005

LENA POV

Morning sunlight cut through the blinds, painting the floor in harsh stripes.

I didn’t notice. My mind was still spinning from last night, from the brush of Mark’s fingers in the hallway, the smirk he left behind, the way my own body remembered every touch as if it were etched into me.

I shoved my hair back, tugged on a loose hoodie, muttering under my breath. My thighs ached, wet heat lingering between them, but I couldn’t let Chloe see. Or anyone.

“Lena! You up?” Chloe’s voice floated down the stairs, cheerful and teasing.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m up,” I muttered, fumbling with the zipper of my hoodie. I wanted to hide, to sink back under the covers and forget my body existed. But I didn’t.

By the time I got to the kitchen, Chloe was already there, leaning on the counter, hair messy, smirk wide. Her eyes sparkled too knowingly, like she could read every thought in my head.

“Sleepyhead,” she purred. “You good?”

I froze, gripping the coffee mug like it was a lifeline. “I’m fine,” I said, voice flat.

“Oh, really?” she teased, stepping closer. “Because I feel like someone’s been… busy this morning.”

I clenched my jaw. “I… I’m fine,” I repeated. But my heat betrayed me. My stomach twisted, and my thighs still ached in a way I couldn’t ignore.

And then he appeared.

Mark. Standing in the doorway, broad shoulders framed in sunlight, coffee in hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at me, eyes scanning me slowly, deliberately.

“Morning,” he said finally, voice low and smooth.

“Morning,” I whispered, gripping my mug tighter than necessary.

He stepped closer, narrowing the space between us. His hand brushed mine—not casual, not by accident. His gaze held mine, burning, teasing, dangerous.

Chloe noticed too, of course. She leaned just slightly against him, brushing her hair against his shoulder, laughing softly. Every glance he gave her flicked right back to me, like a silent declaration: it’s you I want.

“Coffee?” Chloe asked, voice light, teasing.

“I’m good.” I swallowed hard, my hands still shaking.

“Same. I’m good.” He responded, eyes still fixed on my every move.

I wanted to retreat, to push away, to deny everything burning between us, but my dang body refused.

Then Dad’s voice from the stairs cut through the tension.

“Lena! Chloe! I need to tell you something before I leave for the day.”

Mark straightened at the sound, his gaze flicking to Dad. I froze, pulse spiking.

“I’ll be away for a couple of days,” Dad said, smiling at Mark. “Mark, I’m trusting you to keep an eye on the house.”

Mark’s gaze swept back to me. My stomach dropped. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. “Of course,” he murmured, low and smooth. “I can handle that,” and he held my gaze a second too long, as if measuring me, claiming me silently.

Dad left, the sound of his car fading, leaving the kitchen suddenly charged and tense. Chloe leaned on the counter, humming innocently, but I could feel her eyes on me, smirking. I wanted her gone.

Mark stepped closer. Close enough that my shoulder brushed his chest. I tried to pull back subtly, but he leaned just enough that I felt the warmth radiating off him. My pulse jumped, heat pooling between my legs.

“You good len?” he murmured, low, teasing. “You seem…quite tense.”

“I… I’m fine,” I said, though my voice cracked, betraying me.

He smirked, brushing a hand down my arm, lingering over my wrist, fingers grazing the sensitive inside. I gasped softly, swallowing to keep the sound in.

Chloe, oblivious or enjoying the tension, leaned slightly against him, her shoulder brushing his.

Mark didn’t even glance at Chloe. His eyes were on me, dark, heavy, commanding. He stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly over the curve of my hip. My stomach twisted in desperation.

“I should…” I started, but he cut me off with a finger to my lips.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not here.”

I nodded, though my body screamed for more. His fingers lingered, tracing small patterns along my side, teasing, electrifying.

I wanted to run, to hide, but my legs betrayed me. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as heat pooled between my thighs.

Chloe finally left, humming and tossing a casual comment about errands. She was pissed, I know.

But did I give a fuck? No.

We were alone. Just me and me.

Mark’s eyes scanned me, smoldering, measuring. “You can’t pretend you don’t feel it,” he said, voice low.

“I… I don’t…” My words stumbled, breath shallow.

He smirked, hand brushing down my side again, grazing the sensitive curve where my hoodie ended. I bit my lip, trying to hold back a groan. His eyes held mine the entire time.

“I want to test something,” he murmured, leaning closer.

“Mark…” I whispered, body trembling, heart pounding.

His hand pressed lightly against my thigh, brushing over my underwear through the fabric. The friction, the heat, it was enough to make my knees buckle.

“Stop… please,” I gasped, even as I felt my body betray me, responding to every brush, every deliberate touch.

He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear. “Not yet,” he whispered, slow and dark. “Just feel.”

And I did. Every nerve, every inch of me on fire, aware, aching, desperate. My hands trembled at my sides, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t hide.

He pulled back slightly, letting the tension linger. My thighs burned, heart racing, pulse wild. I wanted to cry, to beg, to throw myself at him.

“I’ll leave you… for now,” he murmured, stepping back, though the electricity in the air didn’t dissipate.

I leaned against the counter, hands trembling, soaked in arousal, knowing he’d left a mark on me that wasn’t physical but would haunt every thought until he touched me again.

Even now, I could feel his gaze lingering in the air, heavy against my skin, branding me without a single touch. My thighs pressed together, slick and aching, as if he had already claimed me without lifting a finger.

Mark didn’t turn away immediately. He stepped back slowly, his eyes still locked on mine like he owned me. Every inch he retreated, I burned hotter, soaked deeper, shame clawing at me but not enough to smother the need.

Then he moved — turning toward the stairs, unhurried, shoulders broad beneath his shirt, his two index fingers trailing along the banister as if marking territory, each step echoing in the quiet house. He stopped halfway, paused, his head tilting slightly like he’d almost forgotten something.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said, his voice low, dark, curling into me like smoke.