I raked my fingers into his hair, gripping it tight. He growled, and the vibrations sent shockwaves through my body. My orgasm started to build, pressure intense in my balls, but I didn't want to come. Not yet. I wanted all of Marcus. I wanted him to consume me.
I yanked on a bicep to urge him to his feet, and my mouth crashed into his. "Fuck me, Marcus. That's what I want."
He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he saw there must have been enough, because he pulled me over to his couch, bending me over the back. He took mere seconds to retrieve lube and a condom packet from a side table.
"You sure about this, James?" he growled, his teeth nipping at my shoulder. His cock, rock hard and insistent, ground against my ass.
"Fuck yes," I moaned.
He didn't need any more encouragement. I heard the sound of his belt unbuckling and the zipper of his pants sliding down.
After pushing my pants down to my knees, his fingers, slick and cool with lube, pressed against my entrance. I gasped, my body tensing at the intrusion. But he didn't give me time to adjust or ease me into it. He shoved two fingers inside, hard and deep, making me cry out.
He fingered me roughly, his fingers scissoring, stretching me open. It burned, but I didn't care.
And then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt head of his sheathed cock. He thrust against me, slow and steady, but not gentle. Not even close.
He started to move, his hips slamming against my ass, driving his cock into me, hard and deep. It was intense, overwhelming, and everything I needed.
Marcus's hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. He held me in place, using my body, fucking me like he was taking out every frustration and fear that festered in his brain on me. And I loved every second of it.
My orgasm began to build again.
His body was slick with sweat, and his breath was ragged and harsh. He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth at my ear.
"Come on, James," he growled. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
I shook my head, my body tense, my breath hissing through my teeth. "Not yet," I grunted. "Not fucking yet."
He chuckled, low and dirty, his teeth nipping at my earlobe. "Yes, yet," he rasped. "Right fucking now."
He reached around, one hand clamped over my mouth and the other wrapped around my cock. He stroked me roughly, his thumb circling the sensitive head. I cried out, my body convulsing, and suddenly, my orgasm ripped through me like a freight train jumping the tracks.
My cock pulsed as my cum painted the couch in front of me, and I nearly blacked out. Marcus groaned, his body tensing, his cock throbbing inside me. And then he was coming too, his hips jerking, his breath hot and harsh against my neck.
We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies pressed together, our breathing ragged and syncopated. Then Marcus pulled out, a low groan rumbling in his chest. His cum, hot and wet, slid down my thighs.
I turned around to face him. Marcus stood there, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. His eyes were dark, and he looked like a man possessed.
He stepped forward, his body pressing against mine. His mouth was on me in an instant, hot and hungry.
We kissed like that for a long time—intense, raw, and real.
Eventually, we pulled apart, our foreheads pressing together and our breaths slowing. Marcus's eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks. He looked...vulnerable. It was a look I wasn't used to seeing on him.
I reached up, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned into my touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. It was a moment of tender intimacy that I hadn't expected.
The room had witness marks—a knocked-askew frame and scuffs from shoes I didn't remember kicking off. My shirt hung open, buttons scattered across the floor.
The analytical part of my brain began categorizing—bruises forming beneath my collarbone, teeth marks on my shoulder, and fingerprint patterns developing on my hips. The rest of me still vibrated with need, even as self-recrimination crept in.
"Don't." Marcus's voice was rough against my neck. "You're retreating."
"This compromises everything." Professional distance was impossible with his skin pressed against mine, but I tried. "The investigation, the evidence chain, my objectivity—"
"Your objectivity was shot the moment you walked through my door." He lifted his head. "We both know that."
I couldn't argue, not with his marks on my skin and not with the taste of him still in my mouth. Instead, I focused on straightening my ruined shirt, fingers working on the remaining buttons.
