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Chapter 16 - Chapter 3 – Full Grip, No Escape

Marcus didn't ask.

He just sent the address.

Riley didn't knock.

She just walked in.

He was already leaning against the counter when the door clicked shut behind her. Fresh black tee. No shoes. The sleeves hugged his arms like they wanted to be touched.

She looked… dangerous.

Black heels. White blouse with the top four buttons open. And a black pencil skirt that rode higher in the back thanks to how round and proud her ass sat.

He looked at her chest first — not subtle. The blouse barely held her in. Her bra pushed them up like offerings. Like she'd wrapped a gift and brought it straight to his front door.

"You gonna stare," she said, "or are you going to tell me what that little dressing room performance earned me?"

Marcus didn't move.

Just looked.

And then, slowly, walked toward her — controlled, hungry, measured.

"You planned this," he said. "Every inch of that outfit is illegal."

"I like the way you look at me," Riley replied. "Like you want to leave handprints."

He stopped just in front of her. "That's because I do."

Before she could respond, he stepped in, grabbing her by the hips, dragging her against his body.

She gasped — not in surprise, but because she wanted to.

Their lips didn't touch.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned into her neck, inhaling deeply, hands roaming over the sides of her breasts, not squeezing — just feeling their sheer weight, their shape, the outline through her shirt.

"You're obsessed," she whispered.

"Completely."

He pressed her back against the wall, his thigh sliding between her legs, and pulled her blouse open — one more button, then two — exposing the tops of her breasts encased in deep, black lace.

They were perfect. Big. Heavy. Full. And his eyes devoured every inch like a man lost in a feast.

"Take your time," she teased, breath short. "You've been eyeing these since the driveway."

He didn't speak. His hands moved under her bra, lifting them gently, letting their weight spill into his palms — a raw, tactile worship of flesh.

"You're a breast man," she said.

"I'm your breast man," he growled.

Then his mouth descended — not bare skin, but close. He kissed over the lace, slowly, hungrily, licking around the curve of her nipple, through the fabric.

Her back arched.

His hand slid down — cupping her ass, pulling her up — until her hips rolled against his thigh. Her skirt hiked. Her breath caught.

She started grinding.

He gave her the rhythm she needed — slow at first, then faster, rougher, their bodies locked in friction as she chased pressure. Every motion dragged her breasts across his chest, her mouth near his ear.

"Marcus…"

He pulled her bra down just enough to expose her. Full. Tight. Her nipples hard and aching in the open air.

His tongue circled one, then the other.

Riley moaned and thrust harder against him, their clothes in the way, but the tension—the ache—was only growing.

"You gonna come like this?" he teased against her breast. "Just from rubbing on me?"

She growled. "If you don't shut up and grind, I'm going to lose it."

He pressed her tighter against the wall, his thigh working between hers, her skirt now bunched around her waist. The sound of their breath filled the room — raw, wild, caught between wanting and barely holding back.

His hands squeezed her tits as he sucked her left nipple hard, rolling his tongue in slow circles, while she cried out and rode his leg like she owned it.

Riley's head fell back, one hand gripping his hair, the other pressing her breast deeper into his mouth.

"I should stop," she breathed. "I should…"

But she didn't. She pushed harder, hips jerking in short bursts, her lips parted in shock at her own pleasure.

Marcus kept her pinned, licked her nipple one last time, then whispered against her collarbone:

"You're not going to stop."

She moaned as her body shuddered against him — and though her skirt never came off, and he never pulled his pants down, they were both soaked in the tension of almost.

She was gasping.

He was trembling.

And when he finally backed off, brushing her bra back into place like he was reluctantly returning her breasts to storage, she looked up at him — eyes dazed, lipstick smeared, blouse wide open.

"That was…" she started.

He wiped his mouth with a grin. "Half of what I want to do."

She smirked, still catching her breath. "Good. Because I'm not done."

He stepped back, giving her space.

"Next time," she said, fixing her blouse, "I want a bed. Or a table. Or the floor. Anything that can hold my weight when you finally drop your control."

He smiled. "You're gonna make me lose it."

"You already did."

And then, without another word, she walked out — hips bouncing, chest still rising and falling, leaving him rock hard, panting, and craving a chance to finish what they both started.

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