The Prototype

73. One For The Road

TEMPEST

Warmth pressed against my cheek, steady and close, pulling me out of sleep inch by inch. Fingers moved along the side of my face, slow and intentional, combing through the curls stuck to my temple. Each strand pushed behind my ear with calm precision, not rushed—controlled.

His knuckles slid down the edge of my jaw, grazing with enough pressure to stir the nerves beneath the skin. His palm followed next, cupping the side of my neck before trailing down the column of my throat. It dragged—slow, steady, calmly—until it reached my waist. The sheet slipped down sometime during the night. His fingers found the strip of exposed skin above my hip and swept across it with a scraping touch, light enough to tease but firm enough to settle. He circled once, then pressed his thumb just above my hipbone.

The shift in his breathing gave him away. Everything in the room quiet, but his body stilled in a way that changed the air. The heavy silence he carried when his attention locked on me completely. Studying me. Soaking in all of me.

I opened my eyes.

Muted gray light filtered in through the open doors leading to the terrace, turning the room into a quiet blend of shadows and fading warmth. The sky outside dark, heavy, and unmoved, still bloated with the storm that hasn't fully passed. Rain streaked down the glass from the night before, and the rooftops across the terrace looked slick and ready for more. The fireplace inside our room burned down to glowing embers, the heat from it faint but enough to keep the room from turning cold. Everything still. Warm. Dim. Wrapped in a silence that was too full to be peaceful.

My eyes shifted to him.

Marcellus lying on his side, his body angled toward mine, propped up slightly on one elbow. His eyes already on me. Focused. Unblinking. His dark, unreadable expression on his face told me he'd been staring at me long before I woke up.

"Have you been watching me sleep?" My voice low, raspy from how intense I screamed and moaned of pure pleasure last night.

His mouth lifted slightly, not a full smirk but enough. "You're awake now. So technically, no."

His hand rose again, brushing another strand of hair from my face. This time his fingers stayed longer, dragging across my cheek with tamed control. "How you feeling?" His voice thick, edged with satisfaction laced with smug.

I shifted slightly, and the pain hit right away. My thighs throbbed, deep and bruised. My hips ached, stretched. The muscles between my legs pulsed with a slow ache, embedded proof of everything we'd done last night.

"Sore," I replied with a smirk as my eyes met his stare. "Exhausted. But also amazing. Exhilarating."

His smirk deepened, dragged wider across his face with more arrogance behind it. "Sore?"

I scoffed softly. "Yes. Sore from being fucked senselessly."

He let out a quiet laugh, low and rough in his chest. His hand dropped back down, fingers curving around my waist. His grip tightened. "thats what you wanted right?" he said, voice thicker now. "to be fucked senselessly."

I let the silence stretch for a second before answering. "I'm not complaining." My voice dipped lower, the tease clear. "Because you're right. That's exactly what I wanted." I smiled, sharp and satisfied. "And I enjoyed every second of what you did to me."

His hand slid down to my thigh. He gripped hard, squeezing until the muscle pushed against his palm. He dragged it toward him, slow and firm. Heat spreading through the inside of my leg, followed by a dull ache that sharpened the longer he held my thigh. The pain climbed, deep and raw, pulling a wince from my mouth before I could stop it. My body tensed against the stretch, hips tightening from the leftover strain.