Black: 1000 Nights of Desires

5

**Chapter 5: The Edge of Obsession**

Back in the city the air tastes different—thicker, sharper, laced with diesel and danger. The weekend at the lake feels like a fever dream we refuse to wake from. We don’t talk about stopping. We don’t talk about anything that isn’t filthy and immediate. The secrecy doesn’t smother the fire; it feeds it oxygen until the flames lick higher than either of us can control.

Monday night he texts me a single line: *My office. 11 p.m. Door’s unlocked.*

I arrive in the dark corridor of his building wearing a trench coat over nothing but black lace and thigh-highs. The security guard nods without looking twice—he’s used to late-night visitors who aren’t questioned. The elevator ride is silent except for my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

His office door is ajar, light spilling gold across the carpet. Markus is at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie gone, collar open, phone pressed to his ear. He doesn’t look up when I step inside and lock the door behind me. He just keeps talking—calm, professional, discussing quarterly projections—while his eyes track me across the room.

I drop to my knees under the desk without a word.

The space is tight, warm from his legs. I nudge his thighs apart; he spreads them wider without breaking stride in the conversation. My fingers find his zipper, tug it down slow. He’s already half-hard, thickening the moment my hand wraps around him. I take him into my mouth just as he says, “Yes, we’ll need to revise the timeline.”

He doesn’t falter. Not when I swirl my tongue around the head, not when I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, not when his free hand drops to fist in my hair and guides me in shallow, controlled thrusts. His voice stays steady even as his hips lift slightly off the chair. I feel the moment his control frays—his breathing hitches mid-sentence, a low curse swallowed before it escapes. He ends the call with a clipped “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” then drops the phone and groans my name like it’s been torn out of him.

He hauls me up by the arms, spins me, bends me over the desk. Papers scatter. My coat falls open. He yanks my panties aside and drives into me in one brutal thrust. The desk creaks; my palms slap against the wood for balance. He f***s me hard and fast—short, punishing strokes that make my teeth rattle and my vision blur. I come first, biting my own arm to muffle the cry. He follows seconds later, buried deep, pulsing inside me while his forehead presses between my shoulder blades.

We don’t speak after. He just kisses the back of my neck, tucks himself away, helps me button the coat. I leave with his taste still on my tongue and his come trickling down my thigh.

Wednesday it’s the parking garage beneath his building.

He waits in the backseat of the black SUV, engine off, windows already starting to fog from our breathing. I climb in without preamble, straddle him the second the door shuts. My skirt is shoved up, his trousers open just enough. I sink down onto him with a moan that echoes in the confined space. The car rocks with every roll of my hips—frantic, desperate, like we’re racing against some invisible timer. His hands grip my ass, urging me faster; mine brace on his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt. Headlights sweep across the tinted windows once, twice—we freeze for half a heartbeat, then keep going harder, chasing the edge. I ride him until my thighs burn and my orgasm crashes over me in sharp, shuddering waves. He thrusts up once, twice, and spills inside me with a guttural sound that vibrates through my chest.

We stay like that afterward—sweaty, panting, foreheads pressed together—until the windows are completely opaque and the garage lights flicker on motion sensors.

Friday night I leave my apartment door unlocked.

He doesn’t knock.

The second the latch clicks he’s on me—back slamming against the wall, my leg hooked over his hip, skirt rucked to my waist. He doesn’t bother with foreplay; he just reaches between us, shoves my underwear aside, and thrusts in deep enough to lift me onto my toes. My head thumps the plaster. His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping, sucking bruises that will bloom purple by morning. We f**k standing—hard, urgent, the kind of s*x that leaves fingerprints on hips and rug burns on knees when we finally slide to the floor. He takes me again on the hallway rug, then carries me to the bedroom and takes me once more on my stomach, face pressed into the pillow, his weight pinning me while he whispers how tight I feel, how wet, how f*****g perfect.

Every touch is electric now. Every glance loaded. I feel him in my muscles the next day—pleasant ache in my thighs, faint soreness between my legs, the ghost of his hands on my skin. The moment he’s gone I ache for him all over again, hollow and restless until the next text lights up my phone.

He can’t keep his hands off me either.

In stolen minutes at family dinners his fingers brush my inner thigh under the table. In elevators he presses me against the wall and kisses me like he’s drowning. Late at night he calls just to hear my voice, then describes—in low, filthy detail—what he wants to do to me the next time we’re alone. “I dream about you clenching around me,” he murmurs once, voice rough with sleep and want. “Nothing else. Just that.”

We don’t sleep much anymore.

The final night—or what feels like the final night, though we both know there won’t be one—we don’t stop until dawn bleeds pale through the blinds of my bedroom.

He arrives just after midnight. We don’t make it past the living room at first—clothes ripped off, my back to the couch, his mouth between my legs until I’m shaking and begging. Then the bedroom: me riding him slow, then fast, then slow again; him flipping me onto my hands and knees and driving into me until the headboard bangs a steady rhythm against the wall. We switch positions like we’re trying to memorize every angle—missionary with my legs over his shoulders, spooning with his hand between my thighs rubbing circles over my c**t, me on top grinding down until we’re both trembling.

We come together more times than I can count—shuddering, gasping, clinging. Sweat slicks every inch of us. My nails leave red crescents on his back; his teeth mark my shoulder, my breast, the soft skin inside my thigh. When we finally collapse it’s tangled in damp sheets, bodies spent but still reaching.

His arm bands around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I feel him softening inside me, the lazy aftershocks still fluttering through both of us. Dawn creeps across the ceiling in thin silver streaks.

He presses a kiss to my temple, voice hoarse. “Can’t get enough of you.”

I turn my face into his neck, inhale the salt and cedar of him. “Then don’t.”

His hand slides down my spine, cups my ass, squeezes once—possessive, gentle, hungry all at once.

The city wakes outside the window—traffic, birds, distant sirens.

We don’t move.

The hunger doesn’t fade.

It coils tighter, burns hotter, waits for the next stolen moment.

And we both know we’ll keep feeding it until there’s nothing left to burn.