Sinful Obsession

The Morning After 2

He slid a finger inside me, curling it forward, pressing against the sensitive spot that made my vision blur. His tongue found my c**t, circling it with a maddeningly slow rhythm, and I felt the pleasure building, coiling tighter and tighter in my core.

"That's it," he murmured against my flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. "Let go. I want to taste you."

He added a second finger, stretching me, filling me, while his tongue worked my c**t with relentless precision. The orgasm built like a wave, rising higher and higher, until it crashed over me with a force that left me breathless. My hips bucked against his face, my thighs clamping around his head, a scream tearing from my throat as the pleasure pulsed through me in waves.

He didn't stop. He lapped at my release, drinking me in, his tongue working through the aftershocks until I was trembling and spent, my body boneless against the mattress.

He crawled back up my body, his face glistening with my arousal. He leaned down and kissed me, deep and slow, letting me taste myself on his lips.

"Good morning," he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

I laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound. "Good morning."

He rolled onto his back, pulling me against his side. His c**k pressed against my hip, still hard, still insistent. I reached down, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling the heat and weight of him in my palm. He groaned, his eyes closing, his hand coming to rest on top of mine.

"f**k, Sophie," he hissed through his teeth. "Your hand feels incredible."

I stroked him slowly, my fingers sliding along his length, feeling the veins and ridges of his shaft. I tightened my grip, pumping him in a steady rhythm, and his hips began to move, thrusting into my fist.

"Harder," he growled, his hand tightening on mine. "Don't be gentle."

I increased my pace, my grip tightening, my wrist moving faster. The sounds he made were intoxicating—low, guttural groans that rumbled in his chest, sharp hisses of breath through clenched teeth. His free hand found my breast, squeezing, his thumb rubbing my n****e in rough circles.

"I'm going to c*m," he warned, his voice strained. "Where do you want it?"

"Anywhere," I whispered, surprising myself with the boldness of the word.

He grabbed my wrist, stilling my hand, and pulled me on top of him. I straddled his hips, my knees on either side of his body, and he positioned himself at my entrance. I sank down onto him, taking him in inch by inch, my walls stretching to accommodate his width.

"f**k," I moaned, my hands bracing against his chest. "You feel so good."

"Ride me," he commanded, his hands gripping my hips. "Show me how much you want it."

I began to move, rising and falling on his c**k, finding a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through both of us. The collar bounced against my throat with each movement, a constant reminder of who I belonged to. His hands guided my hips, setting the pace, pulling me down harder each time I rose.

"You're taking it so well," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. "Such a good girl."

The praise sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I rode him harder, faster, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pleasure built again, a familiar coiling in my belly, and I felt myself approaching the edge.

"c*m with me," I gasped, my pace becoming frantic. "Please, sir. c*m with me."

He sat up, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His c**k drove deeper inside me, hitting a spot that made my vision blur. He thrust up into me, matching my rhythm, his breath hot against my neck.

"Together," he growled. "Now."

The orgasm hit us both at the same time, a blinding, white-hot wave that crashed through us like a tsunami. I felt him pulse inside me, his release flooding my insides with warmth, while my own walls clenched around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. I buried my face in his neck, muffling my scream, my body shaking with the intensity of it.

We collapsed together, tangled in the sweat-dampened sheets, our breathing ragged and harsh. His arms remained around me, holding me against his chest, his heart hammering against my cheek.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were our breathing and the distant, indifferent chirping of birds outside the window. The morning light had shifted, the golden streaks now brighter, warmer, filling the room with a soft glow that made everything feel almost... normal.

Almost.

Marcus pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "I have to go to the office today," he said, his voice still rough. "There's a meeting I can't miss."

I nodded against his chest. "Okay."

"I'll be back by six." He paused, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. "Text me when you wake up. Every hour. I want to know what you're doing."

The possessiveness of the request should have felt suffocating. Instead, it felt like an anchor, a tether to something solid and unwavering. I nodded again.

He rolled me off him gently, sliding out of bed. I watched him move around the room, pulling on a fresh shirt, buttoning it with practiced efficiency, tucking it into his trousers. The transformation was remarkable—the man who had just been writhing beneath me, groaning my name, was now the picture of corporate composure. Hair combed, tie knotted, jacket draped over one arm.

He paused at the door and looked back at me, lying in his bed, wearing his collar, my body still tingling with the aftermath of his touch.

"Don't take that off," he said, nodding toward my throat. "I want to know you're wearing it even when I can't see you."

"I won't," I promised.

He held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and disappeared down the hallway. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, the front door opening and closing, the distant rumble of his car engine fading into silence.

I lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my fingers tracing the leather collar at my throat. The house was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Not empty. Waiting.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and typed out a message.

Awake. In your bed. Wearing your collar. — S

The response came thirty seconds later.

Good girl. Stay there until I tell you otherwise. — M

I set the phone down, pulled the covers over my head, and smiled into the darkness.

The hours crawled by. I showered, dressed, made myself toast and coffee. I sat at the kitchen island with my textbook open in front of me, but the words were just shapes on a page, meaningless symbols that my brain refused to process. All I could think about was Marcus. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

At ten o'clock, I texted him.

Studying. Or trying to. — S

Try harder. I'm paying for that degree. — M

At eleven.

Took a break. Made more coffee. The house is too quiet without you. — S

A pause. Then:

That's the point. Get used to it. — M

At noon.

Thinking about last night. And this morning. I can still feel you inside me. — S

A longer pause. Then:

Fuck, Sophie. You can't text me things like that when I'm in a meeting. Come here. Now. — M

I stared at the message, my heart racing. “Come here”. Did he mean...

To the office? — S

Did I stutter? — M