Chapter 13: Balcony to Shower Ecstasy
The buzzing phone was a dying insect on the carpet. Cameron lay atop Bayley, their sweat cooling in the suite’s sterile air, the echo of her whispered “Nobody fucks me like that” still hanging between them. Her fingers had stilled on his shoulder.
He knew, without looking, who it was. The insistence of the vibrations spoke of a will not to be ignored.
Bayley let out a soft, knowing sigh beneath him. Her body, so pliant and soft moments before, held a new tension. “You should go,” she murmured, but her arms tightened around his back, a conflicting signal. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t like to wait.”
He pushed himself up, his body separating from hers with a soft, wet sound. The air felt cold on his skin. He found his phone amidst the crumpled fabric. The screen showed seven consecutive messages from Rhea, all previews, all variations on a theme:
Where are you.
Get up here.
Now.
Don’t make me come find you.
Bayley watched him from the wreckage of the bed, the torn shirt gaping open, her expression unreadable. “Penthouse. Top floor. She’ll have left the door open.”
He dressed in silence, the simple act feeling monumental. Bayley didn’t move, just watched him with those dark, knowing eyes. As he turned to leave, she spoke again, her voice quiet. “What you did here… that was for me. Don’t take it to her. She needs something else.”
He paused at the door, looking back at her. She’d pulled the duvet over herself, a cocoon of satin and sin. He gave a single, small nod, then stepped out into the cool, silent corridor.
The elevator to the penthouse was a capsule of polished brass and soft music. His reflection was blurred at the edges, a man who had just come from one woman’s bed, heading straight for another’s, bearing the marks of both. The doors slid open directly into the foyer of Rhea’s suite.
It was vast, a study in monochrome and money. The entire far wall was glass, a panoramic heart attack of Vegas light. She stood before it, a silhouette against the electric chaos, wearing only a pair of black bikini briefs. Her back was to him, the intricate tapestry of her tattoos a dark story written across pale, powerful muscle. She held a tumbler of something amber in one hand.
“You smell like her,” Rhea said, her voice flat, not turning around. “Jasmine and vodka and fucked-out cunt.”
He didn’t apologize. He walked further into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick rug. “You summoned.”
Finally, she turned. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned him from head to toe, lingering on the fresh scratches on his neck from Bayley’s earlier frenzy. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. “She had her fun.” She took a sip from her glass. “But I own the fun.”
She put the glass down on a low, black stone table with a definitive click. “Come here.”
He closed the distance between them. Up close, he could see the faint, pale lines of old scars lacing her shoulders, the tight coil of energy in her frame. She radiated a controlled ferocity that was the polar opposite of Bayley’s surrendered need.
“I told you to break Tiffany,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “And you did. Beautifully.” Her hand came up, not to touch him, but to gesture vaguely at the city behind her. “I watched you take Bayley in her room. The security feed on my TV. The audio was off. Just silent, beautiful violence through a fisheye lens.” Her smile widened, showing teeth. “But that’s not what I want tonight.”
“What do you want?” His own voice surprised him, calm, steady.
Her confidence seemed to flicker, just for a microsecond. It wasn’t uncertainty, but a shift in the current. The Dominant was still there, but her needs had changed shape. “I want you to make me feel small,” she said, the admission seeming to cost her. She swallowed. “Not with your hands. Not with pain. I want you to… fucking consume me. I want to forget who I am.”
He understood then. Bayley’s final words echoed. She needs something else. The conqueror needed to be conquered, not in battle, but in surrender.
He didn’t speak. He reached for her, his movements deliberate, slow. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing the sharp line of her jaw. He saw her breath catch, her eyes flutter shut for a second before snapping open again, defiant even now.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t the biting, claiming kiss from the shower with Tiffany. It was deep, explorative, a tasting. He poured every ounce of the intensity he’d unleashed on Bayley into this single, tender act. Her lips parted under his, and a shudder ran through her entire body. Her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, came up to clutch at his waist.
When he broke the kiss, her eyes were wide, her fierce composure cracked. “Okay,” she breathed, the word a surrender.
He guided her back, away from the window, towards a wide, low-slung sectional sofa. He sat, pulling her down to straddle his lap. She went easily, her thick, powerful thighs framing his hips. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the column of her throat, kissing, licking, nipping softly at the sensitive skin. Her head fell back, a low groan escaping her.
He gripped the sides of her briefs and peeled them down her legs, the action slow, worshipful. She kicked them off, now naked before him. His hands came up to her full, heavy breasts. He took their weight, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were pebbled hard points.
“These are mine,” he whispered against her skin, his voice thick.
“Yours,” she echoed, the word a prayer.
He leaned forward, taking one stiff peak into his mouth. He didn’t suckle roughly; he lavished it with attention, his tongue swirling, flicking, drawing soft, shuddering gasps from her. His hands moved to her back, holding her close, feeling the powerful muscles of her latissimus shift and tense under his palms as she arched into his mouth.
He switched to her other breast, giving it the same devoted, thorough attention. She was trembling above him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips making small, unconscious circles against the hard ridge in his jeans.
After a long moment, he pulled back. “Turn around,” he said softly.
A flicker of confusion in her glazed eyes, but she obeyed, shifting on his lap so her back was to his chest. He guided her to lean forward, bracing her hands on the sofa back. Her ass, full and perfect, was presented to him. He ran his hands over the sculpted globes, squeezing, kneading.
He didn’t ask. He spit into his palm, slicking himself. He guided the head of his cock to her other entrance, tight and unyielding. He pressed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion.
Rhea cried out, a sharp, shocked sound that melted into a long, desperate moan. Her knuckles turned white where she gripped the sofa. “Oh fuck… oh god, Cameron…”
He sank into her, inch by devastating inch, letting her body stretch to accommodate him. When he was fully sheathed, he held himself there, her back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her torso, his hands cupping her breasts. He could feel her heart hammering against his forearm.
“You’re so tight,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a low rumble she felt through her bones. “So perfect for me.”
He began to move. Not the brutal, piston-like fucking from the balcony in her fantasy, but deep, measured, rolling strokes. Each thrust was a claiming, a possession that went beyond skin. She was completely submissive to it, her body moving with his, her head lolling back against his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Yes…” she chanted, her voice broken. “Yes… just like that… fuck, it’s so deep…”
The position allowed him a penetration that seemed to touch her very core. He could feel the internal clench of her around him with each stroke, a rhythmic milking that threatened his control. He kept the pace steady, worshipping her with his body, filling her completely with every push.
Her orgasm built not as a sudden explosion, but as a rising tide. Her breathing became ragged, hiccupping sobs. Her inner muscles began to flutter wildly around him.
“I’m gonna come…” she whimpered, her tough-girl persona utterly dissolved. “Please… don’t stop…”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his own voice tight with strain.
It broke her. Her body convulsed, a series of violent, shuddering waves that clenched around his cock like a vise. She screamed, a raw, unchecked sound of pure ecstasy that echoed off the penthouse windows. He held her through it, his thrusts gentling but not stopping, prolonging the sensations until she was a boneless, trembling weight in his arms.
As her shudders subsided, he slowly pulled out. He turned her in his lap, her body limp and compliant. Her eyes were unfocused, glassy with spent pleasure. He brought his fingers, wet from her and himself, to her lips.
“Taste it,” he whispered.
She opened her mouth without hesitation, sucking his fingers clean, her tongue swirling around them, her eyes locked on his. The act was more intimate than anything that had come before.
He stood then, lifting her easily into his arms. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck, as he carried her across the sprawling suite, past the dark bedroom, and into the expansive bathroom. The shower was a glass-walled rainforest. He turned it on, and steam began to billow.
He stepped under the hot, cascading water with her still in his arms, pressing her back against the cool, fogging glass. The water sluiced over them, washing away sweat and evidence. He kissed her again, a deep, soul-searching kiss as the steam enveloped them.
He entered her again, here. This time, face to face, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back against the glass. The pace was different now, a slow, grinding, intimate rock. Their eyes were open, locked. The world beyond the fogged glass didn’t exist.
He moved inside her, a gentle, deep rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. She was crying openly now, tears mingling with the shower spray on her cheeks.
“Cameron…” she sobbed, her arms tight around his neck.
“Tell me,” he breathed against her lips, his thrusts never ceasing, each one a deliberate stroke against a place deep within her that made her gasp.
The confession spilled from her, broken and true, punctuated by the relentless, loving drive of his hips. “I’m yours… I’m yours forever… I… fuck… I love you… I love you so much it fucking terrifies me…”
Her words triggered her second climax, this one even more powerful than the first. It was a sob of release, a physical unclenching of her very spirit. Her body bowed, her scream was swallowed by his mouth, and she clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
He followed her over, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that felt like a surrender in return. They stood there under the pounding water, locked together, trembling, for a long time.
When he finally lifted his head, her eyes were clear. The defiance, the hardness, was gone. In its place was a vulnerable, staggering truth. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him, her confession hanging in the steam between them, more binding than any command she had ever given.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and the distant hum of the city below, a world away. He reached for a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders, then one for himself.
He led her, quiet and pliant, to the vast bed. She crawled into the center, and he followed, pulling the black sheets over them. She curled into his side, her head on his chest, one hand splayed over his heart. Her breathing slowed, deepened.
Just before sleep took her, she spoke once more, her voice slurred with exhaustion and absolute certainty.
“You’re mine too.”