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OLDER!MARC SPECTOR mentally admonishes himself while he stands in front of his bathroom mirror, deeply ashamed and regretful for his lecherous thoughts about one of his most loyal friend's daughter. The man is nothing but a responsible, committed, and trustworthy member of his board, once serving Elias and Wendy Spector themselves, and this is how Marc repays him? By fantasizing, blatantly objectifying his beloved daughter? It simply doesn't matter that you're a grown woman in your mid-twenties—he's pushing forty, for heaven's sake!
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR vows to try his best not to think about you inappropriately, and the best avenue to achieving this goal is to avoid you in every possible way. Send someone in his stead at galas he would otherwise attend himself, have an expensively thoughtful present delivered to a board member as an apology for missing their birthday party, and even go as far as to find himself a seat at an inconspicuous corner at his eldest daughter's college graduation, who is a batchmate of yours. He likes to think of himself as a man of his word, which is why he would go to such great lengths even if he inadvertently hurts the people around him. But he believes it's for the best.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR lasts all of three days before he is back in front of his bathroom mirror, chest heaving and skin flushed, as thoughts of you barrage their way through his crumbling defenses. His plan of action spread throughout months designed to forget you, ruined. Utterly forgotten. Gradually, he lets himself indulge, give in to your tempting, sweet phantom call despite himself. Arms bracing the marble sink, he lets his head fall between his shoulders, tortured by images of you, before he strips and enters the shower.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR, with one wide palm splayed on the cold tile, he stands under the freezing spray of the shower as he strokes himself, slowly, wrists twisting for added, much-needed friction. Head bowed and eyes shut tight, in either pleasure or penitence—he no longer knows nor cares, he fucks his hand to the mental images of you. Moans, raw and guttural, leave his lips, echoing through his bathroom, as he picks up his space, hips snapping against his hand.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR calls out your name, praise and endearments interspersed with groans rumbling deep from his chest. He could feel his cock throbbing in his palm, the tip red and leaking. Visuals of you continue to consume him; you're all he can see now. Underneath him with your hair splayed on his pillow, drowning in the pleasure he gives you as you chant his name in breathless moans, arching your back as he fucks you through your orgasm. Then, standing, your back flushed against his chest as he drives into you from the back, making you watch in the mirror how he fucks you until your knees give out. Suddenly, you're on your knees in his very bathroom with him, hair wet, a few strands sticking to your forehead and he combs them away from your face. You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes as you wrap your lips around his cock. Tentatively, you twirl your tongue around the head, and he nearly comes from the vision. You grow bolder, bobbing your head at the same time as you stroke his shaft with your tongue.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR comes with a shout. His climax hits him so hard his vision darkens at the edges, his knees buckling under the force of his orgasm he has to hold on to the shower head for support. Swallowing, he takes his time recovering, hopeful that now that he's given to the lust once, it'd disappear, that it was just a one-time situation. . . only for you to come back with a vengeance.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR lies awake on his bed late at night, too hot and uncomfortable, tossing and turning with the hopes of at least an hour of sleep finding him. Sheets now tangled between his limbs, he would love if it were your legs instead. Maybe if you were in bed with him, in his arms, sleep wouldn't elude him this much. Your fingers combing through his tousled hair, helping him get rest . . . maybe they would tug near his scalp while his head is buried between your legs. His eyes closing as his hands find their way to his pelvis, shoving his boxers down at the sides until his cock springs free, semi-hard and leaking profusely.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR surrenders, like the pathetic, weak man he is. Formidable in board meetings, unflinching in the face of New York's most unforgivable crimes . . . and yet there he stands, in complete distraught as he watches you have a conversation with another man, animatedly. He eyes you all night at the first gala he hosts after swearing he'd avoid you. He thought he'd be satisfied with seeing you from afar, that simply being in the same room as you would appease the monster he'd indulge far too many times in private. It gives the opposite of his expected effect. He's greedier, with a hunger that only you can slake.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR steals you away from the man with a charming smile and placating apology, careful from toeing the line of subservient. If anyone should be apologizing, it should be them for taking too much of your time, for not noticing how uncomfortable you have been standing all night. But he has a reputation to maintain, and he doesn't want to give you the wrong impression of him.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR takes you to a secluded area of the Spector estate, far from the ballroom and partitioned with velvet rope, limiting guest access. He finds an unoccupied room at your behest, watching you sink down on the sofa and reach for your red sole stiletto. Without hesitation, he goes down on his knees and takes off your heels for you, eyes firmly on your ankles. Knowing if he lets his gaze stray, the monster he's entertained far too much would pounce.
"You don't have to do that, Mr. Spector," came your worried tone, words hurried and dripping in shock. He shakes his head lightly, taking your other ankle in his hand.
"Allow me, darling. Nothing to worry about."
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR knows he should stop, stand and leave you alone before he makes a grave mistake. Physically, he couldn't do anything. He tries to let you go but it aches, everything inside him burns with the need to stay, with his desire for you—palpable, visceral, living and breathing inside him.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR snaps his head up at the sight of your hand covering his, thumb caressing the back of his palm in soothing passes. Overwhelming need floods him, his hand tightening around your leg.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR kisses you deep, lips slanted over yours and tongue slipping inside your mouth. His hands explore your body, sliding down your waist before squeezing, kneading your flesh over your dress, pulling you off the leather couch so your bodies are flushed against each other. One calloused hand travels the length of your thigh, pushing up the hem, with the other unzipping the back of your dress. He kisses you like a man starved, and when you ask for a short break, he only watches you with heated eyes as you catch your breath, forehead against yours as his hands continue to undress you.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR goes down to his knees, hauling your legs up to fold you in half. Soft ambient lighting cuts across his sharp features, giving him a devilish silhouette whose eyes promise a night of pleasure, the kind that would ruin you for everyone else. Your dress pools around your waist, chest panting as you watch him lower his head closer to your clothed pussy with palpable anticipation.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR plants kisses on your inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where you need him most. He clicks his tongue in reproach when you buck your hips with impatience, silently shaking his head without breaking eye contact. He slides a finger up your slit, teasing your clit until you whine and beg—your sounds infinitely better than anything he's ever heard. Hooking a finger on the inseam, he snaps it into place before shoving it aside.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR groans, a guttural, all-masculine sound rumbling his wide chest, at the sight of your pussy—glistening, throbbing around nothing, and so his. Tongue teasing the crease between your pussy and thigh, he watches your expression with hooded eyes. Your eyes flutter close at the feel of his gentle kisses and hot tongue on your oversensitive skin, biting your lower lip as a moan threatens to slip past.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR kisses the tuft of trimmed hair above your mound before licking a long, languid stripe up your slit and latching his lips on your clit. Holding the backs of your thighs up, he keeps you spread open so he can eat you out properly. Flattening his tongue on your throbbing clit, he shakes his head and moans when your fingers comb through his hair. You tug at the roots, back arching off the couch.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR finds one of your hands and places it behind your knees, whispering, "Keep your legs open, baby. Come on, keep them open for me", before fucking you with his tongue. Subtle metal sounds reach your ears, and it dawns on you that he's unbuckling his belt with his one free hand. Comes next is the soft rasp of his zipper, and it sends shivers skating down your spine.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR fucks you with his tongue as his strong nose bumps against your clit, creating the most delicious friction. Pressure builds inside you until it unravels, sudden and blinding. You rub your cunt on him, and he gives you absolute control to ride out your high. He takes everything you give him with desperate moans and muffled praises.
"That's it, come on my tongue, baby."
"Good girl. Fuck, that's my good girl."
"Ride my face. Good girl, let me taste your cum."
"You're so sweet. So perfect. If you think I'm letting you go, sweetheart, you better think again."
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR stands in front of you as he pushes his pants and briefs down at the sides, just enough so his cock springs free. You study him, hard and leaking, with wide eyes. He strokes himself as he unbuttons his dress shirts, eyes trailing your features as if committing them to memory.
OLDER!MARC SPECTOR makes you look at him with a gentle hand under your chin, his body hovering over yours. "You tell me you don't want this and I'll stop." You shake your head, looking up at him and whispering a soft, "Don't stop". He hums, brushing strands of hair from your face. "I won't make you regret us, sweetheart. Now hold on, I'm going to make you come until you're begging me to stop." Leaning in, he kisses the corner of your lips. "Even then, I won't."