10: Claimed

By the time Marisol reached the front steps of Smith Hall, the afternoon had surrendered to the velvet dusk of early-evening. The cicadas buzzed from the trees in a chaotic rhythm, as if echoing her racing pulse. Her long hair was strewn over her face, wild from the breeze, her breath shallow with anticipation, and her fingers twitched uselessly around the strap of her shoulder bag.

She hadn’t been able to sit still all day.

Not at home. Not even at Sarah’s.

Her skin had itched with the memory of his hands. Her lips still tingled with the echoes of his kiss. And beneath it all — a thrum of need, of tether, of something deeper than lust. Like something in her had rooted itself in him and hated being away.

Why did I wait all day to come back?

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t have to.

The door opened before she touched the handle, and there he was — Bharath, still a little pale, his side bandaged but posture proud. For a half-second, his eyes widened like he wasn’t sure she was really there.

Then they softened. Then blazed.

She didn’t give him time to speak.

She was in his arms.

No words. No hesitation. Just heat and relief. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips crashed into his, her body pressing close but careful around his healing wound.

He staggered back with a gasp, catching her waist, closing the door behind them without looking, his mind clearly consumed by the sudden hurricane of her.

“God,” he murmured against her mouth, breath already ragged. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she breathed, cupping his face like he was both treasure and question. “You got stabbed and I left you alone like a damn idiot.”

“You were with Sarah,” he said gently, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “That matters too.”

“You matter more,” she said, fiercer now.

And it was true. Every fiber of her knew it. She’d left part of herself behind that morning. Now, being in his arms again — it was like that part snapped back into place.

She kissed him again. Slower now. Fuller. Her hands slid over his bare shoulders, down his chest, and he trembled under her touch.

“You’ve been holding it all in,” she whispered. “Trying to be strong. For me. For Sarah. For everyone.”

“I’m fine,” he lied, soft and automatic.

She leaned back enough to meet his eyes. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to joke — but she silenced him by slipping down to her knees.

“Wait—Marisol, what are you—”

Her hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants.

“You’re carrying it all,” she said, voice calm and clear. “All the tension. I can feel it in your arms. In your breath. You saved someone’s life and then pretended like nothing happened.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Her voice dropped lower. Almost reverent.

“I’ve never wanted to give anything more.”

He stilled.

Not from resistance.

From awe.

She tugged his sweats down slowly, inch by inch, watching him emerge with wide eyes and parted lips.

And when he sprang free, full and thick and flushed with blood, she stilled.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh...”

He flushed. “Too much?”

She looked up at him — worshipful, stunned. “No. You’re ... perfect.”

Then she touched him.

At first, she was unsure. Her fingers traced him gently, marveling at the heat, the weight, the way he twitched in her palm. She was learning him, mapping him, falling in love with the way his body reacted to her curiosity.

He moaned — low, surprised — before she’d even moved her mouth.

And when she did, when her lips slid over him slowly, cautiously, Bharath’s knees nearly gave out.

“Marisol,” he gasped, bracing one hand on the wall. “Oh my god...”

She hollowed her cheeks slightly, experimenting, adjusting. He was thick — almost too much — but she reveled in the stretch, the taste, the feel of him. The vulnerability. The power.

She pulled back slightly, lips gliding wetly off the head, and whispered, “Don’t be gentle with me. I want to know what feels good. I want to learn you.”

His breath came out in a shudder. “You’re going to kill me.”

She smiled — lips brushing the tip of his shaft — and took him again. Slower this time. With intent.

Her tongue swirled. Her hand stroked. She watched his eyes roll back, his chest rise and fall. Every sound he made — every gasp, grunt, or whispered plea — lit her up inside.

This was new for her. All of it.

But somehow, it felt like she was meant for this.

He trembled. His knuckles were white against the wall. His other hand hovered by her cheek like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her there.

“You can touch me,” she whispered between strokes. “I want you to.”

So he did.

He ran his fingers through her hair, tangled and wild, and whispered her name like a prayer.

“I’m not going to last,” he warned, voice cracked. “You’re too good. This is too much—”

“Then give it to me,” she murmured, licking a slow path along his length. “Let go.”

He groaned, ragged and unrestrained, hips jolting forward as his restraint shattered.

It hit fast.

His whole body tensed, one long, shaking pull — and then he cried out, his hand clutching her hair, her name bursting from his lips in a hoarse, broken voice that filled the room.

She held him through it. He came into her mouth. He felt like it wouldn’t stop. Torrent after torrent flooding her mouth.

And yet she didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. She somehow managed to keep up with his release as she gulpled down his cream like it was nothing.

She let him ride it out, gentle and present, her mouth and hands easing him through the aftershocks like she was wrapping him in her mouth.

Only when he sagged back against the wall, chest heaving, thighs trembling, did she finally let go — kissing the inside of his hip once before rising back up to her feet.

She gave his semi-hard cock a kiss and got up licking her lips.

“That was tasty! I think I’m going to need a lot more of that!”

Bharath whimpered as his cock almost became hard almost immediately.

She brushed his sweat-damp curls off his forehead.

“Bharath,” she whispered. “You’re mine now.”

He looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“That was ... I don’t have words.”

“You don’t need words,” she said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You just need me.”

His arms came around her — not greedy, not lustful, just desperate to hold her.

“That was my first time,” he whispered into her neck. “Anyone doing that. How were you so good?”

“I know,” she said softly. “Mine too.”

He blinked. “That was your—? Wait, you’ve never—”

“Never wanted to. Not like this. Not until now. Not until you.”

He kissed her like he couldn’t stop himself.

Then pulled back and whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” she said, eyes fierce and warm. “And I’m not done proving it. We have so much more to explore don’t we?”

He laughed, weak but joyful. “You’re not done?”

She grinned. “Not even close. But you need to lie down.”

He let her guide him to the bed — carefully, gently — and they lay down together, wrapped in the warmth of each other. Her leg tangled over his, her hand tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured.

She kissed his collarbone. “Good. I like you a little crazy. Now a certain other part of me has been very lonely since this morning. You think your shaft here will help make it feel better?”

The room was dim, the late afternoon light slipping through the blinds in soft golden slants. A breeze stirred the thin curtain, the hum of the boxy AC filling the silence with a constant, lazy drone.

Bharath lay behind Marisol, spooned around her like she was the only shape he’d ever been meant to hold.

His hand was under her borrowed Tech hoodie, fingers moving slowly — worshipfully — over the soft weight of her breasts, occasionally rolling one nipple between his fingertips just to hear her breath hitch. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and it was driving him just slightly insane.

She smelled like summer skin and shampoo. Like home.

His mouth pressed against the curve of her shoulder, then higher — her neck, her cheek, her temple. Small, open kisses between long exhales.

Neither of them had said anything in a while.

They hadn’t needed to.

But then, quietly — so quietly he almost missed it — Marisol murmured:

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” he whispered, his thumb now lazily stroking her bare skin in slow, widening circles.

She hesitated. Then said, “Sarah and I talked. About last night. About this morning. About ... you.”

His hand stilled.

But only for a beat.

Then it moved again, softer now — like he didn’t want to spook her.

“She said,” Marisol continued, “that something happened last night. Not just the rescue. But between us three. That there was something there. Something ... different.”

Bharath didn’t answer with words.

But Marisol felt him.

All of him.

Pressed against her lower back, thick and hard and rising fast under the thin barrier of his sweats.

She grinned into the pillow.

“Well. That’s an answer.”

He groaned softly, burying his face into her hair. “I can’t help it. You’re talking about you, me, and her. In bed. Together.”

“I didn’t say that,” Marisol said, teasing. “I said something was there. Something emotional. Something real.”

He kissed the back of her shoulder, voice muffled. “Did you feel it too?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I did. It was ... strange. But not in a bad way. I felt like we were already something. Like a bond was forming even though no one asked for it.”

Bharath exhaled against her skin. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I don’t know what I am,” she admitted. “I’m not bi or lesbian, Bharath. Not really. But I didn’t feel weird holding her. Or letting her hold me even when we were half naked. I felt safe. And ... open.”

She shifted slightly, reaching behind her to touch his thigh. “But here’s the thing. None of this happens without you. If something ever happens — ever — it only happens with your full consent. And your heart is in the right place.”

He pressed a long, slow kiss to the side of her neck. “You’re mine,” he murmured.

She smiled. “And I’ll never forget that.”

He squeezed her breast gently, reverently, then ran his hand back down to her stomach, resting there.

“So what do we do?” she asked quietly.

Bharath was quiet for a long moment, his hand still warm against her skin.

He didn’t know what to say.

Part of him still felt like the boy who’d flown to the US with a suitcase full of IT dreams and Bollywood fantasies. A boy who’d never even kissed a girl before three weeks ago. Who thought “love” was a someday thing — abstract, delayed, something you’d grow into slowly.

And now? He was here. With a gorgeous girl Marisol in his arms. After saving a stranger. After seeing that same stranger ... differently.

What scared him wasn’t the arousal. Or the attraction.

It was the feeling that maybe his heart wasn’t built like he thought. That maybe it could stretch. That maybe, in some impossible way, he could love more than one woman — not as a betrayal of the first, but as an expansion of the soul.

But was that even real? Was it fair? Was he strong enough to hold that kind of love, without breaking it?

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice rough.

Marisol turned slightly, brow furrowed. “Of what?”

“Of doing this wrong,” he said. “Of hurting you. Of being too much. Or not enough.”

She kissed his chest softly. “Then we go slow. Together.”

She traced her fingers lightly along his arm, as if to guide him back to the moment.

“I told her the truth,” Marisol said. “That I belong to you. And that nothing happens unless you want it too. I gave her a choice. But I made it clear — I’m not going anywhere.”

His heart pounded against her back. She could feel it, strong and steady.

Then he whispered, “And what if I want it? Someday?”

Marisol turned in his arms just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Then we take our time,” she said. “And we do it right.”

He nodded, lips brushing her temple, but his hand — slow, teasing — was already slipping beneath the hem of her top. She arched slightly, surprised at her own need — how alive she still felt under his fingertips.

“Wait,” he said, voice playful. “You did say you belong to me.”

Her lips curled. “I did.”

“Like ... entirely?” he asked, dragging his fingers up the slope of her spine, feather-light. “Every part?”

“Mmhmm.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, then lower, toward her collarbone. “Even this part?”

She laughed breathily. “That’s my shoulder.”

“Yes,” he said, mock-serious. “But is it mine?”

She rolled her eyes, biting her lip. “If I say yes, what does that get me?”

“Depends.” His mouth grazed her clavicle. “Can I kiss it again?”

“Yes.”

He did. Slowly. Reverently. The kiss lingered, warm and open-mouthed.

“And what about...” his fingers brushed along her ribs, just under her breasts. “This part? Right here?”

She sucked in a breath. “Yours.”

“Can I touch it?”

“You’re already touching it,” she whispered.

He grinned. “But I want permission.”

“You don’t need—”

“I want it,” he said. “Say it.”

She blushed but whispered, “You can touch it.”

His hand slid up, cupping her through her shirt, thumb circling over fabric and skin. Her breath hitched.

“And this?” he murmured, now shifting so he hovered slightly over her, one knee slipping between her thighs. “These gorgeous breasts that I think about way too often?”

Marisol laughed, flushed. “You’re obsessed.”

“Of course I am.” His thumb brushed her nipple through the fabric. “They’re perfect. But are they mine?”

She bit her bottom lip, her voice hitching. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“They’re yours.”

“Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yes.”

He did it slowly — sitting up, gently peeling the fabric over her head. Her hair spilled across the pillow. Her chest, full and soft, heaved with every breath, nipples already taut from the brush of cool air and his voice alone.

“God,” he breathed. “I know you are beautiful. But this ... You know in our temples we have sculptures of women who had perfect breasts. I always used to dismiss them as something from some overactive imagination. I think one of your previous avatar’s breasts must have been one of their muses”

“You say the sweetest things Bharath”

His hand came up again, palm warm against her bare breast. He kissed the underside, then the top, then circled her nipple with the tip of his tongue until her hips bucked slightly.

“Still mine?”

She whimpered. “Yes.”

He smiled. “And what about these hips?” His hand moved down, dragging across the curve of her waist, then gripping her hip firmly. “This little dip right here?”

“All yours.”

“And this?” His palm slid further, resting low across her belly, thumb teasing just above the waistband of her shorts.

She swallowed. “That too.”

“Can I go lower?”

Marisol’s chest rose and fell. Her pupils were blown wide now, her skin flushed and glowing. She nodded.

“No,” he whispered. “I want to hear it.”

Her voice was thin. “Yes. Por favor!”

He grinned. “That’s more like it.”

He popped the button on her shorts slowly, letting the tension stretch between them like spun sugar. His fingers dragged down the zipper, every millimeter making her shiver.

And then they were sliding down her legs — her underwear too — and Bharath let out a quiet, reverent groan.

“Mine?”

She nodded, nearly breathless.

“Say it.”

“My pussy is yours,” she said, a whisper between disbelief and complete surrender.

He kissed her hipbone, then her inner thigh. “And if I want to taste it again ... right now ... can I?”

Her breath hitched again, a moan caught at the edge of her throat. “Yes.”

“Even though you already came once?”

“Twice,” she corrected, eyes fluttering.

“Right.” He grinned. “Even better.”

She arched toward him instinctively as his mouth got closer, and closer still. She wanted to tease him back, to be the one in control again — but right now, her body had other plans. Every nerve ending was on fire, every breath a countdown.

“Bharath—” she gasped.

“Shh,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “You said you’re mine. I’m going to prove what that means.”

And then his mouth met her again — and all she could do was feel.

Bharath ran his hand slowly down her side, fingers splayed, reverent. Marisol, still trembling, lay half-draped over his chest, her breath warm against his collarbone. But his eyes were focused on her body, on the curve of her hip and the quiet power in her stillness. She was flushed and open, relaxed in a way that made him ache with something deeper than arousal. It was awe.

He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

“Turn over,” he whispered.

She blinked. “What?”

His voice was soft, but firm. “I want to see your back. All of you.”

A breath caught in her throat. Her thighs twitched. But she didn’t hesitate. She rolled gently onto her stomach, folding her arms under her head and turning her cheek to the pillow.

The sight stole his breath.

Her hair spilled across the sheets like ink. Her shoulders, bare and golden in the lamplight, were already glowing with the memory of his touch. But it was the line of her back that made him still: the subtle definition of her spine, the soft slope down to the small of her back, and then the curve of her hips, the full roundness of her ass framed so perfectly by the tension in her thighs.

He hadn’t seen her like this. Not yet. Not completely bared. Not offered up.

And now that she had?

He couldn’t look away.

“You trust me,” he said, more to himself than her.

Marisol turned her head just slightly. “With everything.”

He moved slowly, reverently, settling beside her on his knees. His hands hovered over her back like he was afraid to break something sacred.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

Her breath hitched.

He started at her shoulder blades, brushing his fingertips lightly down the length of her spine. She shivered. He did it again, slower this time, mapping her vertebrae like each one held a secret. Then, without warning, he leaned down and kissed the dip at the small of her back.

She gasped.

“This part right here,” he murmured, letting his palm spread flat across the curve just above her waist. “Mine?”