Marcus shifted his hold on me.
Before I could protest, he turned me gently until my hands found the edge of my study desk. The edges of my vision started to clear when I felt the familiar wood, pressing against my palms as he steadied me. One arm braced securely around my waist to keep me upright.
My back was to him now.
His chest, solid and warm, at my spine despite his sweater.
It felt...different. Less confrontational.
More...like I was enclosed.
Wrapped in him.
I felt his breath near my temple, controlled and measured, like he was forcing himself to slow down. For me.
"You are fortunate this wound restrains you," he said quietly.
"Marcus..." I murmured, the fight in my voice thinning into something unsteady.
His hand rose, slow and deliberate, coming to rest at the collar of my robe, just beside my neck, careful to avoid the injured side. With a gentleness that felt almost at odds with him, he drew the fabric aside, exposing a sliver of skin as he swept my hair away.
The air shifted.
Then his lips found me.
Soft at first, barely there, but enough to steal the breath from my lungs. Heat bloomed where he touched, spreading in quiet waves as his breath ghosted over my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
"My fierce one," he murmured against me, his voice lower now, threaded with something deeper. "You placed yourself before death without hesitation...for me."
My fingers tightened against the edge of my desk.
"I am a nurse," I said, though the words felt thin, distant. "It is what I was trained to do."
A quiet exhale brushed my skin, almost a disapproval, but not quite.
"Do not diminish it," he said, more softly than before, though the conviction in it did not waver. His lips only traced higher, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.
"I have seen men face death," he continued, voice low, reflective. "Soldiers sworn to me. Men of honor, of discipline."
A pause.
"But what I saw in you..." His breath lingered at the curve of my neck. "It was not duty alone."
My pulse stuttered.
"There was a gentleness in it," he said. "A mercy. A devotion not born of command...but of the heart."
His hand at my waist tightened slightly. Not possessive, but grounding.
"And it is that," he murmured, softer now, almost to himself, "that draws me to you."
"I..." My voice faltered. "I can't."
The words came out weak. Unconvincing, even to me.
His hand moved anyway, slow and deliberate, finding the tie at my robe and loosening it with a single pull. The fabric slipped open, cool air brushing my skin, exposing my thin white tank and shorts.
I wasn't wearing any underwear, not even a bra, nothing. So I could feel it already, the sharp ache of my nipples pressing hard against the thin cotton.
"Marcus..." I tried again, but there was no strength behind it now.
"This is not for me alone," he said quietly, his voice low against my ear, as his hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers circling and teasing my nipple until it ached deliciously. "You feel it as well."
My breath caught.
"I should stop you," I whispered, my fingers tightening against my desk. "I should...but—"
The other hand had vanished beneath the waistband of my shorts, fingers easily finding my most sensitive spot.
The contradiction tore through me, sharp and disorienting. My mind resisted, clinging to reason, to everything I had said before. But my body...
My body betrayed me.
"I have not yet repaid the debt I owe you," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear as he circled and stroked my clit, coaxing soft moans and gasps from deep inside me.
My head tilting back just slightly, my fingers digging into the edge of the wood so tightly, I could feel my knuckles turning white. Every nerve in my body burned with a fierce, trembling need.
This was wrong. It was too much, too fast.
And yet, I couldn't bring myself to end it.
"I want you, Elena."
The words settled low against my skin, his lips brushing the curve of my bare shoulder as he spoke.
Before I could gather the strength to respond, he was already moving, guiding me gently away from the desk and toward the bed. Like he had already decided that my space was his to command.
He sat me at the edge of the mattress, my legs still grounded, the rest of me unsteady.
"I can't, Marcus," I said again, though my voice trembled, unraveling at the edges.
He didn't argue, nor did he rush.
He simply lowered himself in front of me, controlled. The moonlight spilling through the window, casting shifting shadows across his face, sharpening the lines of him, turning him into something unreal.
My breath caught when his hands found me again, spreading my legs as he knelt between them like a sinner, ready for his redemption.
"You say that," he murmured, his voice quieter now, threaded with something deeper as he moved closer to between my legs, "and yet, you do not turn from me."
My fingers curled into the sheets at my sides.
"I should," I whispered. "I know I should."
But I didn't move. I couldn't.
The air between us thickened, every second stretching taut with something unspoken. My pulse pounded loud in my ears, my body betraying every ounce of resistance I tried to hold onto.
His gaze lifted to mine, dark and unwavering.
"Then tell me to stop," he challenged softly.
The words should have been my chance at a release out of this sweet torture. But for some reason, I couldn't bring my lips to move, as it stayed frozen in silent surrender.
Even when he slid my shorts down with deliberate slowness, each movement like a challenge, as if he was trying to prove his point. The way his body pressed closer, his warmth radiating up my thighs until I could feel the wet heat of his tongue, tracing delicate paths between my thighs. Soft, insistent and unrelenting, his touch sent shivers racing through me.
My legs curled around his shoulders, anchoring me as he slipped a finger inside, deepening the connection. I tried to stifle the gasps and moans that threatened to spill. He chuckled, low and amused, a sound that vibrated against my core, igniting a fire only he could fuel.
I tried to push him away. Fuck.
My hands still clutched onto my sheets, holding on for dear life, despite how much I wanted to run my fingers along his hair and pull him closer against me.
It was like he knew. With the way he deepened his touch. His tongue and fingers exploring and claiming every inch of me with a patience that made my resistance crumble.
"Please, Marcus," I whispered, voice cracking with need and vulnerability, "I can't...I can't fight this..."
My words were weak. A surrender wrapped in desperate longing.
"Don't make this any harder," I practically begged, my breath hitching as his fingers moved with quiet insistence, pulling me deeper into the sweet surrender I never could escape.
He only chuckled in response.
Soft and victorious, an intimate promise that this moment was ours, alone.