Method Madness

Anne's gasp was ripped from her throat and shattered against the ceiling.

Her head lolled back, one hand flailing for purchase on the edge of the marble table, the other fisted in Marcus's hair, pulling him deeper, harder, as if she could anchor herself in the world by the roots of him alone.

His tongue was devastating—hot, deft, relentless, not playing at seduction but devouring her with the focus of a man starved.

He worked her clit with a merciless rhythm, then buried his tongue inside, lapping at her with the hunger of something feral. His nose pressed insistently against her, the scrape of stubble a shock against the raw nerve of her.

She could feel the pressure building—liquid heat low in her belly, coiling, expanding, begging for release. Every muscle in her thighs tensed, then shook, then tensed again, as if her body had forgotten how to hold together.

She let out another sharp cry, this one half-laughter, half-threat—if he didn't stop, she might detonate on the spot.

But Marcus didn't let up. He held her hips in a punishing grip, fingers imprinting crescents into her skin. He alternated between savage, open-mouthed kisses and slow, cruel flicks, mapping her with the precision of a virtuoso.

When she bucked, he rode the wave, mouth never leaving its mark, and the sensation became too much—her vision strobing, the city lights behind the glass window smearing into a thousand points of dizzy white.

She wanted to say his name, wanted to plead, but her mouth was incapable of language. What escaped was a single, helpless sound, a vowel stretched to breaking.

He responded with a low, approving growl, the vibration of it shooting straight through her, and she had the insane thought that he was savoring her, not just her body, but the whole of her—the collapse, the exposure, the way she'd stopped pretending and submitted to being ruined.

The memory of their public personas, the mask she wore for every director, every red carpet, every single day—gone. She was reduced to sweat and trembling nerve and the wet, obscene sounds of Marcus's mouth working her over.

Her knees knocked his shoulders, her heels digging into his back with desperate, involuntary rhythm, and she didn't care if she marked him, didn't care if there were bruises tomorrow. She wanted evidence.

He drew back, just enough, to look up at her. His jaw was slick, pupils obliterated, face almost unrecognizable. No smirk, no mask at all—just naked hunger.

She opened her eyes, tried to meet his gaze, but the room pitched and she let her head fall back again, surrendering to the feeling of being completely, unselfconsciously wanted.

"Please," she whispered. She wasn't even sure what she was asking for.

He answered by sliding two fingers inside her, curling them just so, his mouth returning to her clit with a gentler, more coaxing rhythm.

It was too much. She came fast and hard, a full-body quake, toes curling, teeth biting down on the inside of her wrist to muffle the cry that tore out of her.

The orgasm didn't crest so much as detonate—every part of her went hot, then numb, then exquisitely alive, like she'd been rewired in the space of a single second.

He didn't stop. He kept her riding the aftershocks, teasing more pleasure from her than she thought possible, licking her through the spasms until she was limp and shaking.

When he finally pulled away, she was an open wound, blinking at the city as if she'd never seen it before. Marcus straightened, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and smiled—a small, private smile, barely there. He reached for her, pulled her off the table and into his lap, her legs straddling his.

She sagged against him, spent and trembling, her hair falling across her face in wild, sweat-damp streams. His heart hammered against her palm, and when she lifted her head, she found him watching her with the intensity of a camera lens, devouring every detail.

Anne kissed him—deep and messy—tasting herself on his tongue, shocked by how much she craved it.

She ground her hips against him, desperate to feel him filling her, but he teased her with shallow thrusts, sliding the head of his cock against her entrance, wet and aching. She clawed at his back, nails tracing the outlines of his tattoos, leaving small red furrows in their wake.

He broke the kiss with a soft, involuntary gasp, and she realized with a spike of power that she could make him lose control too.

"Marcus," she said, voice hoarse and ragged, "now."

He thrust his cock into her without any warning or gentle lead-in. It was raw and abrupt, just the way he always did it. She groaned, the sound muffled by his hand pressed firmly over her mouth.

He grinned—a wild, authentic grin that outshone the Joker's. His hips moved with a primal rhythm, his cock plunging deep into her with each thrust.

She wrapped her arms around him, her nails digging into his back, drawing red welts. She wanted to mark him, to leave evidence that she'd been there, that she'd had him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper into her.

"Fuck," she gasped, the word slipping out between his fingers, "fuck, Marcus—"

He liked that. He bit her shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise, then whispered hoarsely in her ear,

"You want him back inside you, don't you? You want my cock fucking you."

She moaned, half in denial, half in confession. Her body responded to his words, her hips arching to meet his thrusts.

He slowed his pace, grinding his pelvis against hers, making her squirm to feel every inch of him.

"Say it," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck.

She shook her head, but her body betrayed her, her hips chasing every deliberate circle he made. He let his hand slide down to her throat, not squeezing, just holding firmly, and looked into her eyes.

"Say it," he demanded.

She finally gave in.

"I want him. I want you to fuck me with your cock."

He smiled wide, all teeth, and crushed his mouth against hers in a fierce kiss. "Good," he growled.

He started fucking her again, hard and relentless. His cock pounded into her, the sound of their flesh slapping together filling the room. Sweat slicked their bodies, making them slide against each other. He grabbed one of her legs and lifted it over his shoulder for deeper access.

She cried out as he hit a spot deep inside her that sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body. She came once, hard and intense, unable to control the screams coming out of her mouth.

Then again when his fingers found and rubbed circles on top of the tender bud of nerves at the apex of her thighs adding another layer of sensation as he fucked hard into and against all of the most sensitive parts of her body..

He didn't let up; instead he fucked harder through every orgasmic wave that crashed right into the next until she couldn't tell where one ended and he drew another out even stronger..

Through it all she thought she saw him smile that feral grin through the haze of pleasure-pain melding with heavy lidded green eyes wild with lust. Hair, falling messily, perfectly disarrayed into his face sticky with sweat from their passion..

When it was over finally drawing out both their releases together , he collapsed beside whimpering through the aftershocks still trembling though every nerve ending.

Both of them gasping for air. Their limbs tangled tightly together as if not wanting to lose the connection they felt, the city lights alive blinking behind the frosted glass window like little Tinkerbells witnessing yet still removed from the intimacy held within .

Anne stared at the ceiling, letting the sweat cool. She listened to the sound of his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell. He turned his head, looked at her.

He said, "Are you scared now?"

She smiled, real and raw. "No."

He nodded, as if that was the answer he needed.

She rolled onto her side, curling into him, feeling the weight of his arm settle over her ribs. They didn't talk after that. There was nothing left to say.

For a long while, they lay in the dark, two animals spent by the effort of trying to become real.

She wondered, as she drifted, if she would dream of him tonight—or if she would dream of the other man, the one they'd both learned to live with.

It didn't matter.

They both missed him.

And for tonight, at least, it was enough.

....

The room was sheathed in the wan blue, the only light a halation around the edges of the blackout blinds. Anne lay on her side, cheek slick with drying sweat and mascara, not thinking so much as tracing.

Her fingers moved along the arc of Marcus's jaw, the clean plane of his cheekbone, the point where the hair just began to curl away from the skin.

She thought if she could remember every detail, she would never have to come back here again. Her palm found the rough of his stubble, then the smoother warmth beneath his ear, then the pulse just visible at the hollow of his throat.

He watched her, unmoving. Not even a twitch when she brushed the corner of his stitched-together mouth, the scar of a smile that was never part of the makeup.

She liked it better this way—him stripped of affect, all the little veils gone. She wondered if he'd ever noticed his own face, the way it settled into a different shape when no one was watching.

Her vision blurred; she blinked, thinking it was nothing. But the wetness kept coming, briny and insistent, tracking down toward his chest. She stilled her hand, tried to press it back into her eyes. But the tears came anyway, a slow leak she couldn't seal.

He said nothing, only thumbed the pad of her hand with the gentlest pressure. He wiped her cheek, then the other, and stared at the glimmer on his thumb like it was a specimen on a slide. Like he was testing the boundaries of the possible.

"It's not—" she started, but it didn't come out with any conviction. The words snagged, unfinished, the sentence too frail to bear its own truth.

She pressed her lips together, tried again, but her throat betrayed her—too tight, too thick, like she'd swallowed a fistful of salt.

He tracked her every micro-expression, gaze fixed in the way actors held still for close-ups, waiting for the world to blink first. The silence pressed at her temples, made her want to laugh or scream or hide herself under the sheets and never emerge. Instead, she curled her fingers into his collarbone, clutching for ballast.

She was going to say it wasn't sadness, not exactly. That it wasn't grief, or if it was, it was a grief without an object, a mourning for a self she could only glimpse in the mirror of his eyes.

She was going to say she didn't mean to make things weird, didn't mean to ruin the afterglow with a performance of vulnerability. But she couldn't find the script for this part, and it infuriated her—how not even now could she improvise.

She breathed in, tried to steady herself. Her eyes burned. "It's not—" she said again, softer, only this time she never finished.

He interrupted her with a thumb to her lips, shushing the words before they could escape.

...

You smashed it to 1,000 power stones so as a thank you here are 3 chapters because I love you guys!!

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