Marked me

**Chapter 11**

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**DANIella POV**

The rain kept hammering the windows like it wanted inside.

I stood frozen in Jeffrey’s doorway, soaked to the bone, thin gown plastered against every curve, nipples hard from the cold and something far worse. His hand was still on my chin, thumb pressing just hard enough to remind me who was in control.

“Are you done staring?” he asked again, voice low, amused, dangerous.

I couldn’t answer. My tongue felt thick. My thighs were trembling, and not just from the chill. The sight of him—robe hanging open, water running down the ridges of his stomach, that thick outline straining against the fabric—had short-circuited every sensible thought I had left.

He tilted my face higher, forcing my eyes to his. Those silver eyes were almost black in the dim light, pupils blown wide. Hungry. Not the polite kind of hungry. The kind that made my stomach flip and my core clench.

“Answer me, little girl,” he murmured. “Or should I assume you came here to get fucked against the wall like the desperate thing you are?”

A broken sound slipped out of me—half whimper, half moan. I hated how much I liked the way he talked to me. Hated it even more that he knew.

He stepped forward, crowding me until my back hit the doorframe. Rainwater dripped from my hair down my neck, cold tracks that made me shiver harder. His body heat was the only thing keeping me from shaking apart.

“Say it,” he ordered softly. “Tell me why you’re here.”

My lips parted. No sound came out at first.

He waited. Patient. Cruel.

“I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Three days. Three days and I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t… I needed—”

“Needed what?” His thumb dragged along my bottom lip, parting it slightly. “Say the word, Daniella. I want to hear it.”

I swallowed. Shame burned my cheeks, but the ache between my legs was worse.

“I needed to feel you again,” I breathed. “I needed… you to finish what you started.”

His smirk was slow. Satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not sweet. He kissed me like he was claiming something he already owned.

His mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sweeping in without asking permission. I moaned into it, hands flying up to grip his shoulders—wet robe, hard muscle underneath. He tasted like rain and smoke and something darker I couldn’t name.

One hand slid down my side, bunching the soaked gown, dragging it up my thigh. Cool air hit skin that was already burning. His fingers found the inside of my thigh, tracing higher, higher, until—

I gasped against his mouth when he cupped me. No panties. I hadn’t worn any. I’d told myself it was because the gown was too thin, but we both knew the truth.

He pulled back just enough to look down between us.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough. “Soaking wet before I even touched you properly.”

His middle finger slid through my folds, slow, deliberate. I jerked, hips chasing the pressure.

“Stay still,” he ordered.

I tried. I really tried.

He circled my clit once, twice—light, maddening—then pressed down hard.

A broken cry tore out of me.

“That’s it,” he whispered against my throat. “Let me hear how badly you missed this.”

He pushed one finger inside me—slow, stretching. I was so wet it slid in easily, but the stretch still made my eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he growled. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

He added a second finger, curling them, stroking that spot that made my knees buckle. I grabbed his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.

“Please—” The word was pathetic. I didn’t even know what I was begging for anymore.

He fucked me with his fingers—deep, steady, relentless—while his thumb worked my clit in tight circles. My hips rocked helplessly, chasing, grinding, desperate.

“You’re going to come for me,” he said against my ear. “Right here. Against my front door. Like the needy little thing you are.”

I was shaking. So close. So fucking close.

Then he stopped.

Completely.

Fingers still inside me, but frozen.

I whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“No—no, please—”

He pulled his hand away slowly, glistening fingers catching the dim light. He brought them to his mouth, sucked them clean, eyes never leaving mine.

“You don’t get to come that easily,” he said. “Not after making me wait three days.”

Tears of frustration stung my eyes.

He stepped back, leaving me trembling, dripping, aching.

“Inside,” he ordered, jerking his head toward the dark hallway. “Now.”

I stumbled forward on shaking legs. He shut the door behind us, locked it.

The house smelled like him—sandalwood, leather, something expensive and dark. Marble floors, high ceilings, shadows everywhere.

He didn’t turn on any lights.

He just watched me.

“Take it off,” he said quietly.

My hands shook as I reached for the hem of the gown. It peeled away from my skin with a wet sound, leaving me completely bare.

Cold air hit me. I shivered.

He stepped closer. One finger traced the line of my collarbone, down between my breasts, over my stomach, stopping just above where I needed him most.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m cold,” I lied.

He smiled. “Liar.”

Then he kissed me again—harder this time. Backed me against the wall. One thigh pushed between mine, pressing against my aching center.

I moaned into his mouth, grinding shamelessly.

He broke the kiss, dragged his lips down my throat, teeth scraping.

“Bedroom,” he growled. “Now.”

He didn’t wait for me to move. He scooped me up—effortless, like I weighed nothing—carried me down the dark hallway.

I wrapped my legs around his waist. His robe was open. I could feel him—hard, thick, pressing against me through the thin fabric of his boxers.

He kicked a door open. Dropped me on a massive bed. Black sheets. Rain pounding the windows.

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at me like I was something he’d waited years to ruin.

“Spread your legs,” he said.

I did.

Wide.

No hesitation.

He groaned—low, guttural.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So fucking wet. So ready.”

He shed the robe. Boxers next. Then he was bare.

God.

Thick. Long. Veined. Already leaking.

My mouth watered.

He crawled over me, caged me with his arms.

“You want this?” he asked, voice rough.

I nodded frantically.

“Words, Daniella.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Please. I need it.”

He lined himself up, rubbed the head through my folds—slow, teasing.

I arched. Whimpered.

“Beg,” he ordered.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Fuck me. Ruin me. I don’t care—just please—”

He pushed in.

One hard thrust.

I screamed.

Full. Stretched. Burning. Perfect.

He didn’t give me time to adjust. He fucked me hard. Deep. Relentless.

Every thrust punched the air out of my lungs.

I clawed his back. Bit his shoulder. Moaned his name like a prayer.

He growled mine like a curse.

We were animals. Desperate. Starving.

He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, took me from behind.

Deeper.

Harder.

I came first—shattering, sobbing, clenching around him.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked me through it, then pulled out, flipped me again, straddled my chest.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I did.

He stroked himself once, twice—

Then came across my breasts, hot and thick.

Marked me.

Claimed me.

He collapsed beside me, breathing hard.

I lay there trembling, covered in him, ruined and sated.

For the first time in weeks, the hunger was quiet.

But I knew it wouldn’t stay that way.

Not with him.

Never with him.