Marla’s POV
We didn’t talk on the way home. Not because something was wrong, but because for once, it wasn’t. No fake story to rehearse. No PR script. No camera to smile for. Just… silence. Calm. Him driving. Me staring out the window, trying not to think about how easy it all felt.
And that’s what messed me up. Because it wasn’t supposed to. The moment we stepped into the townhouse, I slipped off my heels and sighed. Ives hung his jacket like this was any regular Tuesday.
“You good?” he asked, glancing over.
“Yeah,” I said. “You?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” But the second I got upstairs, my phone lit up.
SWEET COUPLE ALERT! Mercer House CEO and Fiancée Spotted on a Romantic Night Out! And We’re Swooning.
I scrolled. There we were, me mid-laugh, him holding the door open like some reformed villain in a rom-com. The photos looked too perfect, too intimate. And that pit in my stomach came back hard. It was supposed to be real. Just us.
Now it looked staged all over again. Like we were back to playing characters the world wanted to believe in. I locked my phone and dropped it facedown. This was why I didn’t trust it. This was why I didn’t trust him. I got under the covers and stared at the ceiling, forcing my eyes shut. Sleep didn’t come. Not even close. The numbers on the digital clock glared at me.
1:52.
1:57.
2:00.
Screw it. I climbed out of bed, pulled on the first hoodie I found, his, of course, and padded down the hall for water. I didn’t make it to the kitchen, because he was already there. Standing in the hallway, barefoot, shirtless, like he wasn’t sure why he was there either. We locked eyes. No words. No “what are you doing up.” Just the heat, rising.
I took one step, he took two. And then we collided. His mouth crashed into mine like it’d been waiting all damn night. My hands fisted in his hair. His grip found my waist, then my back, then everywhere at once. I gasped into him as my back hit the wall, his hands flat on either side of my head. His kiss was rough, intentional. There was no script here. No audience. No performance. It was real. Too real. I bit his lip, making him groan into my mouth. I pulled him closer, anchoring myself to the one person I couldn’t figure out how to stay away from.
His mouth moved to my jaw, down to my neck. “You’re driving me insane,” he muttered against my skin.
“Good,” I whispered, pulling him right back up.
He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard. “We keep doing this.”
His lips found mine again, and I stopped thinking altogether. And as my spine arched and my legs wrapped around his waist, one thought burned through the mess of adrenaline and chaos in my chest. How the hell did something so fake start feeling this real?
He gripped my thighs and carried me to the nearest surface, the kitchen counter, setting me down like he was about to wreck me. His hands pushed the hoodie off my shoulders. No hesitation. No soft touches. Just raw need.
“You want me to stop?” he asked, voice low, eyes locked on mine.
“No,” I breathed. “Don’t you dare.”
He dropped to his knees in front of me, hooked his fingers into my panties, and ripped them off. Literally tore the fabric in half. Then he shoved my legs wide apart and dove in. His tongue was relentless. No teasing. No warmup. Just his mouth on my pussy, licking me like he hadn’t eaten in days. I moaned hard, my head falling back. He sucked on my clit, tongue flicking with just the right pressure, then slid two fingers inside me without warning.
“Shit,” I gasped, grinding against his face. “Fuck- right there.”
He grunted, tongue working faster, fingers fucking me deep. My legs trembled. I clutched the edge of the counter, barely able to breathe as he pulled another moan out of me with every stroke.
“Ives… fuck- don’t stop. Please-”
“You like that?” he said, mouth wet, fingers still buried in me. “This pussy’s so damn greedy. So fucking wet for me.”
“All for you,” I panted. “Only you.”
He stood, grabbed me by the jaw, and kissed me hard, letting me taste myself on his tongue. Then he dropped his sweats. His dick was thick, hard, flushed dark. I reached down to stroke him, but he grabbed my wrist.
“No,” he growled. “You’re getting fucked. Now.” He bent me over the counter, pushed my knees apart, and lined up behind me. One hand on my hip, the other pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me down. Then he slammed in.
“Fuck!” I cried, my nails digging into the countertop as he filled me deep and fast. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He just started thrusting, hard and brutal, his cock pounding into me like he was trying to mark every inch.
“You love this dick, don’t you?” he groaned. “This pussy’s mine.”
“Yours,” I moaned. “Fuck, Daddy- harder- please!” He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me up against his chest, hips still slamming into me.
“Say it again.”
“Your pussy,” I gasped. “Only yours.”
His hand slid up to my throat, squeezing just enough to make my knees weak. “You gonna come for me like a good girl?”
“Yes… God, yes- don’t stop-! ” He bent me over again and fucked me harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room. My moans turned into screams. I came so hard I almost collapsed, shaking, crying out his name. But he wasn’t done. He flipped me over onto my back, spread my legs, and shoved right back in.
“You can take it,” he growled. “That tight little pussy’s not done yet.”
I dug my heels into his back, pulling him deeper. He reached between us and rubbed my clit while he fucked me, pushing me into another orgasm so fast I couldn’t even warn him. I clenched around his dick, screaming his name.
“Fuck- Marla… I’m gonna come-”
“Do it,” I moaned. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
He groaned, low and rough, and shoved into the hilt. I felt every pulse of him as he came, hips twitching, body shaking, spilling deep inside me. We didn’t move for a while. Just breathing. Sweaty. Spent. Skin pressed together like we belonged there. Because maybe we did.