Claude drove into her with deep, relentless strokes, the headboard slamming against the wall in a steady, filthy rhythm.
Marceline met every thrust, her legs locked tight around his waist, her nails raking down the broad line of his back hard enough to leave angry red marks.
Champagne still burned through her veins, turning every sensation sharper, hotter, and terrifyingly desperate.
He shifted his weight, adjusting the angle to grind brutally against that exact, merciless spot inside her.
Her whole body tightened instantantly, pulling taut like a drawn bow.
“Claude—ahh—”
“That’s it,” he growled against the sensitive skin of her throat, his voice utterly wrecked, all corporate restraint stripped down to raw muscle and instinct.
“Let go, Marceline.”
She shattered with a broken, breathless cry, her walls pulsing hard around him as her back arched violently off the mattress.
Pleasure ripped through her in long, shuddering waves, blinding and absolute.
Claude held her tightly through it, driving straight through the desperate clench of her orgasm until she was trembling, weeping, and gasping beneath him.
When the last violent tremor finally faded, he slowed his pace, staying buried deep inside her, his forehead coming down to rest heavy against hers.
Sweat gleamed on their skin in the dim light.
Both of them were heaving for air like they’d just run for miles.
Marceline’s eyes fluttered open, dazed, glassy, and completely undone.
A soft, breathless sound—halfway between a laugh and a gasp—escaped her swollen lips.
“Mince, Auclair…” she whispered, her voice gravel-hoarse against his jaw.
“You’re… so good.”
Claude’s mouth curved into something dark, sharp, and utterly satisfied.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead, he rolled them in one smooth, fluid motion until she was straddling him again, still completely impaled on him.
He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands resting lightly on the curve of her hips, holding her deliberately still.
Marceline blinked down at him, her skin flushed, hypersensitive, and gleaming in the dim light.
She tried to shift, to take the rhythm back into her own hands, but his grip tightened just enough to lock her in place.
“Do you want more?” he asked softly, his voice low, steady, and wicked.
She bit her lower lip, a lingering spark of pride flickering back to life through the champagne haze.
Her hips twitched instinctively against him, but she kept her mouth shut.
Claude’s thumbs stroked slow, tormenting circles against her hipbones.
“Say it, Marceline.
What do you want?”
Marceline glared down at him, her chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.
“You already know.”
“Not good enough.” His hands slid slowly up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, tantalizingly close, never quite giving her the friction she needed.
“Say it.”
She tried to hold back—tried to lock the words behind her teeth—but her body was still humming, raw and aching for him.
The confession slipped out in a breathless, frustrated rush, “I want more.
I want you.”
Claude’s eyes darkened with pure, possessive heat.
“Then come and get it.”
Marceline let out a breathless, incredulous laugh.
“Arrogant bastard.”
“You’re the one who wants this,” he murmured against the dark, completely unrepentant.
“Come and get it.”
Something fierce, defiant, and wildly playful sparked in her expression.
Planting her palms flat against his chest, she lifted herself slightly and began to move—slow at first, rolling her hips, taking every inch of him deep.
Claude let out a low groan, his head tipping back against the pillows as she dictated the pace.
Marceline rode him harder, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like silk, the champagne still singing in her veins as she turned every trace of her hatred into absolute, intoxicating surrender.
His hands rose to her breasts, teasing, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she gasped.
He sat up just enough to close his mouth around one peak, sucking hard while his tongue flicked over the sensitive tip.
Marceline’s rhythm faltered on a sharp moan.
“Ahnn— Claude—”
He switched to the other breast, his teeth grazing lightly before sucking until she was grinding down harder, desperately chasing the building pressure.
One of his hands slid down between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles in perfect time with every roll of her hips.
She came again with a broken cry, clenching around him so tightly he had to grit his teeth to keep from following her over the edge.
Her forehead dropped heavy against his shoulder as the waves rolled through her, her body trembling violently in his arms.
Claude stroked her bare back slowly, waiting until her ragged breathing evened out.
Then he tilted her chin up with two fingers, his blue eyes gleaming through the dark.
“Are you satisfied now?”
Marceline gave a weak, breathless huff of laughter against his neck.
“I… maybe.”
His smile turned dark, wicked, and completely unrepentant.
“Good.
Because I’m not done.”
Before she could answer, he moved—flipping her onto her hands and knees with smooth, effortless strength.
The sudden shift made her gasp, her dark hair tumbling over her face.
He settled behind her, one broad palm splayed between her shoulder blades to press her chest down toward the mattress.
His other hand guided himself back to her slick entrance.
He pushed in slow, heavy, and deep, filling her completely from the new angle until she let out a long, helpless moan into the sheets.
“Do you like this?” he rasped against her ear, his voice gravel-rough as he began to move—long, powerful strokes that made her fingers fist tightly in the duvet.
“…Yes,” she breathed, her forehead pressing into the mattress.
“Harder, Claude—please—”
Claude gave her exactly what she asked for.
His hips snapped forward, harder, deeper, the sharp sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet suite.
One hand reached around to cup her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple in time with every heavy thrust, while his other hand locked firmly onto her hipbone, holding her right where he wanted her.
Marceline pushed back to meet every hit, entirely lost in it—the stretch, the raw heat, the terrifying way he seemed to know precisely how to ruin her.
Every deep thrust dragged another breathless sound from her throat.
“Claude—Putain—don’t stop—”
He leaned down over her, his bare chest flushing against her back, his mouth brushing the sensitive nape of her neck as he drove into her with relentless precision.
“Not stopping,” he growled softly against her skin.
“Not until you come for me again.”
She did—shattering a third time with a muffled cry into the sheets, her body locking tight around him in a frantic, shuddering grip.
“Ahhnn—”
Claude followed a heartbeat later with a low, guttural groan.
He buried himself to the hilt, holding her pinned beneath him as he finally surrendered his own control, spilling deep inside her in long, pulsing waves.
They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and damp sheets, their hearts slamming in unison while the Paris night sat quiet and heavy beyond the windowpane.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The sheer weight of the night hung over them—no corporate strategy, no long-standing resentments, just the quiet rhythm of their breathing settling back to normal.
Claude’s hand drifted lazily up and down the delicate curve of her spine, his touch light, steady, and unhurried.
Marceline’s breath slowly evened out where her cheek rested against the broad heat of his chest.
Eventually, she muttered into his skin, her voice thick with exhaustion and lingering champagne, “I still hate you, Auclair.”
Claude’s chest rumbled beneath her, a quiet laugh escaping him like pure velvet in the dark.
“Of course you do, Laurent.”
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t pull away, either.
Within minutes, her body went limp, soft and warm against his side, as sleep finally pulled her under—the very last of the night’s defiance spent in his arms.