanbul. He’d changed into the simple cotton trousers and t-shirt she’d had purchased for him, but the fabric seemed to strain across shoulders held with a tension she hadn’t seen before. He turned slowly as she entered.
His eyes. That’s what stopped her breath. Not the soft confusion of yesterday, not the wary exhaustion. Something darker, hotter, simmered beneath the surface. They raked over her – the short skirt, the sheer fabric of her blouse hinting at the lace beneath, the curve of her calves in her discarded heels. It wasn’t the shy glance of a friend. It was hunger. Raw, stark, and utterly unexpected.
"Amartya?" Her voice came out husky, uncertain. "I didn’t expect you to be awake." She took a hesitant step forward, the plush rug muffling her footfall. "Long day. I just needed to—"
He moved. Not the hesitant shuffle of before, but a predator’s lunge, closing the distance between them in two swift strides. Before she could gasp, his hands were on her waist, fingers digging in, lifting her clean off her feet. Her startled yelp was smothered instantly by his mouth crashing down onto hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault. A claiming. His lips were hard, demanding, forcing hers apart. His tongue plunged into her mouth, hot and insistent, tasting her surprise, her fading lipstick, the faint trace of coffee. She made a muffled sound, half-protest, half-overwhelmed gasp, her hands flying up to brace against his shoulders. The sheer violence of it, the unexpected aggression from the gentle boy, sent shockwaves through her nervous system, short-circuiting thought.
"Amartya!" she managed to gasp when he broke for air, his own breathing ragged. His eyes, inches from hers, blazed with an intensity that scorched. The careful boundaries, the unspoken rules of their lopsided dynamic, shattered in that instant.
"Shut up," he growled, the sound low and guttural, vibrating in his chest against hers. "Just... shut up." His hands slid down from her waist, over the swell of her ass in the tight green skirt, gripping hard, lifting her higher, grinding her pelvis against the sudden, undeniable hardness straining against his trousers.
He carried her backwards, not towards the bed, but slammed her against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The sprawling city lights glittered below, indifferent witnesses. The cold shock of the glass against her back made her arch, a gasp escaping as he pressed his entire body against her, pinning her. His mouth found her neck, teeth scraping, sucking hard enough to bruise, marking her. One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, exposing her throat further to his ravaging mouth. The other hand shoved impatiently up her skirt, rough fingers finding the edge of her panties.
"God, you wanted this," he panted against her damp skin, his breath hot. "All those fucking looks. All that touching." His fingers hooked into the flimsy lace, yanking her panties down her thighs in one brutal motion. They snagged around one ankle. "Pretending to be my fucking friend while you planned this." He didn’t sound angry now; he sounded feral, consumed.
His fingers didn’t hesitate. They plunged between her legs, finding her slit already slick with shocked, traitorous arousal. He didn’t stroke; he fucked her with his fingers, two thrusting deep without finesse, curling roughly against her inner walls.
"Fuck!" Hande cried out, her head thudding back against the glass. The roughness, the invasion, the sheer taboo of being taken like this against the window, ignited a wildfire in her belly she hadn’t known was possible. Her hips bucked instinctively against his hand, seeking more pressure, more of that delicious roughness. "Amartya... yes... like that..."
He grunted, a sound of pure male satisfaction, fingers pistoning harder, faster. The obscene, wet sounds filled the space between them, mingling with their ragged breathing. He added a third finger, stretching her, the slight burn only intensifying the desperate need coiling tighter and tighter inside her. He twisted his wrist, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit.
"Oh God! Fuck! Right there! Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop!" she screamed, her nails digging into the muscles of his back through the thin cotton, her body bowing off the glass. The orgasm hit her like a freight train, blinding and convulsive, tearing a raw, guttural cry from her throat. Wave after wave of pure, mindless pleasure racked her, her inner muscles clamping down violently on his relentless fingers.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, before her vision cleared, Amartya was moving. He yanked his soaked fingers free, making her whimper at the sudden emptiness. He spun her around, her breasts crushed against the cold glass, her cheek pressed to the smooth surface. He kicked her legs wider apart, the bunched panties a tether around one ankle. She heard the frantic rustle of clothing, the rasp of a zipper.
He didn't enter her slowly. He didn't ask. One hand gripped her hip, fingers biting into flesh. The other guided the thick, hot head of his cock to her drenched opening.
"Take it," he commanded, his voice ragged with need.
And he slammed into her. Hard. One brutal thrust burying himself to the hilt in her still-quivering heat.
Hande’s cry was strangled, a mix of shock and overwhelming fullness. He was big. Thicker than she’d imagined, stretching her deliciously, filling her completely. The remnants of her climax flared anew at the invasion, the perfect pressure deep inside. He didn’t give her a second to adjust. He pulled back almost to the tip, the drag exquisite torture, then plunged forward again with a force that rocked her whole body against the unforgiving glass. Again. And again. Setting a punishing, relentless rhythm.
"Fuck! Fuck, yes! Harder!" she gasped, pushing back against him, meeting each savage thrust. The view of the city swam and blurred. All that existed was the slam of his hips against her ass, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the guttural sounds ripping from his throat, the feel of him pistoning into her core. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her in place, using her body for his own furious release. She felt the corded strength in his arms, his back, the power in his young body unleashed.
He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth hot on her shoulder. "You like that, you filthy cunt?" he snarled, punctuating each word with a driving thrust that stole her breath. "Like being fucked like a whore against the window? Like everyone seeing?"
"Yes! God, yes! Fuck me! Use me! Harder, Amartya, fuck me harder!" The degradation, the raw ownership in his words, in his possession of her body, sent another, deeper orgasm tearing through her, sharper than the first. She screamed, her inner walls clamping down on his cock in a pulsing vice.
His rhythm faltered, stuttered. A harsh groan ripped from his chest, primal and uncontrolled. He buried himself impossibly deep, his body locking against hers, shuddering violently. She felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release jetting deep inside her, filling her in thick, spurting waves. He held her there, impaled, grinding his hips erratically as the last tremors wracked him, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her neck.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by their desperate breathing and the distant hum of the city far below. The cold glass leached the heat from her cheek. Amartya’s weight pressed her flat. His softening cock still twitched inside her, a visceral reminder. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A warm trickle of their combined release slid down her inner thigh.
He stepped back. Hande braced her hands on the cool glass, trembling, legs shaking. She turned slowly, leaning back against the window for support. Her skirt was rucked up around her waist, her blouse torn open, breasts heaving. She looked utterly ravaged.
Amartya stood a few feet away, hastily tucking himself back into his trousers, avoiding her eyes. His face was flushed, hair sweat-damp and tousled. The ferocity had vanished, replaced by a dazed confusion, a flicker of something that might have been shame. He looked young again. Vulnerable. Utterly lost.
Hande pushed off the glass. Her legs nearly buckled, but she forced strength into them. She took a step towards him, her gaze burning with a fierce, possessive triumph that eclipsed any lingering shock. She reached out, her hand trembling only slightly, and cupped his cheek. His eyes finally met hers, wide and uncertain.
She smiled. Slow, satisfied, utterly feline. Her thumb brushed his lower lip, tasting the salt of her own skin.
"Mine," she whispered, the word a vow, low and dangerous. "Now you understand."