Breaking Her Rules

Elena Voss had spent thirty minutes perfecting her presentation for the Henderson account, and now, standing in the pouring rain on a Tuesday evening in downtown Chicago, she watched her carefully organized folder dissolve into a sodden mess of ink and pulp. The gust of wind that had ripped the papers from her hands had also sent her umbrella cartwheeling down the sidewalk, and she stood frozen—thoroughbred blonde hair plastered to her skull, silk blouse transparent against her lace bra, thousand-dollar heels sinking into a puddle she hadn't noticed.

"Fucking perfect," she whispered, not bothering to wipe the water streaming down her face. "Just absolutely fucking perfect."

She didn't see the truck until the horn blared—a deep, aggressive blast that snapped her out of her self-pitying trance. The vehicle was massive, a heavy-duty pickup with mud-splattered sides and a grille guard that looked capable of pulverizing concrete. It stopped less than three feet from where she stood, tires sending up a wave of gray street water that completed her drenching.

Elena expected anger. She expected a middle-aged man in a hard hat cursing her for her stupidity, for stepping into the street without looking. What she didn't expect was the door swinging open and a figure emerging with impossible grace for someone so large.

He was black. That was her first coherent thought—not that it should matter, but it registered, because Marcus Webb was the kind of man who commanded immediate visual attention. Six-foot-two at minimum, shoulders that strained the seams of his waterproof work jacket, hands that looked capable of crushing cinder blocks. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, and his closely cropped hair was beaded with rain.

But it was his eyes that stopped her breath. Dark, assessing, and currently fixed on her with an intensity that made her acutely aware of exactly how transparent her white blouse had become.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, princess," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in her chest. Not angry—amused, almost gentle, but with an undercurrent of something that made her nipples tighten against the cold lace of her bra.

"I—my papers—" Elena gestured helplessly at the sodden mess at her feet, hating how small her voice sounded.

Marcus glanced down, then back at her. One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Henderson Development?"

Elena blinked. "How did you—"

"Seen enough of those folders to recognize the letterhead." He reached down, retrieving what was left of her presentation with surprising delicacy for fingers so large. "Construction foreman. We're building the new wing they're so eager to discuss."

He held out the ruined papers, and Elena took them, her fingers brushing his. His skin was warm despite the rain, calloused from labor, and the contact sent an unexpected jolt through her—like touching a live wire, but pleasant. Dangerously pleasant.

"I've ruined it," she said, staring at the blue ink bleeding across graphs and projections. "The meeting's tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock."

"Then you'd better get dry and reprint it."

Elena laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "I don't have the files at home. They're on my work computer, and I don't have remote access. I was going to review them tonight at my apartment, but—" She gestured at herself, at the rain, at the general catastrophe of her evening.

Marcus studied her for a long moment, rain running down the planes of his face. He was handsome in a way that had nothing to do with conventional attractiveness—too rugged, too raw, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow and a nose that had clearly been broken at some point. He looked like a man who solved problems with his hands, not PowerPoint presentations.

"My office has a printer," he said finally. "And a computer you can use. Site's five minutes from here."

Elena opened her mouth to refuse. Every instinct honed by her divorce, by two years of rebuilding her boundaries, screamed at her to decline. She didn't know this man. She didn't know anything about him except that he drove a truck large enough to crush her and worked construction and looked at her like he could see through her clothes—which, given the current state of her blouse, he absolutely could.

"That's very kind, but I couldn't possibly—"

"You'd rather explain to Henderson why you don't have the numbers?" He tilted his head, rain dripping from his chin. "I'm offering a computer and a printer, princess. Not a marriage proposal."

The word "princess" should have annoyed her. It was condescending, patriarchal, everything she'd fought against during her marriage to Richard—the controlling, manipulative, "proper" husband who'd made her feel small for five years before she'd finally walked away. But coming from Marcus, in that rumbling bass, it sounded different. It sounded like a challenge.

"Elena," she said, lifting her chin. "Not princess."

His smile was slow and devastating, revealing perfect white teeth. "Marcus. And my offer stands, Elena. But the clock's ticking."

She shouldn't. She absolutely shouldn't.

"Five minutes?" she asked.

"Give or take."

Elena looked down at her ruined presentation, at her ruined evening, at the life she'd been carefully reconstructing for twenty-six months—safe, controlled, predictable. Then she looked at Marcus Webb, at the strength in his shoulders and the intelligence in his eyes and the dangerous promise in his smile.

"Lead the way," she said.

The construction site was exactly what Elena expected—mud and steel and the skeletal framework of what would eventually become a luxury office complex. What she didn't expect was the temporary office trailer: clean, organized, with a space heater that blasted blessed warmth as soon as Marcus opened the door.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to a folding chair. "I'll get you a towel."

Elena sat, shivering, watching as he moved through the small space with efficient familiarity. He retrieved a clean towel from a locker—industrial gray, rough against her skin as she pressed it to her face—and produced a thermos from his desk drawer.

"Coffee. Black. It's all I've got."

"Thank you." She wrapped her hands around the warm metal, suddenly aware of how cold she'd become. "I really appreciate this. I know how this looks—some strange woman jumping into your truck—"

"You didn't jump," he said, settling into his own chair and powering up a laptop that looked surprisingly high-end. "I invited. There's a difference." He slid the computer across the desk to her. "Password's 'SteelBeam2024.' Capital S, capital B. Knock yourself out."

Elena pulled up her cloud backup—thank God for automatic syncing—and began rebuilding her presentation. Marcus busied himself with paperwork, occasionally answering his phone with gruff efficiency, but she was acutely aware of his presence. The trailer smelled of him—sawdust and clean sweat and something darker, muskier. Masculine in a way that made her thighs press together under her sodden skirt.

She'd been divorced for two years. She'd dated, carefully, selectively—men from her social circle, her professional world. Men who wore suits and spoke in measured tones and asked permission before kissing her. Men who were safe.

Marcus Webb was not safe. She could feel it in the way he occupied space, in the economy of his movements, in the lingering glances he directed her way when he thought she wasn't looking.

"How long you been divorced?" he asked, not looking up from his clipboard.

Elena's fingers froze on the keyboard. "How did you—"

"No ring. Nice watch, nice shoes, but no ring tan." He finally looked up, dark eyes meeting hers. "Plus, you carry yourself like someone who's had to reclaim space. Shoulders back, chin up, but you're always checking exits. Defensive."

Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks—part embarrassment, part something else entirely. "Two years," she admitted. "He was... controlling. Emotionally manipulative. I finally left when I realized I'd rather be alone than be someone's property."

Marcus nodded slowly, as if she'd confirmed something. "My ex was the opposite. Couldn't commit to anything—jobs, relationships, dinner plans. Drove me nuts. I like things... clear. Defined."

"And is this?" Elena gestured between them, surprised by her own boldness. "Clear?"

His smile was predatory, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with her wet clothes. "Getting there."

They worked in silence for a while, the rain drumming against the trailer's metal roof. Elena rebuilt her presentation, occasionally asking Marcus for his opinion on construction timelines—which he provided with surprising insight, revealing an engineering degree he'd earned while working full-time.

"You're not what I expected," she said finally, sending the file to print.

"Construction worker?" He didn't sound offended.

"Yes. No. I mean..." Elena struggled to articulate the thought. "You're more. Than I expected."

Marcus stood, moving around the desk with the loose grace of an athlete. He stopped directly in front of her chair, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell that intoxicating scent of clean male sweat.

"And what did you expect, Elena?" His voice had dropped, becoming something intimate and dangerous. "A dumb brute who can't string sentences together? Someone you could feel superior to?"

"No," she breathed, even as the accusation struck close to home. "I didn't expect to want you."

The words hung between them, shocking in their honesty. Elena didn't know where they'd come from—some part of her that had been locked down for two years, some reckless, hungry part that her ex-husband had systematically starved.

Marcus's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. "Careful, princess. I'm not one of your boardroom boys. I don't ask nicely. I don't wait for permission slips."

"I know," Elena whispered. "That's why I said it."

His hand came up, fingers rough against her jaw, tilting her face up. Elena expected a kiss—demanding, perhaps, but still a kiss. What she got was his thumb pressing against her lower lip, parting them, sliding just inside the wet warmth of her mouth.

"You're playing with fire," he murmured, watching her intently. "You know that, right? I'm not safe. I'm not gentle. And once I start something, I don't stop until it's finished."

Elena closed her lips around his thumb, sucking gently, her eyes never leaving his. The groan that rumbled from his chest was the most erotic sound she'd ever heard.

"Show me," she said.

Marcus didn't kiss her. Not yet.

Instead, he hauled her up from the chair with hands that spanned her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing and setting her on the edge of his desk. Papers scattered—blueprints, invoices, the printed pages of her presentation—and neither of them cared.

"Spread your legs," he commanded, and Elena obeyed, her skirt riding up her thighs, revealing the lace tops of her stockings and the damp silk of her panties. She was soaked—had been since the truck, since the rain, since the moment this man had looked at her like she was already his.

Marcus stepped between her knees, his rough hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher. "You wore this to work?" he asked, fingers tracing the edge of her panties. "Lace and silk? Who were you trying to impress?"

"No one," Elena gasped as his thumb found her clit through the wet fabric. "I just... I like feeling..."

"Sexy?" He pressed harder, circling, making her arch. "You like knowing you're wearing something wicked under your professional little suits? Like knowing you're a dirty girl pretending to be proper?"

Elena moaned, her head falling back. No one had ever talked to her like this—Richard had been silent during sex, efficient, almost clinical. The few men she'd dated since had been careful, polite, asking "is this okay?" at every step.

Marcus didn't ask. Marcus took.

He hooked his fingers in her panties and tore them—actually tore them, the fabric giving way with a sharp ripping sound that sent a shock of arousal through her core. Elena gasped, her eyes flying open, but he was already there, his mouth descending on hers in a kiss that obliterated thought.

He tasted like coffee and rain and something uniquely male, his tongue invading her mouth with the same confidence his fingers showed between her legs. Two thick digits pushed inside her without preamble, curling to find the spot that made her see stars, and Elena cried out against his lips, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Wet," he growled against her mouth, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately. "So fucking wet for me, princess. Is this what you need? A man who doesn't treat you like glass?"

"Yes," Elena sobbed, rocking her hips against his hand. "God, yes, please—"

"Please what?" He added a third finger, stretching her, the burn exquisite. "Say it. Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me," Elena gasped, the words foreign and thrilling on her tongue. "I want you inside me. I want—"

Marcus withdrew his fingers, making her whimper at the loss, but only long enough to unbuckle his belt and free his cock. Elena had a brief, dizzying impression of size—thick, dark, veined, impossibly hard—before he was positioning himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick folds.

"Look at me," he commanded, and Elena obeyed, her eyes locking on his as he pushed forward.

The stretch was incredible. Elena had forgotten what it felt like to be truly filled, to have her body forced to accommodate a man who took up space in every sense. Marcus didn't rush—he pressed forward steadily, relentlessly, until he was seated to the hilt, his pelvis flush against hers, his cock throbbing inside her clutching heat.

"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. "You're tight. So fucking tight."

Elena wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. "Move," she begged. "Please, Marcus, move—"

He pulled back and thrust home, hard enough to slide her across the desk, and Elena screamed. Not from pain—from sheer, overwhelming sensation. He was hitting places inside her she'd never known existed, each stroke dragging against sensitive nerves, building pressure with terrifying speed.

Marcus set a brutal pace, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his cock pistoning in and out of her with wet, obscene sounds that only heightened her arousal. The desk creaked beneath them, papers fluttering to the floor, and Elena didn't care—couldn't care, not with the orgasm building inside her like a tsunami.

"Touch yourself," Marcus ordered, his voice ragged. "I want to feel you come on my cock, princess. I want to feel you squeeze me."

Elena's hand flew to her clit, rubbing frantically in tight circles as he continued to pound into her. The dual sensation was too much—his thick length filling her, stretching her, his pelvis grinding against her with each thrust, and her own fingers working her swollen bud.

"Marcus—" she gasped, her body tensing, her vision narrowing.

"Now," he growled, thrusting deep and holding, grinding against her. "Come for me, Elena. Now."

She shattered. The orgasm crashed through her with violent intensity, her back arching, her mouth open in a silent scream as her pussy convulsed around his invading shaft. Marcus groaned, feeling her flutter and contract, but he didn't stop—he kept fucking her through it, prolonging her pleasure until she was sobbing his name, until her nails had drawn blood on his shoulders.

"Again," he demanded, shifting his angle slightly, hitting a new spot that made her gasp. "You're not done. I can feel you. You're going to come again for me."

"I can't—" Elena whimpered, oversensitive, overwhelmed.

"You can," Marcus insisted, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. "And you will. Because I say so. Because your body knows who owns it right now."

The words should have angered her. They should have triggered every feminist instinct, every lesson learned in therapy about autonomy and self-worth. Instead, they sent her spiraling into a second climax, even more intense than the first, her body betraying her mind's protests and surrendering completely to his command.

This time, Marcus joined her. His thrusts became erratic, his grip on her hips bruising, and he buried himself to the root with a roar that seemed to shake the trailer. Elena felt him pulse inside her, felt the hot flood of his release filling her, and the knowledge that he was marking her, claiming her, sent her into a third, smaller orgasm that left her trembling and boneless.

They stayed like that for long moments, joined, panting, his forehead resting against hers. When he finally withdrew, Elena whimpered at the loss, feeling his seed trickle down her thighs, feeling thoroughly used and utterly satisfied.

Marcus looked down at her, at her disheveled state—blonde hair wild, blouse open to reveal her heaving breasts, skirt bunched around her waist, pussy swollen and leaking—and smiled that predatory smile.

"Still think I'm safe?" he asked.

Elena laughed, breathless and giddy. "I never thought you were safe. That's the problem."

"Good." He helped her up, surprisingly gentle, and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "Because I'm not done with you. Not by a long shot."

They didn't make it to her apartment that night. They didn't make it past the trailer.

Marcus locked the door, turned the "Closed" sign, and proceeded to spend the next three hours demonstrating exactly how thoroughly he intended to explore her body. He fucked her on the desk again, slower this time, drawing out her pleasure until she was begging incoherently. He took her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands supporting her weight as he bounced her on his cock. He laid her on the floor—surprisingly clean, he kept a tidy workspace—and ate her pussy with devastating skill, his tongue delving deep, his lips sucking her clit until she came screaming against his mouth.

And then, when she thought she had nothing left to give, he proved her wrong.

"Turn over," he commanded, his voice hoarse from their exertions. "On your hands and knees."

Elena obeyed, her body moving before her mind could process the instruction. She was exhausted, sore in the most delicious way, her pussy tender and swollen from his attention. But when she felt him position himself behind her, when she felt the broad head of his cock nudge against her entrance from this new angle, she felt fresh arousal flood her core.

"Marcus—" she gasped as he pushed forward, filling her in one smooth stroke.

"Quiet," he growled, his hands gripping her hips. "Just take it. Take my cock like a good girl."

The angle was different—deeper, somehow, hitting places that made her toes curl and her vision blur. Marcus set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against her ass with each thrust, the sound obscene and thrilling. One hand reached around to cup her breast, pinching her nipple hard enough to make her cry out, while the other slid down to rub her clit in tight, demanding circles.

"You're going to come again," he told her, not asking. "You're going to come all over my cock, and then I'm going to fill you up again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Elena sobbed, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Yes, please, Marcus—"

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me! Please make me come! Please—"

He pinched her clit, hard, and Elena exploded. The orgasm ripped through her with such force that her arms gave out, her face pressing against the cool floor as her body convulsed around his invading shaft. Marcus rode her through it, never slowing, his own release building, and when he finally came—burying himself to the hilt and groaning her name—Elena felt another wave of pleasure wash over her, smaller but no less intense.

They collapsed together, tangled on the floor, breathing hard. Marcus pulled out slowly, making her whimper, and gathered her against his chest. She could feel his heart hammering against her back, could feel the sweat cooling on their skin, could feel the stickiness of their combined releases coating her thighs.

"Tell me you have a shower here," Elena mumbled, her voice rough from screaming.

Marcus laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah. Small, but functional." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "But first, tell me when I can see you again."

Elena stiffened slightly. The words brought reality crashing back—their different worlds, her careful rebuilding, the rules she'd established for herself after the divorce. No commitments. No complications. No one who could take control away from her again.

"I don't do relationships," she said carefully. "Not anymore. I can't... I won't let anyone have that kind of power over me again."

Marcus was silent for a moment, his hand stroking up and down her arm. "Who said anything about a relationship?" he asked finally. "I'm talking about an arrangement. Purely physical. No expectations, no commitments, just..." He squeezed her hip, his meaning clear. "This. When we both want it."

Elena turned in his arms, studying his face. He looked sincere—hungry, yes, but also honest. No games, no manipulation, just straightforward desire.

"How would it work?" she asked.

"However we want it to work." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture surprisingly tender. "We see each other when we want to. We fuck when we need to. No jealousy, no drama, no strings."

It sounded perfect. It sounded exactly like what she'd been looking for since the divorce—a way to satisfy her needs without risking her heart. And yet, looking into Marcus's dark eyes, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, Elena wondered if she'd already made a terrible mistake.

"Okay," she whispered. "An arrangement."

His smile was slow and devastating. "Good. Because I'm already hard again, princess. And I intend to use you all night."

Four weeks later, Elena stood in the elevator of the Palmer House Hilton, her heart hammering against her ribs, her pussy already wet with anticipation.

The arrangement had evolved. That first night in the trailer had been only the beginning. Marcus had taken her home that night—finally—and proceeded to fuck her in every room of her apartment. In her bed, on her kitchen counter, against her living room window with the city lights spread out below them. He'd woken her at 3 AM with his mouth between her legs, licking her to orgasm before sliding into her still-spasming heat and taking his own pleasure.

They'd established rules. No sleeping over—unless they were too exhausted to move. No dates—unless you counted the times he brought her lunch at her office and proceeded to eat her out under her desk while she tried to maintain a phone conversation with a client. No emotional involvement—which was becoming increasingly difficult when he texted her things like "Thinking about your pussy wrapped around my cock" at 10 AM on a Tuesday.

And now, this. A text that morning: Room 1412. 7 PM. Wear something I can tear.

Elena had spent the day in a state of constant arousal, her mind wandering during meetings, her body hyper-aware of every brush of fabric against her skin. She'd gone shopping at lunch, buying lingerie she would never have considered before Marcus—a black lace bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination, thigh-high stockings with seams up the back, heels that made her legs look endless.