Chapter 3: Possession
The city lights painted shifting patterns across Colson's back as his weight pinned her hips deep into the mattress. One hand still clamped her wrists above her head, the grip unyielding against the silk sheets. Whitney turned her face, strands of dark hair plastered to her damp cheek, finding his eyes in the dimness. They were dark pools, intense, almost feral, reflecting the distant electric glow. Her voice came out a ragged whisper, barely audible over their harsh breathing and the relentless, wet slap of his thrusts. "Are you sure?" The question hung between them, fragile as glass.
He didn't pause. He drove himself deeper, forcing a choked gasp from her lips, the thick length of him stretching her unbearably, hitting a place that felt like it scraped her soul. "Never been surer," he growled, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into hers. His teeth found the curve of her collarbone, not gently, not playfully. A sharp, claiming bite that made her cry out, a sound swallowed instantly by his mouth crashing down on hers. His kiss was demanding, tasting of sweat and salt and her own arousal, silencing any further questions.
His hips snapped in a punishing rhythm, no finesse, only raw, animal need. Each deep plunge pushed the breath from her lungs, each withdrawal left her achingly empty for a split second before he filled her again, harder, deeper. The earlier tenderness, the worship, was obliterated. This was possession. Marking. A primal assertion fueled by her desperate revelation and the potent reality of his release already deep inside her.
His grip on her wrists tightened, grinding the delicate bones. "Mine," he snarled against her lips, breaking the kiss only to bury his face in her neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks Whitney knew would bloom purple by morning. "All fuckin' mine. Gonna keep you full. Keep you bred." The words were crude, harsh, yet they ignited a terrifying spark low in her belly, a counterpoint to the soreness and the shreds of panic. Her body, traitorously, arched into his brutal strokes, seeking the brutal friction, the overwhelming fullness that bordered on pain.
He released her wrists, his hands sliding down her arms, over the swell of her breasts, rough palms scraping her nipples. They closed over her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, controlling the angle, lifting her slightly to drive himself impossibly deeper. She felt stretched beyond capacity, penetrated to her core, the distinct pressure of him pushing through her cervix with each powerful thrust. A ragged sob escaped her, lost in the symphony of their desperate sounds – his guttural groans, her high, broken whimpers, the rhythmic squeak of the mattress.
"Feel it?" he demanded, his voice thick, strained. "Feel me fucking my seed back into you? Plantin' it deep?" He slammed home, grinding against her, holding himself there. "That’s where it belongs. Inside you. Makin’ my baby."
The explicit declaration, the sheer biological finality of it, crashed over her. A fresh wave of fear warred with a dark, undeniable thrill. She couldn’t speak. Could only gasp, her fingernails raking down his sweat-slicked back, finding purchase in the valleys between ink. His skin was hot as a furnace, muscles corded like steel cables beneath her touch. He began moving again, a relentless piston, chasing his own peak with ferocious intensity.
His pace became erratic, frantic. He pulled her hips up higher, changing the angle, burying himself with savage, deep lunges that stole her breath. His control shattered completely. "Fuck! Whitney! Gonna—" The roar tore from him, raw and primitive. He crushed her into the mattress, his entire body locking, vibrating. She felt the hot, thick pulses deep inside her womb, more potent this time with the terrifying knowledge of their purpose. He held himself buried to the hilt, grinding, riding out the shudders that wracked his frame, emptying himself into her with possessive finality.
He collapsed heavily atop her, his weight a suffocating blanket of heat and sweat and spent passion. His breath came in ragged gasps against her neck. Beneath him, Whitney felt utterly pinned, utterly claimed. The ache between her legs was profound, a deep, throbbing reminder of the brutality, mixed with the lingering, slick warmth of his cum deep inside. The scent of sex and exertion hung heavy in the air, thick and musky. Her mind whirled – fear, exhaustion, a strange, unsettling awe at the sheer force of his possession.
Slowly, his breathing began to even out. He shifted his weight slightly, easing the crushing pressure, but didn't pull out. His fingers, surprisingly gentle now, traced the fresh bite mark on her collarbone. A low hum vibrated in his chest, almost a purr. "Fuck," he breathed, voice rough but softer. "Marked you good, baby." He pressed a kiss, startlingly tender, against the bruised skin. "My wife."
He lifted his head then, searching her face in the dim light. The feral intensity had receded, replaced by a smoldering satisfaction, but also a flicker of something else – a watchfulness. He saw the tear tracks cutting through the sweat on her temples, the swollen redness of her lips, the wide, dazed look in her blue eyes. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, catching a fresh tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
"Too much?" The question was low, stripped of its earlier growl. It sounded almost hesitant. His gaze dropped to the angry red bite on her shoulder, then back to her eyes. A shadow crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of something like regret or surprise at his own ferocity. He started to pull away, his softening cock slipping free from her sore flesh with a slick sound that echoed in the sudden quiet. A fresh rush of warmth followed, tracing a path down her inner thigh.
But before he could retreat further, her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his bicep. Her grip was weak, trembling, but it stopped him. Her voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper, thick with tears and exhaustion, yet carrying an unexpected, raw hunger. "Don't stop touching me."
Colson’s eyes, dark and intense, flickered with surprise at her plea, then ignited with renewed heat. He didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, his powerful arms slid beneath her sweat-slicked back and knees, lifting her effortlessly from the tangled sheets. Whitney gasped, clinging to his neck, her body aching yet humming with residual need. "Touch me," she breathed against his throat, her voice ragged, desperate. "Please, Colson... just keep touching me."
He carried her through the dim penthouse, her legs dangling, her cheek pressed against the intricate ink covering his shoulder. The cool air of the hallway kissed her overheated skin, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body. He nudged the bathroom door open with his foot, the bright light momentarily blinding after the bedroom’s gloom. Setting her down gently on the plush bathmat, he reached past her, twisting the chrome shower knobs. A hiss filled the air, then the roar of water hitting marble tiles.
Steam began to curl upwards almost instantly, warm and thick. Before Whitney could fully register the shift, Colson’s hands were on her waist again. He lifted her, turning her, and deposited her firmly onto the cool, smooth expanse of the marble countertop beside the sink. Her bare skin met the stone with a gasp. The steam thickened rapidly, fogging the large mirrors above the sink, blurring their reflections into ghostly shapes.
He stepped between her thighs, forcing them wider, his hands rough on her hips. He leaned in, his wet lips finding the pulse hammering in her throat. "Tell me," he rasped, the sound vibrating against her damp skin, his breath hot in the humid air. "Tell me you want my baby, Whitney." His teeth grazed her collarbone, near the fresh bite mark.
The demand, raw and primal, sent a jolt straight through her core. The ache between her legs flared anew, sharp and undeniable. "Yes," she moaned, the sound escaping her lips, loud and clear, bouncing off the gleaming tiles. "God, yes, Colson... yours."
Her affirmation was all he needed. His hand slid down, fingers slick from her own wetness and his earlier release still coating her thighs. He guided himself, thick and hard again, pressing against her swollen entrance. With a low groan, he pushed forward, seating himself inside her with one deep, claiming thrust. Her cry mingled with the shower’s roar. Her legs instantly locked around his tattooed hips, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him impossibly deeper onto the countertop.
He braced his hands on the marble beside her hips, driving into her with short, powerful strokes. The counter’s edge dug into her back, a counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness. "Fuck, you take it so good," he growled, his hips snapping against hers. After a few relentless moments, his hands slid under her ass, lifting her off the cool stone entirely. He carried her the few steps to the nearest wall, her back meeting the smooth, cool tile, a shock against her heated skin.
He pinned her there, her legs still wrapped tightly around him, her feet braced against the wall. The steam enveloped them, hot and thick, making it hard to breathe. He adjusted his grip, holding her weight effortlessly, and thrust upwards, the angle brutal, hitting that deep, sensitive spot with unerring precision. Whitney’s head thumped back against the tile, a wordless cry tearing from her throat. "Hold on," he commanded, his voice rough with strain.
He carried her the final steps into the shower’s downpour. Warm water cascaded over them instantly, plastering her dark hair to her face and shoulders, streaming down his chest and back. He pressed her back against the wet, slippery tiles once more. Then, bracing one forearm above her head against the wall, he hooked his other arm under her thigh, hiking her leg higher. He drove into her with punishing force, the water sluicing over their joined bodies, the sound of his hips slapping against her wet flesh echoing loudly within the tiled enclosure. Each deep, powerful thrust pushed her up the slick wall, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, on the tile.
Each deep, powerful thrust pushed her up the slick wall, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, on the tile. Water streamed into her eyes, blurring his face. "Colson!" Her cry was swallowed by the shower’s roar and his low groan vibrating against her collarbone where he bit, hard. His grip on her thigh tightened, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh as he drove upwards, hitting that spot relentlessly. The relentless pace stole her breath, left her gasping against the wet tile.
He slowed for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged. His eyes, dark and intense even through the steam, locked onto hers. "Whit," he gasped, his voice raw, barely audible over the water. "Listen." The command was urgent, strained. His hips rolled against her, a slow, deep grind that made her whimper. "Always meant to tell you... fuck..." He buried his face in her neck, his lips moving against her wet skin.
His next words weren't shouted; they were a whisper, forced out between thrusts that resumed, sharp and deep. "That first show you came to... Salt Lake." He lifted his head, water sluicing down his face. His eyes burned into hers. "Saw you in the crowd... front fuckin' row." A hard snap of his hips punctuated the memory. "Smiling like sunshine in that sea of black." His thumb brushed her cheekbone, a startlingly tender gesture against the brutal rhythm. "Knew then."
"Knew what?" she choked out, her body arching into his, craving the pressure, the words hooking deep.
He thrust harder, pinning her fully. "Knew I'd marry you," he rasped against her lips. "Right fuckin' there." The confession hung, stark and unbelievable, as his mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was possessive, drowning out the water, confirming the truth in the desperate slide of his tongue. He broke away, panting. "Felt insane. Dangerous. But fuck..." He drove into her, filling her impossibly. "Never been so sure of anything."
Another secret tumbled out, low and rough against her ear as he pounded into her. "Almost blew it. That fight... after the Grammys." His movements became frantic, less controlled. "When I walked out? Fuck..." He bit her shoulder again, a sharp punctuation. "Sat in the fuckin' limo... shaking. Thought I'd lost you." His voice cracked. "Panic attack. Full fuckin' meltdown."
"Colson..." she breathed, stunned, her fingers tightening in his wet hair. The memory of that night – his cold anger, her tears – clashed violently with the desperate intimacy of this moment, with this raw vulnerability pouring out of him mid-thrust.
"Couldn't breathe," he gasped, his rhythm faltering for a second, his eyes wide, haunted, even as his body strained against hers. "Just kept seeing your face... that look." His grip on her leg became almost painful. "Promised myself... never let you go. Never fuck up that bad again." He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt, holding deep. "Need you, Whit. Need this." His voice dropped to a guttural whisper. "Need you carrying my kid."
The raw need in the confession, coupled with the searing fullness, ignited her. Her climax hit suddenly, violently, ripping through her with a force that tore a ragged scream from her throat. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically, pulling him deeper. Her head slammed back against the tile, vision whiting out amidst the steam.
Her cries, the frantic pulsing of her body around him, shattered his control. "Fuck! Yes! Take it!" he roared, the sound echoing off the tiles. His hips snapped erratically, his own release triggering deep inside her womb, hot pulses joining what was already there. He crushed her against the wall, shuddering, his body locked as he emptied himself with possessive groans. Water poured over them, washing nothing away.
He slumped against her, forehead resting on her shoulder, breathing in harsh, uneven gasps that fogged her wet skin. His arms trembled where they braced her. The only sounds were the relentless shower, their labored breathing, and the slick drip of water hitting the floor. He didn't move, his softening cock still nestled deep within her, the weight of him and his confessions pressing her into the cool tile. Her body sang with aftershocks and a profound, trembling exhaustion. His fingers traced a shaky path up her side, coming to rest just below the curve of her breast. "Still mine?" he murmured, the question rough, vulnerable, echoing his earlier declaration.
Whitney’s fingers tightened in his wet hair, pulling his face closer. Her voice, thick with exhaustion and something fiercer, scraped against the humid air. "Always yours," she breathed, the steam clinging to her eyelashes. "Since Salt Lake. Front fucking row." A shaky laugh escaped her. "Cleaned out my savings for that ticket."
His thumb traced slow circles on her slick hipbone, his gaze locked on hers, intense and waiting. "Every song," she whispered, her blue eyes holding his, raw and open. "Every damn love song... felt like you were singing it straight to me." She swallowed, the memory tightening her throat. "Especially 'Cliche'." Her fingers brushed the damp ink swirling over his shoulder blade. "You sang it to me. Right there. Eyes locked."
The water drummed against their tangled legs. "Then you kissed me," she murmured, her voice dropping low. "After the encore. Sweaty and wild." Her thumb traced his lower lip. "That’s when I knew. Knew I was wrecked." She leaned her forehead against his, the tile cool against her back. "Completely yours."
A tremor ran through him. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The silence stretched, filled only by the shower’s hiss. Then her voice cracked, thin and brittle. "After the Grammys..." She faltered, burying her face against his neck. His skin tasted of salt and rainwater. "When you walked out..." Her breath hitched. "It felt like... ice. Inside my chest."
He went utterly still. His hand slid up her spine, pressing her closer. "Couldn't stop crying," she confessed, the words muffled against his skin. "Just... shattered. On the bathroom floor." Her fingers dug into his back. "Cold tiles. Cold everywhere." A shudder wracked her. "Cried until... nothing left. Passed out right there." She lifted her head, her eyes glistening, reflecting the harsh bathroom light. "Woke up freezing. Alone."
Colson’s breath stopped. His eyes, dark pools reflecting the steam and her pain, searched hers. The raw vulnerability in her confession slammed into him harder than any physical blow. He saw it again – the slammed door, her devastated face frozen in the limo window, the suffocating panic that had gripped him later. He hadn't known. Hadn't imagined this. The image of her crumpled, crying herself unconscious on cold tile, alone... it carved something deep inside him.
His arms tightened convulsively, crushing her against his chest. His face pressed into the wet curve of her neck and shoulder. A low, wounded sound escaped him, vibrating against her skin – part groan, part sob. "Fuck," he choked out, the word ragged. "Whit... fuck." His hands moved over her back, frantic, possessive strokes, as if trying to erase the memory, to shield her. "Didn't know," he rasped, his lips moving against her damp skin. "Didn't know it was like that."
He pulled back just enough to cup her face, his thumbs wiping fiercely at the tears tracking down her cheeks, mingling with the shower spray. His own eyes were suspiciously bright. "Never again," he vowed, the words rough gravel, absolute. "Never leave you like that. Never let you feel cold." He kissed her forehead, hard. "Never alone." His gaze burned into hers, fierce, protective, haunted by the image she’d painted. "Promise you, baby." His thumb brushed her trembling lip. "Promise."
The steam thickened, cocooning them in its warm, wet embrace. Water streamed down Colson’s face, dripping from his jaw onto her collarbone as he held her gaze, his promise hanging heavy in the humid air. His thumbs kept brushing her cheeks, wiping away tears indistinguishable from the shower spray. Slowly, the fierce intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a profound tenderness that made her breath catch.
She leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips. A small, tremulous smile touched her mouth as she pulled back slightly. Gently, she rubbed her nose against his, a soft, intimate gesture that felt achingly familiar. "Remember?" she whispered, her voice thick with the memory surfacing through the steam and the lingering ache of their earlier confessions. "That morning? After you walked out?"
His brow furrowed slightly, searching her face, the water plastering dark strands of hair to his temples. He nodded slowly, his hands settling more firmly on her hips, anchoring her against the slick tile. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I remember."
"I was making dinner," she continued, her gaze drifting past his shoulder, seeing the memory unfold in the swirling mist. "In the crockpot." A shaky laugh escaped her. "Throwing stuff in. Chicken, broth, whatever was in the fridge. Fighting tears the whole time." Her fingers traced the intricate lines of ink on his damp shoulder. "Just… hoping. Praying. That you’d come back. That you’d walk through that door."
She paused, swallowing hard. The specifics of the fight felt blurred now, lost in the haze of hurt that followed the Grammys. "Couldn’t even remember exactly why we were screaming at each other," she admitted, her voice dropping lower. "Just knew it was ugly. Knew it felt… final." Her blue eyes met his again, searching. "Something about Megan. Saga. Old wounds." She shook her head slightly, water droplets flying. "Doesn’t matter now. What mattered was the door opening."
A soft sigh escaped her. "And there you were." Her thumb brushed his lower lip. "Standing in the hallway. Looking… wrecked. But sober." Her voice cracked with the sheer relief of that memory. "Completely sober. You didn’t risk it." She searched his eyes, needing confirmation. "Do you remember? How I reacted?"
Colson’s gaze never wavered. He saw it again: the dim hallway light, the tentative way he’d pushed the door open, the crushing weight of his own fear. He saw her: frozen by the counter, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand like a weapon, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed and impossibly wide. The raw vulnerability etched there had stopped him cold.
"Yeah," he breathed, his voice rough with shared recollection. His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer until their foreheads touched. Water streamed between them. "You dropped the spoon." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Clattered on the floor. Loud." He remembered the sound echoing in the sudden silence. "Just stared at me. Like you couldn’t believe I was real."
Whitney nodded, a fresh tear escaping, instantly washed away. "Then I ran," she whispered. "Just… launched myself at you." She buried her face against his wet neck, her arms tightening around him. "Almost knocked you over. Held on so tight." Her voice was muffled against his skin. "Couldn't let go. Didn't say anything. Just… held on."
He remembered the impact, the desperate strength in her grip, the way her body shook against his. The silent, fierce clinging that spoke louder than any apology. He’d wrapped his arms around her just as tightly, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, of home, feeling the jagged pieces of himself start to settle. "Held on right back," he murmured into her hair, his own arms tightening possessively around her waist. "Didn't say anything either." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Didn't need to."
They stood like that for long moments in the downpour, the hot water sluicing over them, washing away the sweat, the tears, the lingering ghosts of that terrible fight. The steam wrapped them in a private world where only the drumming water and their synchronized breathing existed. The raw intensity of their earlier coupling had faded into this profound, quiet closeness, forged in shared vulnerability and the memory of a desperate reunion.
Colson shifted slightly, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, her body molding to his. He turned them slowly under the spray, letting the water cascade over her back. His lips found hers, not demanding, but seeking, reaffirming. The kiss was slow, deep, tasting of salt and forgiveness and a promise renewed. When he finally pulled back, his eyes held a quiet certainty, a fierce protectiveness that hadn't been there before.
"Never leaving," he stated, the words simple, absolute. His thumbs traced circles on her wet skin beneath the curve of her hips. "Never letting you feel cold again." He kissed her forehead, then each eyelid, his touch reverent. "Always sober when I come home to you." His gaze dropped to her stomach, then back to her eyes, a question hanging unspoken but understood.
Whitney smiled, a real smile this time, warm and bright despite her exhaustion. She leaned in, kissing him softly once more. Her hand drifted down, resting lightly over her lower belly, over the place where his seed pulsed deep within her. "Always yours," she whispered, echoing his earlier vow, her blue eyes holding his with unwavering trust. "Always home." Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulders. "Now take me back to bed, husband. Before I dissolve."