Chapter 4: Dawn Claiming
The deep, warm ache between Whitney’s legs was the first thing she registered. Then the solid, heavy warmth pressed against her back. Colson. His arm was draped possessively over her waist, hand splayed low on her stomach. His even breaths stirred the hair at her nape. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline was just beginning to bleed color – streaks of molten gold and soft peach painting the glass, chasing away the inky blues of night. The faint scent of sex and sweat lingered beneath the cleaner notes of the penthouse’s flowers.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the hand on her stomach began to move. Not away, but down. Fingers traced the curve of her hip, dipped into the crease of her thigh. A low hum vibrated against her back, resonating deep in his chest. He shifted, his hips nudging forward, and she felt him, thick and already hardening, pressing against the swell of her buttock. He was still nestled close from the night, the heat between them palpable even through the thin barrier of drowsiness.
"Morning, Mrs. Baker," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, lips brushing the sensitive skin behind her ear. His hand slid back up, not to her stomach, but higher, cupping the full weight of her breast, his thumb finding her nipple with unerring accuracy. It stiffened instantly under his touch, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core, waking her body completely.
She arched her back slightly, pressing into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "Mmm. Morning." Her voice was husky, still tangled in dreams.
His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He hooked his leg over hers, opening her. She felt the blunt head of him nudge against her entrance, slick and ready even after the intensity of the night. He slid in with one slow, deliberate push, filling her completely, a low groan rumbling from his chest into her back. It wasn't the frantic pounding of earlier, nor the desperate claiming against the shower tiles. This was deep, measured, almost reverent. He stayed buried for a long moment, simply holding her, feeling her adjust, the intimacy of it stealing her breath.
Then he began to move. Slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling back almost entirely before sinking home again with that same unhurried certainty. Each stroke was a languid exploration, a rediscovery. His hand left her breast, sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip again, and then lower, tracing the seam where their bodies joined before his fingers found her clit. His touch there was feather-light, circling with maddening slowness, perfectly synced with the deep, rhythmic push of his hips.
"God, Whit," he breathed, his lips tracing the line of her shoulder, teeth grazing lightly. "Feels like home. Right here." He thrust deeper, grinding slightly. "Feels perfect."
She gasped, her hand reaching back to grip his thigh, needing an anchor. The dual sensation was overwhelming – the profound fullness inside her and the delicate friction building heat low in her belly. Her body pulsed around him, clenching helplessly. "Colson..."
He increased the pressure of his circling fingers, just a fraction. "Just feel it, baby," he murmured against her skin. "Just feel me." His hips continued their deep, steady rhythm, each inward stroke deliberate, possessive. "Gonna stay like this all day. Keep you filled." He nipped her earlobe. "Gonna make sure it takes."
The words, whispered with such focused intensity against the backdrop of the golden dawn, sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through her. She tightened around him involuntarily, a soft cry catching in her throat. He groaned in response, his thrusts deepening fractionally.
"Make sure you're pregnant after this honeymoon," he continued, his voice low and rough, laced with a possessiveness that thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. His hand slid back up to cradle her lower belly, pressing gently as he pushed deep inside. "Right here. My baby growing right here." He kissed the nape of her neck, a soft contrast to the raw claim in his words. "What will people say, baby?" There was a hint of dark amusement in his tone, a challenge almost. "When they see my wife glowing? Carrying my kid?"
The image, combined with the relentless, deep pressure of him inside her and the skilled touch of his fingers, shattered her last shred of control. She cried out, her body arching, clenching around him in fierce, rhythmic pulses as the orgasm tore through her, bright and consuming against the dawn light. She felt him pulse in response, his own groan sharp against her skin as he pressed impossibly deeper, holding himself there, grinding as he emptied himself with hot, possessive spurts.
They lay tangled, breathing raggedly, the only sounds their harsh breaths and the distant hum of the waking city below. The golden light painted stripes across the rumpled silk sheets. He softened inside her but made no move to withdraw, his arm a heavy, comforting weight across her middle, his hand still splayed over her lower belly. He nuzzled her neck.
"Fuck," he breathed, a satisfied rumble. "Good morning."
She laughed, a breathless, shaky sound, turning her head to find his lips. "Definitely beats coffee." Her kiss was slow, tasting of sleep and him. She shifted slightly, wincing as sore muscles protested. "Oof. Feels like I ran a marathon. Yesterday and last night."
He chuckled, a low vibration she felt through her whole body. His hand slid down, giving her ass a playful, possessive squeeze. "My bad. Got carried away." He kissed her temple. "Worth it?"
She turned fully in his arms then, facing him, her blue eyes meeting his dark, satiated gaze. The city light gilded his tattooed skin, highlighting the sharp planes of his face. She traced the edge of a black ink design on his chest. "Always worth it." She smiled, a genuine, warm curve of her lips. "Even if I might need a wheelchair for the flight home."
He grinned, that sharp, boyish grin that still made her stomach flip. "Nah. Got you." He pulled her closer. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping back to that low, intimate rumble, his hand drifting back to rest low on her spine, pulling her hips flush against his again. "Day's young. Gotta make sure the message sticks." He rolled his hips suggestively against hers, already hardening again.
Whitney groaned theatrically, burying her face in his neck, but the shiver that ran through her wasn't from dread. "You're insatiable."
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Got a lifetime to make up for, Mrs. Baker." He kissed the top of her head. "Starting now." He shifted, rolling her gently onto her back, his body covering hers, blocking the dazzling sunrise as he dipped his head to capture her lips again. The city below began its day, oblivious to the slow, tender claiming unfolding high above in the golden light.
The city below began its day, oblivious to the slow, tender claiming unfolding high above in the golden light. Colson’s slow, deep rhythm continued, an unhurried exploration that felt less like urgency and more like a declaration written on her skin. Whitney arched into him, her body responding instinctively, the soreness a familiar, almost welcome counterpoint to the building warmth. "Still trying to make that message stick, Mr. Baker?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and desire, her fingers tracing the intricate ink swirling across his shoulder blade.
"Just ensuring quality control," he rumbled against her neck, his teeth scraping lightly, possessively. His thrusts remained deliberate, each one a measured press deep into her core. "Gotta maintain standards." He chuckled, the low sound vibrating against her back. "Especially after that shower wall incident. Nearly cracked the damn tile."
She laughed, a breathy sound lost against the pillow. "You’re ridiculous." The intimacy was profound, a quiet cocoon woven from shared breath, sweat, and the rhythmic slide of their bodies. The golden light warmed her skin where it touched, contrasting with the cool silk beneath them. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and the next slow drive hit a spot that made her gasp, her fingers clenching on his forearm. "God, Colson... right there."
His answering groan was pure satisfaction. He focused on that angle, the deep, grinding pressure becoming the entire universe. "Yeah," he breathed, his voice rough. "Feel it. That’s where I want it to take root, Whit." He kissed the shell of her ear. "Deep inside, where you’re warmest." His hand slid down, fingers splaying possessively over her lower belly again. "Mine."
The possessiveness, the sheer biological focus of his words combined with the relentless pressure, shattered her slowly this time. Pleasure built in deep, molten waves, cresting without the frantic peak of earlier, leaving her trembling and breathless against him. He followed her over, his groan muffled against her shoulder, his body locking as he pulsed deep inside, another hot claim laid in her depths. They lay tangled, breathing heavily, the city’s hum a distant soundtrack. "Okay," he murmured eventually, kissing her temple. "Now we can think about coffee."
The weekend blurred into a haze of skin, sweat, and the constant, low hum of shared need. Leaving the penthouse bed felt like betrayal, a sentiment Colson voiced frequently. "Why go out?" he’d grumble, nuzzling her neck, already hardening again against her thigh. "They have room service. We have privacy." He’d kiss her protestations away, his hands already mapping familiar territory. Their time was stolen, squeezed between tour rehearsals buzzing on Colson’s phone and Whitney prepping her online literature modules. Every moment not spent sleeping or on obligations was spent tangled. He kept her filled, a near-constant presence, a low thrumming reminder of his intent.
Whitney occasionally won the argument to see more than the hotel suite. "Sunlight, Colson," she’d insist, pulling on leggings. "Vitamin D. Remember?" He’d watch her dress, eyes dark and hungry. "Fine," he’d concede, a slow grin spreading. "But you gotta wear it." He’d produce the smooth, silicone plug – discreet, practical, but undeniably a tether. "Keeps you thinking of me," he’d murmur, helping her into position on the edge of the bed, his touch clinical yet intimate. The initial stretch, the persistent fullness while walking through a museum garden or sipping coffee at a sidewalk cafe, was a secret thrill, a constant, private connection vibrating beneath the mundane. He’d catch her eye across a room, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, his hand sliding possessively to the small of her back, confirming the unspoken link.
Their final morning arrived too soon. Packing felt perfunctory. Colson’s mood grew more focused, intense. He watched her zip her suitcase with an unnerving stillness. "Flight’s long," he stated, his voice flat. His gaze was heavy on her. "Need to make damn sure." There was no playful smirk now, only a stark determination Whitney felt in her bones. The limo to the airport was filled with his restless energy, his fingers drumming on his knee, his eyes constantly finding hers. The familiar weight of the plug was a dull ache between her legs, a prelude.
On the private jet, cruising somewhere over the Midwest, he finally snapped. Whitney was trying to focus on a student essay about Wuthering Heights. He stood abruptly, the sudden movement startling. "Bathroom. Now." His voice brooked no argument. He pulled her up, ignoring her half-hearted protest, and steered her firmly down the narrow aisle. Inside the cramped space, the lock clicked with finality. He pushed her back against the cool metal door, his hands already at her waistband. "Need you," he growled, no preamble, no tenderness. His fingers found the base of the plug, pulling it free with a slick, abrupt motion that made her gasp. He didn’t pause, fumbling with his own jeans, his erection springing free. He lifted her easily, her back pressed against the vibrating door, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust, filling the aching emptiness instantly.
It was fast, feral. Fueled by the countdown of the flight and his single-minded purpose. His thrusts were deep, jarring, rattling the door against its frame. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The roar of the engines drowned out her choked sounds. He buried his face in her neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark on her collarbone, the pain sharp and grounding. "Gonna fill you up," he panted against her damp skin, his voice ragged. "Gonna make it stick. Right here." He slammed home again, grinding. "My baby." He came with a guttural groan, pulsing deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers. He held her pinned, breath heaving, for a long moment before slowly lowering her trembling legs. He slumped against the sink, wiping a hand over his face. "Okay," he breathed, meeting her dazed eyes. "Okay."
LAX was a wall of noise and movement. They moved quickly through the private terminal exit, Colson’s arm tight around Whitney’s waist, her body still humming from the flight… and the bathroom. Both wore oversized hoodies pulled low, baseball caps shadowing their faces. Whitney spotted them first: three figures clustered near a sleek black SUV, similarly nondescript in hoodies and caps, trying to look like bored chauffeurs. One cap had a shock of familiar blonde hair tucked underneath. Another was only slightly smaller, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
"Mom! Dad!" The smaller figure broke away, sprinting towards them, dark braids escaping her cap. Casi. She barreled into Whitney, then launched herself at Colson, who scooped her up with a grunt, genuine warmth breaking through his usual guarded airport expression. "Missed you, squirt."
The other two figures approached. Megan pushed her cap back slightly, revealing a wide, relieved smile. Beside her, Saga watched with quiet, curious eyes. "Welcome home, newlyweds," Megan said, her voice warm. She pulled Whitney into a brief, tight hug. "Flight okay?" There was a knowing glint in her eye, a shared understanding forged after the Grammys fallout. They’d navigated the minefield of co-parenting and blended families, finding an unlikely but solid friendship.
"Long," Whitney replied, returning the hug, feeling a wave of unexpected comfort at the sight of her friend. She caressed Saga’s cheek lightly. "Hey, sweetie." Colson shifted Casi into one side, patting Saga’s back. She was nearly fine now, Casi was turning 21 soon. "Hey, sweetheart. You hold down the fort?"
Saga nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Mom baked cookies. They’re burnt."
Megan rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Details. They have chocolate chips." She glanced between Colson and Whitney, her gaze lingering for a fraction on Whitney’s posture, the way Colson’s hand still rested possessively low on her back. "Everything… good?" The question held layers.
Whitney met her friend’s gaze. A flush crept up her neck, remembering the vibrating bathroom door, the desperate intensity. Colson’s hand pressed more firmly against the base of her spine. He answered for them both, his voice low, rough, carrying absolute certainty as he looked down at Whitney, his eyes burning into hers. "Yeah. It’s good. Better than good."
The scent of Megan’s slightly singed chocolate chip cookies mingled with roasting chicken and herbs, a warm, chaotic welcome home. Whitney leaned against the cool granite countertop, sipping water, the deep ache in her muscles a pleasant echo of the penthouse, the jet, the vibrating bathroom door. Megan bumped her hip playfully, a wooden spoon dripping sauce held loosely in her hand. "So," Megan murmured, keeping her voice low under Saga’s chatter near the fridge. Her eyes flicked towards the hallway where Colson had disappeared with Casi moments before. "He go easy on you? Wedding night jitters?" A knowing smirk played on her lips.
Whitney choked on her water, a blush instantly flooding her cheeks. Images flashed: silk sheets, pinned wrists, shower tiles, the relentless pressure deep inside. She coughed, wiping her mouth. "Easy?" She managed a shaky laugh, meeting Megan’s amused gaze. "What do you think?" Megan snorted, a genuine burst of laughter escaping her. "Point taken." Whitney gestured towards Megan’s hair, a sleek, icy blonde replacing her usual darker tones. "Love the blonde, Meg. Bold." She shifted, lowering her voice further. "Seriously, though… how was everything here? Saga okay?"
Megan’s expression softened. "She’s good. Missed you guys, obviously. Kept asking when ‘Whitney and Daddy’ were coming back." She stirred the sauce absently. "School’s fine. That hamster saga ended… poorly. Buried him under the rose bush." She rolled her eyes. "Casi’s been… Casi. Counting down the days till Vegas." She sighed. "Been texting non-stop about clubs, drinks, the whole shebang. Driving me nuts."
Before Whitney could respond, the kitchen door swung open. Colson stood framed in the doorway, Saga perched easily on his hip, her small hand tangled in his shirt collar. His expression was tight, jaw clenched. Behind him, Casi bounced on her toes, her voice rising in a persistent whine. "...but it’s my twenty-first, Dad! Vegas is made for twenty-first birthdays! Everyone goes! You have to take me! Please? Just for the night? We can see your show!"
Colson’s gaze swept past Megan, locking onto Whitney. The frustration in his eyes was palpable, edged with something deeper – hurt, maybe helplessness. He looked cornered, Saga’s trusting weight anchoring him physically while Casi’s pleas chipped away at him emotionally. "Casi," he started, his voice strained, rough. "We talked about this. It’s… complicated."
"It’s not complicated!" Casi protested, pushing past him into the kitchen. "It’s my birthday! You’re playing Vegas anyway! Why can’t we just go out after? One night!" Her eyes were bright, pleading, oblivious to the storm brewing behind her father’s carefully controlled facade. Whitney saw it instantly: the raw fear beneath his frustration. Vegas. Casinos. Bars. The sheer, overwhelming risk of it all for him. The promise he’d whispered against her skin in the shower steam – Always sober when I come home to you – echoed in the tense air.
Megan smoothly stepped in, her voice calm. "Alright, birthday girl, simmer down. Dinner’s nearly ready. Saga, wanna help me set the table?" Saga nodded eagerly, wriggling to be put down. Megan took her hand, shooting Whitney a meaningful glance before steering Saga towards the dining room. "C’mon, sweet pea."
Whitney moved without hesitation. She crossed the kitchen, placing a gentle hand on Casi’s arm. "Hey, Cas. Let’s give your dad a minute. Come chat with me in the living room?" Her tone was light but firm, leaving no room for argument. Casi huffed, throwing one last desperate look at Colson, but allowed Whitney to guide her out of the kitchen.
Colson didn’t move. He hovered in the doorway to the living room, leaning against the frame, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He watched Whitney lead Casi to the sofa, his eyes dark, troubled. The embarrassment Whitney sensed radiating from him was almost physical – the shame of his history, the fear of failing his daughter, the crushing inability to just say the words that needed saying. He looked lost, the confident possessiveness of the penthouse replaced by a painful vulnerability.
Whitney sat beside Casi on the plush sofa. She took a breath, meeting Colson’s gaze across the room. He gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, his jaw still tight, his eyes pleading silently. Help me.
"Casi," Whitney began, her voice steady, gentle but direct. She turned to face the young woman fully. "Your dad isn’t saying no to be mean. Or to ruin your birthday." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "He can’t go to a casino. Or be around… that kind of drinking environment. Not really. Not safely."
Casi frowned, confusion replacing her frustration. "Why not? He doesn’t have to drink! He can just watch me!"
Whitney shook her head slowly. "It’s not that simple, honey." She reached out, touching Casi’s hand lightly. "Your dad… he’s sober. He’s worked incredibly hard to stay sober. For himself. For Saga. For you. For all of us." She saw the dawning understanding, mixed with shock, flicker in Casi’s eyes. "Being in Vegas, surrounded by all that… the casinos, the bars, the free drinks he’d be offered… it’s like walking through a minefield for him. The temptation, the triggers… it’s too much. It’s too risky. For him. And honestly, for us too, worrying about him."
Casi stared at her, then looked past Whitney to her father standing rigidly in the doorway. His gaze was fixed on the floor now, shoulders hunched, the picture of mortified defeat. "Oh," Casi whispered, the fight draining out of her. "Dad… I didn’t… I didn’t know it was… like that." Her voice was small.
Whitney squeezed her hand. "He loves you so much, Cas. He wants to celebrate your birthday. He wants to be there." She leaned forward slightly. "So here’s what we can do. He is playing Vegas on your birthday, right?" Casi nodded mutely. "Okay. So, we all go. We see his show – front row, obviously." A small smile touched Whitney’s lips. "After the show, Dad goes straight back to the hotel suite. He rests. He stays safe." She paused, locking eyes with Casi. "Then… you and I… we go to the casino."
Casi’s eyes widened. "We do?"
Whitney nodded. "We do. We play some slots, soak up the atmosphere. And…" She held up a finger. "I will get you one drink. To celebrate turning twenty-one." A mischievous glint entered her eyes. "But here’s the catch: I get to pick it. And I promise you, Cas, it will be the single most disgusting alcoholic beverage you have ever tasted in your life. Something vile. Something you’ll take one sip of and say ‘Never again!’." She grinned. "Deal?"
A slow, reluctant smile spread across Casi’s face. She glanced back at her father, who had lifted his head, watching them intently, a flicker of hesitant hope replacing the despair in his eyes. "One disgusting drink?" Casi clarified, a laugh bubbling up.
"One," Whitney confirmed. "And then we go find the biggest, craziest dessert buffet Vegas has to offer. Dad can join us for that part, sugar crash be damned."
Casi looked from Whitney to her father. Colson pushed off the doorframe, taking a tentative step into the room. His gaze was fixed on Whitney, gratitude and relief washing over his features. He cleared his throat. "That…" His voice was rough. "That sounds… okay." He looked at Casi, his expression open, vulnerable. "Okay with you, Cas?"
Casi stood up, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest for a moment. "Okay, Dad," she mumbled. "Okay." She pulled back, looking up at him, her earlier excitement tempered but still present. "One gross drink. Deal." She wrinkled her nose. "How bad can it be?"
Whitney stood, catching Colson’s eye. The ghost of a smile touched his lips, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. "You have no idea," Whitney murmured, the promise hanging in the air. Colson’s hand found hers, his fingers intertwining with hers, squeezing tightly.