Rain thrashed outside. A hissing storm that wept in heavy torrents. Inside, voices muffled. Sheets ruffled. The bed heaved with the weight of two lovers—or two adulterers.
Tracy giggled softly, almost laughing. The man above her bit playfully into her ear. She moaned. Her eyes flashed. Their nude bodies—warm from the bliss of intimacy rubbed each other gently, sending off even more sparks.
The sheets ruffled as she turned. She whispered "I want you." Her breath hot on his ears. An evil smile flashed on his face. His face lowered, his lips planting a kiss on hers. He whispered "I thought you hated old men." He teased her.
A mischievous glint flashed in her eyes. She reached under the covers and grabbed his c*ck. "Not when they are this big." Her palm moved back and forth around his c*ck. His body shuddered from the feeling.
She knew his weakness and how to exploit it. He knew hers too. Tracy squealed happily when he flipped her on her face. His strong hands spanked her ass. "Oh!" She giggled.
"You're a bad boy." She whispered.
"Oh yeah?" He slipped the lingerie off, and gently his finger rubbed the gates of her pink house. Her toes curled. She started to pant. Her heart hammering in expectation. His finger disappeared through. She threw her head back. "Ohhhhh."
"You like that?". He knew she did. She looked up and nodded twice. He added a second finger. She bit her lips. Her eyes moist and pleading. He showed her his two fingers, soaked with her juices. Her face flushed. She opened her mouth and he placed those fingers in. She sucked on them, moaning.
He held her lower body up. She arched like the letter A.
His tongue invaded her garden. Her toes curled at the sudden sensation. Cold, sloppy and wet. He ate like he had been starved. All she could do was wiggle and grab the bed covers tightly. "Marcus!!" She moaned his name, unable to keep it in.
When he broke from the act, her body collapsed. But he was not done. He lowered his figure above hers. Their eyes pulling each other. They kissed passionately.
She felt his hand move between his thighs. She arched her ass up, inviting. His rock—hard c*ck plunged into her. He had never been that rough, perhaps the months they went without intimacy caused it.
"Ahhhh!" She screamed. "Ahhhh" She moaned again. Her eyes teared up. He planted a soft kiss on her bare back. "I'd be a little rough love." His voice warned her.
She wiggled her ass, turned over her shoulder and offered him a sweet smile. His waist began to move. Back and forth. Slowly at first, allowing hers to match his rhythm. "Marcus!" She moaned into the pillow. The tempo increased. His weight shoved e ery inch of c*ck inside her.
"It should have been me. Not him" his ragged breathing cut his sentences into one word at a time. She grabbed the sheet. Each thrust shoved her body into the soft mattress. He was rough and yet she wanted it. She wanted to feel the pain before ecstacy. "Harder." She screamed. He raised her up, so she could hold the bed frame. His hand grabbed her neck and squeezed gently while he kept slamming into her, heavy, hard, fast.
"How much do you want it?" His voice shuddered.
"All of it." She screamed. He was too deep in her. Too rough on her. He yanked her hair back. "Ahhhh". She screamed.
Time passed, but the roomed still echoed with her moans. When suddenly he pulled out, he fell on his back quickly and she lowered herself down on him.
His c*ck plunged her again. She moved her ass, upwards and downwards. Slamming down on the thick shaft. Her face lowered down to his and they kissed. Her hips moving vigorously.
Then she pulled off of him and her mouth enclosed his c*ck. She swallowed it. The length threaten to rip her throat. He grabbed her head and shoved his waist into her face, back and forth. Sloppy sounds, gagging, and grunting. His body shoke violently as he exploded hot semen into her oral cavity. She gulped a mouthful. Her eyes flashing up to his.
She collapsed against his chest. His hand cupping the soft flesh of her ass.
"Daddy" she whispered.
"You did good" he squeezed her ass. She laughed softly. They both heaved, trying to catch their breaths.
"When was the last time you were like that." She wiggled her ass under his palm.
"On your third anniversary," he said.
She propped herself up, eyes widening as the memory surfaced. Then she laughed.
"The garden. Oh my God." She squealed with delight.
"He was busy playing Mr. Moretti while the DA was busy banging his wife in the garden," Tracy added, smirking. The two of them broke into laughter.
She slipped from the bed to pour a drink, his playful slap on her ass earning him a wink.
Thump. The cork popped from the heavy bottle. Bourbon sloshed into short glasses, its amber glow catching the dim light. She returned, swaying her hips deliberately with every step.
"You were a bad boy that day." She handed him a glass and slid back into bed beside him.
His voice dropped, thick with old bitterness. "I hated that he had you, and I could only steal you for mere moments."
She kissed him, whispering against his lips, "You have me every day now."
He set his glass aside and flipped her onto her back.
"Stop," Tracy laughed, though her voice carried more mischief than protest.
He pinned her down as she wiggled playfully. "I'm in trouble" she whispered. He slipped into her again and the night watched them devour themselves.
***
The estate was quiet, too quiet. Night pressed against the tall Georgian windows, the kind of silence that had a weight of its own. Jennifer lay curled in the oversized bed, staring at the dark ceiling while the sparrows outside had long fallen asleep. She should have been resting — tomorrow meant work, training, trying to carve out a new identity under Felicity Lourdes's name. Yet her mind refused to shut down.
Thoughts whirled like restless moths around a flame. Carlos, with his dry humor and disciplined patience, had begun to feel like a strange anchor, almost fatherly. He checked on her without hovering, and in his company, for the first time in years, she felt watched over without strings attached. And Vincent—
Vincent was different. Too different. After the trial four days ago, he had returned to the mansion with the look of a man who had walked straight through fire. He said little, his shoulders heavy, his eyes darker than night itself. She had seen him ruthless and merciless, yet this haunted silence of his was somehow worse.
Jennifer turned under the sheets again, groaning. Sleep would not come. Her skin felt prickly with unease, her chest tight with questions she dared not voice. At last, frustrated, she slipped from the bed and pulled one of Vincent's mother's robes around her shoulders. Barefoot, she padded softly down the hall, the marble cold beneath her feet. She told herself she only wanted water, something to steady her.
The kitchen's light glowed faintly at the far end, but before she reached it, movement caught her eye.
Vincent stood at the foot of the stairs. He hadn't noticed her. His tall frame leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the long wall of paintings. Jennifer stilled, holding her breath.
The paintings were portraits — stern-faced dukes, elegant ladies with powdered hair, all belonging to centuries before. Vincent studied them like a man searching for answers inside their oil-painted eyes. The sharp line of his jaw was taut, the dim light grazing the hollows of his cheekbones. He looked older in that moment, heavier, as if the weight of all those watching ancestors rested on him alone.
"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.
He turned, startled. For a heartbeat, his expression cracked, showing raw exhaustion, before his familiar mask slid back into place. "Neither can you," he said simply.
Jennifer descended the stairs, her robe trailing. "My head won't stop," she admitted. "Work. Carlos. You. Everything."
At that, his eyes flickered with something unreadable. She came to stand beside him, following his gaze to the portraits.
"They all look… cold," she whispered.
"They were," he said. His voice was low, carrying a weariness that vibrated beneath the surface. "Every one of them built this house brick by brick, not for love, but for legacy. And in the end, they died alone. My father too."
She glanced up at him. "And you're afraid you'll become like them."
His silence was an answer.
They stood in the hush, shadows pooling around their feet. Then, slowly, he spoke again — not to her, but almost to himself. "I once thought I could be different. Samantha believed it too." Her name fell from his lips like a fracture in stone. Jennifer's chest tightened. She had heard Carlos mention the name once, and now it was alive between them.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice tentative.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp, pained. "She trusted me. I failed her. And when she was gone, I buried myself in steel and glass — this empire, these walls — hoping if I built high enough, nothing could touch me again." His gaze shifted, sharp now, to Jennifer. "But the higher you build, the harder the fall. Voss knows that. Tracy knows that."
The way he said their names chilled her. There was fury coiled in him, barely restrained. For all his calm exterior, she sensed the violence beneath, simmering like a storm behind glass.
She swallowed. "And me? What do I fit into that?"
His eyes locked on hers then, a collision of fire and ice. "You don't fit, Jennifer. You tear through everything I've tried to keep intact."
The honesty in his words burned. Her pulse kicked, throat tight. She wanted to step back, but instead she inched closer, as though drawn by something magnetic, dangerous. He didn't move away.
Silence again. Heavy. Their breaths the only sound.
Jennifer's eyes fluttered, her heart pounding, when his hand brushed hers. The contact was slight, almost accidental, but it unraveled her. He was too close, his warmth surrounding her. She thought he might kiss her again, and God help her, she wanted him to.
But he didn't. Instead, when her knees wavered, she leaned — and his chest caught her. Not a lover's embrace, not yet, but something deeper: his arms holding her steady as her body betrayed her exhaustion.
"Jennifer," he murmured, so low it was almost a growl, but softer at the edges.
She didn't answer. Her eyes slipped shut, cheek pressed against the faint beat of his heart. She felt him hesitate, then his hand moved, tentative, to cradle her hair. For once, the man who commanded empires simply held her — fragile, trembling, and falling asleep against him.
Vincent stood motionless, like if he moved, he might break the spell. His jaw clenched, his breath uneven. He could command men to die, erase enemies in a night, but he couldn't stop the way his chest ached with her weight against him.
When Jennifer finally stirred, half-asleep, she whispered, "You scare me, Vincent."
He stiffened.
"Not like Voss," she added, her voice barely audible. "Worse. Because I think I'm falling for you."
She pulled away before he could respond, her robe brushing the marble as she hurried up the stairs.
Vincent remained in the shadows of his ancestors, his fists curling and uncurling. He had faced wars in boardrooms, blood on the streets — but this? This terrified him most.
And upstairs, behind her door, Jennifer pressed a hand to her racing heart, her own whispered confession haunting her: falling for Vincent Moretti might cost her everything.