Chapter 2: Claimed and Filled - The Breeding Revelation
The first thing she was aware of was the ache. A deep, throbbing tenderness between her legs that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The second was the weight. Colson’s arm was slung possessively across her waist, his body a furnace at her back, his breathing a steady, warm rhythm against her shoulder. The third was the smell. Sex, sweat, and him. It was everywhere, on her skin, in her hair, on the ruined sheets.
Sunlight, fierce and unforgiving, cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the battlefield of the room. Clothes were strewn from the door to the bed. An empty champagne bottle lay on its side on the carpet. She saw the faint, purpling bite mark on her neck in the reflection of a dark television screen.
She shifted slightly, and a warm trickle escaped her, a stark reminder of his final, growled promise. Gonna pump you so full. Her face heated. She’d said things, too. Things she’d never imagined saying aloud. I want you to breed me. The memory was a lightning strike of shame and a thrilling, dark curl of desire.
His arm tightened around her. “Mornin’,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice graveled with sleep.
Before she could answer, a furious pounding started at the suite’s main door. It wasn’t a knock; it was an assault.
“Colson! I know you’re in there! Open this goddamn door!” Scooter’s voice, sharp and strained, sliced through the peaceful silence. “You missed the label meeting. Your phone is off. We need to talk. Now!”
Colson’s body went rigid behind her. He let out a long, low groan that was equal parts annoyance and amusement. He nuzzled the back of her neck, his lips finding the bite mark he’d left, and she shuddered.
“Ignore him,” he whispered, his hand sliding from her waist down to her hip, his fingers splaying over the curve.
The pounding intensified. “I’m not leaving! We have a situation. There are… questions. Paternity questions from that model in Milan! Open the door!”
Whitney froze. The model in Milan. The real world, with its complications and his past, was literally beating down the door. The fantasy of the night cracked, letting in a cold, harsh light.
Colson sighed, a sound of profound irritation. He rolled away from her, the loss of his heat immediate. She watched him stand, naked and utterly unselfconscious, tattoos stark against his skin in the morning sun. He didn’t look at her as he stalked toward the door, his movements fluid and charged with a lazy aggression.
He didn’t open it. He stopped a few feet away, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside it.
“Scooter!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the vast suite. “You’re interrupting!”
“I don’t care what I’m interrupting! This is important!”
Colson glanced back at the bed, his eyes finding Whitney’s. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. He pushed off the wall and walked back to her, his gaze holding hers captive. He didn’t say a word. He just hooked his hands under her arms and pulled her from the bed, her body boneless and pliant.
He guided her to the wall right beside the door, pressing her back against the cool, textured wallpaper. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart.
Her eyes widened. She could hear Scooter’s agitated breathing on the other side of the wood. “Colson,” she whispered, a frantic warning.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes dark and challenging. He leaned in, his breath hot against her most sensitive skin.
“Tell him,” Colson murmured, his voice a low, vibrating threat, “to come back after I’ve knocked you up proper.”
Then his mouth was on her, his tongue a ruthless, knowing pressure. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. A choked gasp escaped her, and she slapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle it. The contrast was dizzying, unbearable—Scooter’s frustrated muttering on one side, Colson’s devouring mouth on the other, the cool wall at her back, the heat coiling tight in her belly.
“You hear me in there, Baker?” Scooter shouted, pounding once more for good measure.
Colson didn’t stop. He worked her with a focused intensity that made her knees buckle. She tangled her free hand in his messy blonde hair, unsure if she was pulling him away or holding him closer. Pleasure, sharp and bright, built rapidly, fed by the sheer audacity, the danger of being caught.
She was close, so close, her breaths coming in ragged pants behind her hand.
“Fine!” Scooter finally yelled, his voice fading as he stepped away from the door. “I’ll be in the lobby! You have one hour! We need a statement on the Milan situation!”
His footsteps retreated.
The second they faded, Colson redoubled his efforts. The final, fragile thread of her control snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent and violent, her body bowing against the wall as she shook, her cries muffled by her own palm.
He held her through it, until her legs gave out completely. Then he rose, catching her against him. He was hard again, pressing insistently against her stomach. His eyes were wild, triumphant.
“See?” he breathed, kissing her sweaty temple. “Told you you’d feel me all day.”
He led her back to the bed, but the mood had shifted. The spell was broken. The sun was too high, the room too bright, the reality of Scooter’s words too loud in the new silence.
Whitney sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling a sheet around herself. Colson paced, running a hand through his hair.
“The model in Milan?” she asked quietly.
He stopped pacing and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that morning. He saw the question in her eyes, the doubt that hadn’t been there in the dark.
“It’s nothing,” he said, but the words lacked their usual easy confidence. “It’s just noise. Part of the job.”
“The job of being a rockstar?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.
“Yeah,” he said, a defensive edge creeping in. “That’s the job you signed up for when you said ‘I do’ in a neon chapel.”
The words hung between them, a blunt reminder of the absurdity of their situation. She had signed up for it. She had said yes. She had challenged him to prove it.
Her phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. A relentless stream of notifications. She reached for it, her heart sinking.
It was her mom. Then her best friend, Sarah. Then her mom again.
Mom: Whitney Anne Lewis, you answer this phone right now.
Sarah: GIRL. IS THIS FOR REAL?
Mom: A WEDDING? TO THE MGK? I SAW IT ON TMZ!
Attached was a grainy, cell-phone video. Her, in the tight red dress. Colson, sliding the ring onto her finger. The headline: “MGK MARRIES SUPERFAN IN VEGAS WHIRLWIND.”
The outside world hadn’t just knocked on the door. It had kicked it down.
She looked up from the blinding screen, meeting Colson’s gaze across the wrecked room. The chaos of the night was now a public spectacle. The ‘best bad decision’ was now a headline. And his manager was in the lobby, waiting to discuss a paternity test.
The warmth of his cum still leaked from her body, a stark, intimate claim. But now, shivering in the bright Las Vegas morning, it felt less like a promise and more like a question.
But now, shivering in the bright Las Vegas morning, it felt less like a promise and more like a question.
He saw the shift in her eyes, the way she clutched the phone like a lifeline. “Hey,” Colson said, his voice losing its defensive edge. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her, his hands on her knees. “Look at me. That Milan thing is bullshit. A lie. It’s already handled.”
“It doesn’t feel handled,” she whispered, the phone buzzing again in her hand. “It feels like my phone is going to explode and your manager is downstairs talking about paternity tests.”
“Let it explode.” He took the phone from her trembling fingers and tossed it onto the rumpled duvet. “They’re just words. This,” he said, his palm resting flat on her stomach, right over the ache he’d left inside her, “is real. We are real.”
A frantic knocking started again, this time lighter, more rapid. “Mr. Baker? Sir? Your manager insisted. We have your car ready for the airport. Your flight to London boards in two hours.”
Colson closed his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Two hours,” he repeated, the words tight. He stood, pulling her up with him. “Okay. New plan. We get the hell out of this room. We get on that plane. And we finish this.”
“Finish what?” she asked, her head spinning.
“Our conversation,” he said, a determined glint in his eye. “The one we started last night.”
The next hour was a blur of rushed showers, Scooter barking orders through a Bluetooth headset, and a chaotic ride to a private airfield. Whitney stared out the tinted window of the SUV, the gaudy spectacle of the Strip blurring into a meaningless smear of color. She was wearing the same red dress from the night before, the torn strap hastily pinned. It felt like a costume from a play that had ended badly.
He was quiet, his gaze fixed ahead, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. He looked less like a rockstar and more like a man heading into a fight he wasn’t sure he could win.
The plane was smaller than she expected, a sleek private jet with cream leather seats. Scooter was already onboard, his face a thundercloud. He opened his mouth to speak, but Colson cut him off.
“Not a word, Scoot. Not one.” Colson guided Whitney past him and toward the back of the cabin. “We’re not available.”
As the plane ascended, leveling off above the clouds, the silence between them grew heavy. Whitney watched Colson, the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept clenching and unclenching his jaw. The beast from the chapel was gone, replaced by something quieter, more strained.
He suddenly unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, pulling her up. “C’mere.”
He led her to the small, cramped lavatory, locking the door behind them. The space was impossibly small, their reflections staring back from the mirror, pale and serious.
“What are we doing, Colson?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.
He didn’t answer with words. He turned her to face the mirror, his body caging hers in. His hands found her hips, his grip firm. He was already hard against her. “I need you to see,” he murmured into her ear, his voice rough. “See what this is. See who you are with me.”
He pushed her dress up, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the spare pair of panties she’d found in her bag. He tugged them down, letting them pool at her ankles. His own zipper was next, the sound loud in the tiny room.
Then he was inside her in one smooth, desperate thrust, filling the aching emptiness he’d left there that morning. A sharp, relieved gasp escaped her. Her hands flew to the cold sink for support.
“Look,” he commanded, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about passion and more about affirmation. His thrusts were deliberate, claiming. Her moans were muffled by the engine's drone, her breath fogging the glass in front of her.
A furious pounding suddenly erupted on the thin door. “Colson! I know you’re in there! We need to talk about the press strategy for when we land! This is a disaster!”
Colson’s rhythm didn’t falter. He drove into her harder, his gaze never leaving their reflection. A feral grin twisted his lips. “He never learns,” he growled against her neck.
The door handle jiggled violently. Then, with a sharp crack, the flimsy lock gave way.
The door burst inward, smacking against the wall.
Scooter stood frozen in the doorway, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. His mouth hung open, his prepared speech dying on his lips.
Colson didn’t stop. He pistoned up into her dripping cunt, his pace becoming brutal, possessive. “She’s taking my seed like a good fucking wife,” he snarled over his shoulder, his voice raw and unconcerned.
Whitney’s eyes, wide and dazed, met Scooter’s horrified stare in the mirror. The invasion, the raw display, the crude declaration—it shattered her last shred of inhibition. Her head fell back against Colson’s shoulder as a scream was torn from her throat, her body seizing around him. Her nails scraped down the mirror, leaving faint, frantic marks in the condensation.
Colson followed her over the edge with a guttural roar, his body slamming into hers as he emptied himself deep inside her once more, his claim absolute, his answer to the world delivered in the most visceral way possible.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the hum of the jet. Scooter stood there, paralyzed, his face pale.
Colson slowly lifted his head, his breathing still labored. He looked at his manager, his expression calm, almost serene.
“Scoot,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Close the door.”
The manager blinked, the spell broken. He took a stumbling step backward, pulling the broken door shut as best he could, leaving them in the shattered quiet.
Colson’s arms tightened around Whitney, holding her upright as her legs trembled. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his body still joined with hers.
“See?” he whispered into her skin. “No questions.”
The broken bathroom door creaked on its hinge, a pathetic sigh in the wake of Scooter’s retreat. Colson’s grip on her hips loosened, becoming almost gentle. He rested his forehead between her shoulder blades, his breathing slowly settling into a normal rhythm.
Whitney’s own breath hitched, the reality of what just happened crashing down. They’d been seen. Fully, brutally exposed.
Her legs finally gave out. Colson caught her, his arms wrapping around her, holding her upright against his solid frame. The warm, wet feeling of him seeping from her was the only thing that felt solid in the spinning room.
A sharp buzz came from Colson’s pocket. He shifted, still buried inside her, to pull out his phone. A single, tense glance at the screen. A text from Scooter.
His body went rigid against her back. A low, vicious curse slipped from his lips, so quiet she almost missed it. Then he let out a breath that was more relief than she’d ever heard from him.
“It’s negative,” he said, the words muffled against her skin. “The test. It’s not mine.”
He turned her in the cramped space to face him. The feral energy was gone, replaced by a dark, blazing triumph. “It’s all bullshit. I told you.”
He carefully withdrew from her, the loss a sudden chill. He adjusted his jeans and opened the broken door, steering her out into the cabin.
Scooter was gone, presumably sequestered up front with the pilots. The main cabin was empty.
Colson guided her to a plush seat by the window, the sprawling Atlantic a sheet of dark blue below. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his gaze distant, processing.
Then he looked at her, really looked, seeing the shock in her eyes. “Okay,” he said, his voice shifting into a tone of decisive command. He pulled out his phone again, typing a quick message.
A moment later, a low hum enveloped the cabin as the plane’s noise-cancelling system activated. The world went dead silent, like someone had shoved cotton in her ears.
He didn’t speak. He just pushed her down into the seat, her back to the small window. He yanked her panties to the side, not even bothering to remove them, and pushed back into her with a single, determined thrust. The silence made the physical sensations overwhelming; every slide, every stretch was amplified in the void.
He fucked her with a relentless, focused rhythm, his eyes fixed on the place where their bodies joined. It was different from the chaos of the chapel or the desperation in the hotel bathroom. This was calculated. A reclamation.
His thrusts were deep and possessive, his hands pinning her shoulders to the leather. She could feel the vibration of his groans through his chest against her back, even if she couldn’t hear them. Her own silent cries fogged the cold glass.
When he came, it was with a silent, full-body shudder that she felt more than saw. He stayed inside her for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the window, his breath creating a ghostly circle on the plexiglass.
He pulled out and spun her around, sitting heavily in the seat himself. “Your turn,” he mouthed, pulling her onto his lap.
She moved slowly at first, the strange silence making her self-conscious. But the feeling of him, thick and renewed inside her, soon took over. She rode him, finding a rhythm that made her throw her head back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. Her body clenched around him, milking a second, smaller release from him as her own orgasm quietely tore through her.
He lifted her off him and reached for his black duffel bag on the opposite seat. He dug through it and pulled out a black silicone plug, its size daunting.
Without a word, he slicked it with the mess he’d just made of her. He pressed the cold, blunt tip against her entrance. He looked into her eyes, a question in his own. She gave a slight, shaky nod.
He worked it into her, stretching her anew, a constant, firm pressure that made her aware of every small movement.
He handed her a clean, oversized black hoodie and soft sweatpants. “Put these on.”
She dressed quickly, the soft fabric a relief against her sensitized skin. The plug shifted as she did, a reminder plugged deep inside her.
He looked at her, then at the bathroom door, now hanging crookedly. A dark, possessive smile touched his lips. He took her hand and led her back inside.
In the mirror, her reflection was pale, her hair a mess. Colson stood behind her, his hands on her hips. He leaned close, his lips by her ear. “One more time,” he whispered, the sound barely reaching her in the dead air. He pushed her sweatpants down and slowly, carefully, withdrew the plug.
He entered her again, this final time a slow, almost tender claiming against the tiny sink. He was meticulous, every movement precise. When he finished, he slid the plug back in, sealing everything inside.
He helped her straighten the clothes, tugging the hoodie to hide the bite mark on her neck. He smoothed her hair with his fingers, his touch surprisingly deft.
When the plane began its descent, he removed the plug for the last time, cleaning her gently with a warm cloth before pulling her sweatpants back up.
As the wheels touched down at London Heathrow, he popped one headphone from his ear. The roar of the outside world rushed back in.
He looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her now-presentable appearance. He gave a short, satisfied nod.
“Okay,” he said, his voice sounding strangely loud after the long silence. “Let’s go be famous.”