Lauretta looked up at him then, her wide eyes shimmering under the dim candlelight. His eyes had returned to their normal amber hue, the wild hunger momentarily tamed, though the tension in his body remained. His breathing had evened out, but the air between them was thick with unsatisfied desire. Marcus clenched his fists, his control hanging by a fragile thread as he took her in once more—the way the fabric of her dress barely concealed the curves he longed to claim, the way her chest rose and fell in anticipation, her parted lips silently inviting him to take what was his.
A muscle twitched in his jaw as he forced himself to remain still, but the image seared into his mind refused to be ignored. He could already picture it—her body trembling as he placed her on her knees over the bed, her back arching as he spread her open, her breath hitching as he plunged deep into her slick, welcoming heat. His name would spill from her lips in breathless moans, her fingers clawing at his skin, her walls tightening around him as he drove into her again and again. He would fill her, claim her, and leave his mark until there was no doubt that she belonged to him.
The thought alone sent a shudder through him, his restraint fraying. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to grab her, to tear away the flimsy barrier of her dress, and to make her his in every way imaginable. He wanted to watch her come undone beneath him, to feel her milk him dry until there was nothing left to give, until they were both utterly spent, tangled in each other's heat, bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction.
His control was slipping fast. And Lauretta—innocent, tempting Lauretta—had no idea how close he was to losing it.
He could smell the heavy tinge of her arousal in the air, thick and intoxicating, a scent that made his blood burn and his cock throb with painful need. She wanted him—there was no mistaking that—but she had stopped him. Why? The question gnawed at him, but his restraint was too fragile to demand an answer. If he stayed a second longer, he would snap, and there would be no turning back.
"I'll get someone to fix your door," was all he could manage, his voice rough with suppressed desire. The words felt hollow, insignificant compared to the storm raging inside him, but they were the only thing tethering him to the last shred of his self-control. Without another glance, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his muscles tight with frustration, his hands clenched at his sides as he willed himself to walk away.
As soon as he closed the door to his room, his restraint crumbled. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling as he lifted his hand—the same hand that had been between her thighs, stroking her, teasing her, making her body melt against him. His fingers trembled as he brought them to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste her essence.
A deep, guttural groan escaped him. She was sweet, intoxicating—just as he had imagined, but better. The scent of her, the faint traces of her slickness lingering on his skin, ignited something primal in him, something dark and unrelenting. His cock throbbed painfully, demanding release, and he could deny himself no longer.
With a growl, he tore at the laces of his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free himself. His length was thick, pulsing, already leaking with need. He fell back against the bed, eyes shut tight, as he wrapped his fist around himself, his grip firm and desperate.
In his mind, she was there—spread beneath him, her body flushed, her lips parted as she gasped his name. He pictured the way she would look as he pushed inside her, stretching her, claiming her. The way her tight, wet heat would squeeze around him, drawing him deeper, her legs trembling as she took him.
His strokes grew rougher, his hips thrusting into his own grip as the fantasy consumed him. He imagined her nails digging into his back, her voice breaking as she begged him for more, and her body writhing in pleasure beneath his. He could almost hear the sound of her breath hitching, feel the way she would tighten around him when she shattered apart in ecstasy.
The tremors slowly subsided, but the ache didn't. If anything, it intensified—coiling inside him, a need that burned hotter with every breath he took. His release had given him a moment's relief, but it was a hollow victory. The image of Lauretta still lingered behind his eyelids, vivid and haunting: her parted lips, her flushed cheeks, and the tremble in her voice when she said his name.
Marcus cursed softly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. His skin was damp with sweat, his pulse still racing like a drumbeat in his ears. But his soul felt no calmer—only more restless.
He sat up slowly, fingers clenching against the hardwood floor, the scent of sex still heavy in the air. It was pathetic, he thought—how a man like him, feared and respected, could be brought to his knees by the ghost of a woman he hadn't even touched.
Not truly.
Not yet.
The thought made his jaw tighten. His control was slipping, unraveling thread by thread each time he caught a glimpse of her. Each time she smiled at someone else, unaware of the war she was igniting inside him.
She moved through his world like a dream—untouchable, unaware. But she wouldn't remain that way for long. He wouldn't let her.
With slow, deliberate movements, he stood and reached for the towel draped over the chair, wiping the floor with mechanical precision. There was something ritualistic about it, something cold. But inside, his blood simmered with heat, with want, with fury at himself—for being this weak, this undone.
He tossed the towel aside and moved to the mirror, staring at the man who looked back.
Eyes still darkened with hunger.
Chest still rising and falling too fast.
Get a grip.
But the voice in his head was losing power. It was Lauretta's voice that filled his mind now, sweet and breathy, whispering his name with a need that matched his own. That need would consume them both.
Soon.
And when it did, he wouldn't hold back.
No more fantasies. No more waiting.
The next time, it would be real.
The next time, she would be his.
Every inch.
Every moan.
Every scream.
His.
Lauretta stared at her splintered door in shock, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The raw intensity of what had just happened still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. But as the moments stretched on, the heat of the encounter faded, leaving behind a hollow ache.
A wave of disappointment crashed over her, sharp and undeniable. Why had she stopped him? She had been so close—so achingly close to reaching the peak, to feeling the bliss that had always eluded her when she tried to pleasure herself. But the moment had slipped away, and now she was left trembling, unsatisfied, and painfully aware of the throbbing emptiness between her thighs as her body craved what she didn't quite understand.