Summary:
Second telling of Marc Spector and his personal struggles.
Feeling free for the first time in his life, Marc Spector relishes in the joys of the flesh alongside Layla.
Author's note: This takes place immediately after the last episode. A lot of lines are taken from the first volume of Moon Knight, when Marc meets Marlene in Egypt.
Fluff, reconciliation and smut with feelings ahead. Enjoy.
WC: 5.722
Marc counted three angsty days where he stood in guard, looking for her. He had been unable to sleep since he had seen her picture. Her sweet smile haunts him every sleepless night, which prompts him to silently beg for forgiveness.
But the worst thing was returning to the place where this crusade against evil had started: there were plenty of corpses surrounding the area, some of them near weapons, others near the bonfires. Marc ran through the darkness, like an evil entity.
Those he encountered in his way met a gruesome end. If they didn't cooperate, it was worse. Only one was wise enough to let slip another piece of information: she always moved at night. Marc looked at his surroundings. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.
Suddenly, he heard gunshots. Marc realized it was the same platoon from that fateful night, but now they were after an intruder in the cold sand. It was a hooded figure, who soon fell to the ground.
As soon as the man ripped the hood, a curly mane and a feminine face warned him about her identity.
Marc's heart almost stopped beating.
The mercenary took the small bag she carried, full of relics. This served as the ultimate evidence of her antics. The man announced with a loud scream that it was, indeed, Layla El-Faouly. Bushman smiled with perverse satisfaction, taking a rifle while distancing himself from his group.
"I know who you are," Layla spat defiantly , "villagers speak about you with fear."
The executioner came closer to her, but much to his surprise, Layla showed to be a skilled fighter, resisting to be reduced. However, her small form didn't avoid being stunned by a man who later dragged her to the camp. Bushman took her face aggressively, mocking her antics and gesturing to his convoy to form an improvised fire squad pointing at her.
The cruel -and downright coward - move made Marc howl like a beast, like a warning. Never in his life he would forget the petrified expressions on their faces. He didn't think twice to fly towards the area, throwing the sharp moon darts to a few, tackling the ones still standing.
"Look out!" He screamed, snatching her from the ground. Everything had been so fast that she didn't even protest. Marc locked the woman in his arms while shielding her with his body from the bullets. He heard the voices shouting to leave, ceasing the fire. Marc then took the opportunity to fly away with her.
As soon as they reach the ground, near the raided temple, hostility is all the former mercenary receives. Marc gives her the space she needs, for her to become comfortable. She looks for shelter behind a column partially devoured by a dense, almost hellish darkness.
"Who are you?" She hissed in Arabic.
"I'm not your enemy" Marc abandons any defensive posture to gain her trust. His armour fades away in swirling bandages, leaving his usual navy blue shirt, khaki pants and heavy boots for her to see.
"You're not Egyptian," she muttered, stepping back.
"No, I'm American," he whispered, "I didn't mean to scare you…"
Her look was pure outrage, but Marc wasn't offended by her ferrous self defense. He found it impressive, given his status as a supernatural vigilante.
Marc tried to get closer to her, but Layla just trembled, huddling against the wall.
"You're dressed like them!" She frowned, though now terror slowly took over her face, "people like you murdered my father!"
"You're wrong."But Marc knew she was speaking the truth… in a certain way.
"Did they offer you a lot of money for me, right?"
"Listen… I know it's crazy, I understand your distrust, but if we don't cooperate, you'll end up dead!"
"Are my chances better with a hooded, killing ghost at my side?!"
Before Marc could say anything, a gust of bullets obliged them to get down. Layla ran to hide in the dark, accompanied by a gun. Not letting fear dominate her senses, the archeologist proved to be an incredible marksman. He bought her some time, clearing the way. The golden darts pierced heads, scoundrels that tried to shoot her from distance. But Marc felt the situation was slipping through his fingers when two men cornered her.
Then he suddenly blacked out.
All he could remember were the wet, creeks of blood all splattered over his face, dripping down his neck. His back hurt and later on, he realised he had been stabbed. A sepulchral silence follows, his fists had chunks of smashed skulls… just like that night.
Such a pity that immortality did not mean being immune to pain. Like a macabre payback, the pain just seemed greater. He almost tripped, supporting himself over a carved, rectangular rock. His chest goes up and down slowly, watching carefully that the broken rib didn't puncture the lung.
The memory triggered a startled jolt. The irrational fear of uncontrolled violence claiming innocent victims sieges his mind. He turned around, panicked. All he found were executioners scattered over the sand.
A weak moan of pain dissipated the panic, leading him to pay attention to his right. Layla was weakly trying to get up, taking steps towards the doorless fate to finally exit, not bothering to even talk to him. Marc couldn't sense any other feeling in her face that wasn't anger and contempt. He thought it was poetic justice for his involvement with a war criminal, whose greed had cost numerous innocent lives.
He attempted to talk, but he knew it would be futile. The broken rib was too much for him to handle without remaining silent. A whimper resonates in the air.
A few seconds passed and, against all odds, he felt a rushed jogging. Marc lifts his head, gasping as he finally had a closer look to those dark, deep eyes.
"I can't believe it! You took these men out by yourself!" she rushed to see if he had a mortal wound. Marc would never forget how the expression morphed from fear to worry, as moonlight revealed his bloodstained hands.
"Yeah" he gasped, placing his hand over hers once it reached his heart, "but… Bushman has escaped. I wanted his blood…" he almost confesses the truth about her father.
"You saved me, and you're alive. Nothing else matters," Marc Spector experiments a soaring euphoria when the recently rescued archeologist holds him so both can reach the exit.
He groans in pain, stopping for a moment.
"I want to know the name of my saviour," she whispered, cleaning the blood in his face with water, which she stored in a canteen. The former mercenary took it to drink it, quenching the thirst.
"Spector. Marc Spector."
The soldier felt tempted to kiss those pink, full lips. But another question vanishes his desires.
"Who do you work for? How do you know me?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you… It's a long story…" he chuckled.
"We'll have plenty of time if we get out of here."
Marc didn't say a word. He just enjoyed the silence, slightly broken by their breathing. He wondered how it would sound… in another situation. Marc palmed his forehead, daunting the intrusive thought.
"I'm sorry for what I said… about you being a murderer…"
The former mercenary gulped.
"I wouldn't be any different from that murderer if I wished you death."
"I don't blame you," he forgot the night and stars as he got lost in her deep eyes. In his heart, a feeling is nesting. An unknown, strange - but pleasant- feeling causes his belligerent ways to give in.
For the first time in so many years, before the horror that started him as a killer, he saw a glimpse of hope. Abandoning his defenses serves as a soporific relax to his mind, especially when her fingers reach his neck to cleanse the remaining blood.
An open wound near his jugular startles him. A pained groan scrapes his throat. She recoils her hand, fearful.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–" Marc quickly shook his head, setting aside any fear of being hurt. With some difficulty, he lifts one hand to place it over her shoulder. Marc shudders when she doesn't reject him, instead showing an astounding responsiveness, giving him a puzzled, yet immensely compassionate gaze, as if she had an idea of the eternal chaos corroding his mind.
"Your name… I want to know your name," Marc weakly muttered. He knew that slipping her name would raise suspicion. It was better to play ignorant this time, so this precious moment wasn't ruined.
"Layla…" she replied, not taking her gaze off him, "say it!"
He couldn't.
Seconds later, the most wonderful thing happened: Her arms surrounded his neck, engulfing him into a tight embrace. There was such legitimate, unspoken gratitude in tender gesture. It reminded him that, even if he was now a caped crusader, he was still Marc Spector. He felt so high with her smell, hiding his face in her neck. The embrace Layla gifted him that day they met reminded him of his humanity.
Maybe being the daughter of a victim of his own doing paved the path to redemption.
Marc could feel it in his veins, letting this silent mirth slowly taking over his mind. Intoxicated by the promise of love, Spector glides his hands over her back and much to his surprise, Layla tightened her grip around his neck, to which he gladly consented.
Soon, he locked the delicate waist in his arms, feeling the feminine form against his body, enticed by this new contact that didn't end with broken noses, bleeding chests or mauled limbs.
But exhaustion overcame his strengths, fainting into her arms. It wasn't bad, for a dead man.
Khonshu had granted him breath.
Layla gave him the desire to live. He had always been a slave, first of his mind, and then… Khonshu.
Though he deeply resented it, he had resigned himself to his condition. But Layla changed things. She loved Marc, and also loved Moon Knight.
She's the only one who can look him in the eye and feel calm, in contrast to an evildoer. The only one who can come closer to him, covered in blood, to throw herself to his arms, ending both naked in the bed screaming each other's names. It was the best part.
The happiness lasted for a few years, before the madness took over his life. He then realized that nothing with a horrifying beginning could end well.
First, this newfound love didn't go unnoticed for Khonshu, who regarded his affection as a distraction of his purpose. Marc dared to speak defiantly against him. But that wasn't the hardest thing.
Then, if hiding the truth about her father wasn't enough, Marc also hid his mental illness. Dissociative identity disorder, more precisely. All his life, the ghost of an abusive home and an unfeeling, rancorous mother, had led him to shield himself with alternative personalities which Layla would never know about. It gnawed at his sanity with self deprecating thoughts about being unworthy of Layla's love, for being an indirect responsible for his death, for being a liar.
There were so many things she didn't know about him, because of shame.
But misery doesn't stop there. In pursuit of evil, people tend to step away from what is good. Khonshu was no exception. Love was so powerful, and Marc Spector is specially subdued by it. The deity always found his fragile, broken mind as a gift and his love for her wasn't seen as a distraction anymore, but as an asset to use to his favor. A silent conspiracy contrives to make Marc Spector the perfect vessel for justice.
Being in the middle of a conflict that could destroy the world, Khonshu decides to tear apart Marc's relationship with Layla. The threat of his wife replacing him as his avatar was really useful to push him to push her away.
A pained realization dawns on him: to protect her must hurt her, he couldn't bring himself to cause her any more harm. It was easier to disguise it as estrangement, for her to hate him and so severe contact without a sorrowful farewell.
It was so painful to masquerade his suffering like estrangement, pretending he wanted the divorce when all he wanted was to protect her. He left one day, without explanation.
Elias Spector called him to tell him Wendy Spector had died. The one person who had made his life a living hell had ceased her existence. Marc refused the kind offer of his father to get into the house.
Marc Spector broke down crying, falling to his knees and hitting the kippah several times against the ground. He then, with great regret, held it against his chest, rocking himself to ease the pain. He recovered his breath, kippah still in hand. Something went out of control.
And then he was Steven Grant.
He was back in bed, foot still tied with that restraint. Rain poured outside, numberless droplets fell, leaving countless watery traces down the window. Marc sets his gaze on the aquarium, whose two gold fishes swim in silent, harmonious coexistence.
This unusual calmness sent him into another state of unreality. His distorted senses lead him out of the bed, minding the tied ankle. Releasing himself from it, he takes a look at everything that surrounds him. Marc realizes he wasn't covered in blood. There were no more unexplained wounds this time, no monsters to fight, no Harrow or Bushman.
Just silence.
He wandered over the flat, not minding his nakedness. Marc felt safe… and certain unease. He slid the tip of his fingers over the small library he had built as Steven Grant, surprised at himself at the amount of books on a big desk, with a couple of Rubik cubes so he could keep himself distracted from stress.
He kept checking the place, reaching a table. Above it was a bulky gym bag, full of money, his American passport with his real name, guns and ammo. Next to the left, almost hidden at plain sight, were the divorce papers.
Marc fights back the chuckles, but these abruptly end when a muffled yawn breaks the silence. He turned back to the bed. The flannels started moving. The ghostly aspect scares Spector for him to jolt, which in turn, causes his wife to reveal herself. The curly haired beauty looked back at him.
"Marc? What are you doing there? Come back to bed."
He held his breath. This time Layla got up, seeing his unresponsiveness. Marc didn't move an inch, fearful to make a wrong move that could make this dreamlike feel fade away. While heading her steps closer, Layla put on one of Steven's many oversized sweaters.
"You forgot to put some clothes on, huh?" She whispered but he brought her closer to him, embracing her. Her giggles give him life.
"What's gotten into you, Marc?" She threw her arms to his neck. The former mercenary pressed his mouth against hers.
"You." Layla half closes her eyes, giving him a playful stare.
"Don't think you'll distract me with that… Why are you not in bed with me? Please tell me. We promised to not keep any more secrets."
Marc held her face.
"It's because you… me… back together. It's more than I thought I could get."
She placed a curly hair lock behind his ear.
"All this–'' Marc looks around, nervously stammering, "the silence– the freedom, you… This is all I wanted, Layla. It feels so unreal," he shook his head, overwhelmed. She quickly cupped his cheeks to ease his mind.
"I got you. We can handle this together" Layla cooed.
"There are so many things I wish I could tell you… but I don't know– I'm afraid you won't believe me."
Layla rolled her eyes, scoffing.
"Well, you got resurrected by an Egyptian God, I became the avatar of Taweret for a short time, we stopped Ammit and Harrow before they could cause a global catastrophe. Nothing seems unbelievable anymore."
Marc lowered his head, ashamed.
"You can tell me."
"I thought you didn't want any explanation from me after everything I kept from you."
"Things have changed. Besides, Taweret told me my father is in the field of Reeds."
Marc's face beams with a hopeful expression.
"She also told me you did all you could to save him before Bushman killed him."
"I would have given my life to save him, Layla. My partner… My partner got so greedy and–" Marc took a deep breath, fighting back the sobs, "I thought at first he was going to raid a military area, but there were just civilians. Unarmed civilians'' he covered his face, guilt causing his eyes to burn with remorseful tears, "then… then I met you… and I wanted to tell you the truth, from the beginning. But I couldn't."
Layla nodded. Marc held her hands and kissed them through the tears. He then took her sweater off, bringing her body against his. Marc sighs relieved when feels her bare chest against his.
"You protected me and you were gone so fast I couldn't believe it. Seeing your body over that pool–" she remembers the silent, short goodbye with a furtive kiss on his forehead. The memory of it caused Layla to tighten the grip around his neck. Her words are a balm, and now Marc feels tears of joy bathing his cheeks.
"I never stopped loving you, Marc."
"Me neither, baby…" He explodes, desperately kissing the side of her neck, sliding his fingers over the skin of the nape. Marc nuzzled into her shoulder, like a needful feline. He took a deep breath.
Why was it easier to express desire than to express a feeling? How could he start to put in words a suffering that was indescribable? How could he open up about the matter that carved the idea of unworthiness regarding Layla's love and caring?
"You didn't sign the papers when you sent them to me," Layla reminds him and Marc can't be more grateful with Steven for not signing the documents.
"I don't want to divorce you! I never wanted to! Those lonely nights, without you… longing for your touch. I felt I was a living dead, that I just lived to serve Khonshu…" He held her body as if his life depended on it.
Layla gladly allows his hands to roam over her curves, as if exploring them for the first time. Marc feels the arousal boiling his blood.
"I couldn't put an end to us… I couldn't bring myself to sign them. I can't be away from you again" his voice was full of regret. She felt the hot tears running down her shoulder, "I won't survive it."
Layla caressed his back, moved by how much he actually loved her. Giving his life was one thing. But baring his soul was another. Harrow's voice resounds in her mind, concerning the truth about Marc.
"He's in agony. In more pain than anyone could bear."
Much to her surprise, her husband lets an angry hiss escape his mouth.
"You know what? Fuck this." Marc turned around urgently. He grabbed the paper furiously to throw them into the bin. Layla hummed, approving what she saw.
"I don't want to wake up covered in blood anymore."
"Then what is it that you want?" Layla asked seductively. Marc ran his hands up and down her waist.
"I want my wife to make love to me."
Layla grabbed his hand to carry him to bed. Once she turned her back on him, Marc held her passionately, kissing her neck and then panting against her ear.
"I missed you… I missed your body" Marc glides both hands over her breasts, squeezing and fondling the orbed forms carefully, "it's been so long…"
Layla gasped as she felt his hands lowering down her waist, growling like a hungry beast when his fingers parted her thighs, obtaining her intimacy. She helped to spice things up by spreading them wider. Marc hummed, approving what he saw.
"I'm not made of stone, Layla," he joked.
"But you surely are cold like one" she giggled but Marc impatiently grazed her flesh with his fingers, eliciting loud moans that sent him to the edge.
"Does this seem too cold for you, wife?"
She stiffened her spine as the arousal spread over her femininity, numbing her thighs, making it more difficult to stand. But Marc is strong, holding the trembling form in his arms, labouring on behalf of her pleasure.
Layla looks down, delighted at the hands rummaging through her moistened intimacy. She moaned, lolling her head back when her hand joined him to work to her satisfaction in perfect tune.
"You really are in the mood, are you?" Layla chuckled, just before Marc covered her mouth with his. Famished kisses made their lips worn out, becoming more intense as Marc lays her down the bed, having her at his mercy like he loves to.
On any other night, Marc would be busy feeling cartilages and bones crushed under his knuckles. There is something narcotic about placing himself above her without malicious intent, no more terrified faces, no more blood staining his hands or conscience.
Placed on the bed with utter care, Layla sets her hands beside her head, conceding Marc her wholeness. The former mercenary marvels at her divine nudity, tilting his head while deciding what to do or where to touch.
Layla doesn't say anything. She loves her perspective, which allows her eyes to behold Marc's boyish beauty. She glides her fingers in his neck, loving the harsh lines on it. He smiled as they descended on his chest, moving him to mimic the action, though with a difference.
Marc placed himself above her completely. Layla looked up to him when she sensed a caress in her abundant mane. Her eyelids flutter, provoking him to take intimacy to another level. He stares at her, hypnotized by her unusual beauty, in those beautiful freckles over her nose and cheeks, her soft, golden skin.
Cherishing his wife with his eyes wasn't enough now, which moved him to touch her chest, tracing invisible long lines that soon went over her waist and belly.
Layla twists her spine over the white, still warm sheets, body yearning for his attention. She slowly spreads her legs, proud of how her sensuality crumbles his usual coldness, proven by his eager, impatient expression on his face.
"Show me how you did it while I was away," Marc demanded.
"Do what?" Layla teases him, despite knowing what.
Marc looked at her glistening womanhood.
"Touch yourself," He hissed, staring at the part exposed for him. The former mercenary licked his lips as her hand made her way between her legs.
Layla closed her eyes, whispering his name, remembering those painful nights when the memory of his touches was all she had. Her euphonious sounds just made him harder and harder once she circles the small nub, hidden like a pearl. She was sweating, curls sticking to her face while pressing her head against the pillow.
"Marc… please…" Layla begged, fighting the cramps in her legs to gain stillness.
"Please what? I wanna hear you say it." Marc demanded it to convince himself this was real.
"I want you deep inside of me, Marc" she whispered between moans, stopping for a moment, "I want it—" but Spector continued, much to her surprise.
"There…there…" Layla mouthed, rolling her eyes.
"Yes?"
"Oh, God– Marc!" Layla couldn't keep talking as her husband increased his attention on her intimacy, causing her to ragingly rear up, "I want it …dripping off me."
Marc grinned, too proud of himself. He refocuses on the wet, silky folds first, as if becoming familiar once again with the part he longed so much to be wrapped around. Layla supported herself on her elbows briefly, desperately looking for something to cling to. Her body violently jolted again, now turned into a nervous mess when her legs became numb, leading to a sharp contrast with the excessive sensitivity forming in her delicacy.
"Marc! Marc– I'm close– so clo—" but he didn't let her finish, since a predatory move had him pouncing over her sex, catching the twitchy pinkness with his mouth, carefully tugging it.
Spector would never forget the violent spasm shaking Layla's body, trapping him between her thighs. Neither would he forget those loud and mellifluent cries for him.
"You're sweet in every way" he whispered before tasting the nectar eagerly, giving her hips a bruisy grip, doing his best to obtain every drop. She ruffled his hair as Marc detaches his lips for a moment from the tender, silky privacy just to sink his nose in her moistened entrance. Layla feels hot tears running down, wanting those thick, raven curls to uncoil in her fingers while frolicking with them.
His chuckles vibrate through her tremulous form, amazed by her futile attempt to increment the friction, caressing her thighs and well knowing his touches would leave her ruined.
And he loves it.
The routine was thrilling and alluring, motivating him to grant her wish. Marc impatiently crawled up like a feline, watching the dumb smile tracing his wife's lips as she recovered her breath after such pleasure devastated her capacity to think or say anything coherent.
"Perfect," he knew the magnitude of her joy when Layla (apparently) didn't realize she was about to get her wish granted.
It only made it better.
Marc positioned himself behind her, heedfully turning her body around so his limbs would imprison his wife, holding her against his chest. He panted like an animal and Layla can feel his breath in her ear. Marc slowly lifts her leg, teasing her burning folds with his rigid manhood before guiding himself in.
That finally made Layla react, stiffening her back as her vocal expressions echoed louder. Marc rejoices when she shifts her hips, rubbing herself against him to get more of this addictive, intoxicating friction.
"You're gonna be my good girl," Marc growls, licking her neck.
"I'll be!" Layla desperately whines, "I'll be good, Marc! I beg you—"
His toothy grin gives her enough air to verbalise her wish.
"I want you!" She screamed through her tears, "please! Please!"
The former mercenary made his way inside of her through a fervent move. For a moment, he felt his heart forgot how to beat as her wet, warm walls held him captive. Marc didn't move. Layla didn't complain, choosing to focus on the sharp feeling of being fully filled by him.
"One of these nights you're gonna drive me crazy too," Layla sensually whispered but her playful tease just incited him to give her a sharp thrust.
"Quite frankly… I hope so" he grunted, overcoming the initial trance to enjoy how she adjusted at his intrusion, reaching a spot her fingers could never reach.
His whole body yearns for her. Layla knows it well. She knows so well that part of him, how his despair was disguised as dominance. His kisses now cover her forehead, her cheek and her lips, once she turns around. Everything in her screams life and Marc longs to feel his wife stirring under his touch, sick of this hurtful abstinence. Their act proves that he is not a living sarcophagus, sinking his nose in her dark mane he missed so much during his self imposed solitude, delighted in those sounds that made her skin vibrate.
Layla rocks her hips, shivering when his hand reaches the spot where both were tightly joined.
"You really are enjoying this, do you?" Layla smirked, coquettishly rubbing her foot on his calf.
He loved her smile, invigorating him to explore her intimacy at a faster pace, soft sobs that ended in desperate praises as a result of it. Layla repeats his name over and over again, while dealing with the intense pleasure his unmerciful pace caused her. He silences his frantic, uncontrolled moans through a bite, squeezing her breast.
"Again," Layla demands. He granted her wish. It only managed to make her more tense around him. Marc twitches excitedly inside of her, sensing the climax coming closer.
He stopped for a moment, catching his breath. Making her hair aside, he contemplates the reddened zone, whose vestige accuses his action. Such pleasurable soreness reminded him that he was no stranger to pain.
Marc had become so familiar with the suffering since the death of his brother, the hatred of his mother and the abandonment of his father that he felt that he only lived to suffer, serve and bleed. His fearsome and unstable mettle had earned him a reputation as a man he couldn't be messed with.
That was another facet, another mask to hide his misery, accustomed to the horror of military violence under the relentless Middle Eastern sun.
The echo of voices chanting his name during clandestine fights reverberated in his brain. He remembered his nose, broken and bleeding, but always standing victorious over whoever was his opponent. Marc believed that he would die with bullets through his chest or by shooting himself in the head. Even when he was second-in-command with Bushman, not even the large sums of money made him happy.
Until Layla appeared in his life.
Marc fought those thoughts of her by thrusting harder and harder inside her, loving her without words, maddened with pleasure as he felt Layla welcome him eagerly. He remembered the night he had met her, that embrace that started it all… the first time he had given himself to her.
Love. Layla. Every night had the same exciting ending. What was not to love about this? Both lying on the bed, dissolved in each other's bodies. Marc needed to love her with an inordinate passion, delighting in those curves, quivering in his presence. The nights with her gave his madness a special air. He felt that so much love could actually hurt him but it was something he would gladly accept.
He wanted to tell her so many things as he possessed her, reliving those intimate moments more vividly, knowing that now Marc could be himself with her no matter how fucked up he was.
Moved by the desire to peak, Marc circles her nervous, swollen bundle. Layla writhed like a dying animal, wondering if she would be capable of resisting the building orgasm. Marc loved to see her like this, surrendering to his mercy, edging her to then feel her fluttering core tightening around him over and over again, wishing to make Layla forget her name until there wasn't except him inside her.
When the apogee of their act finally hit them, Marc felt alive. He had never felt so alive, mesmerized by her sounds, priding himself in his manhood. He keeps sinking his hardened flesh, wishing he could relish in this warm, tight captivity Layla offered forever.
He found the strength to give her body one more enthusiastic, violent slam. It caused the swollen, overstimulated length to perfectly fit into her.
"Hold still… don't move," he clutches her body to his. She clawed at his neck, spreading her legs a bit more to allow him better access. She moans at his hand, pressing her intimacy, maybe because the hot feeling of her walls flexing around him were too much for him to abandon her so quickly. He places his hand to caress her and himself, not caring if his seed erupted from Layla the more he tried to bury himself. Marc feels how a few drops create a pearly creek down her thigh.
Layla recovers her breath, allowing her heart to calm down and her body to refresh from the hot heat. There was something so erotic about them stilling, sensing the crude feeling of her sore femininity refusing to let him go.
A profound emptiness takes over his heart when he breaks contact with her body, though it has an mischievous intention. Layla whined lowly in protest, despite her complete passiveness suggested otherwise.
Marc caressed her hips before doing what he intended. Pampering her body was a key to extending this to dawn, for the better. Layla softly shrugged softly when she felt the blunt tip brushing the slickness in her thigh. Before she could articulate a word, a tickle in her sex finally made her realize that Marc intended to trace every thin, niveous rivulet back inside her.
"You can't get enough of it, can you?" she purred seductively. Just desperate sounds leaving his mouth serve as an answer.
Layla regained strength once her voice quieted down, turning around to hold him beneath her in order to straddle his hips. Marc's face beams with euphoric enthusiasm.
"Don't waste any of it, husband," she whispered. Marc smiled, free to touch her soft forms, her sweating curves, the wet hair. Layla impaled herself in him, snatching the little coherence Marc had left. He took delight as he felt the pulsating pressure surrounding him once again, delighting her body despite it seemed too much for her to bear, as her loud moans made clear. His hands gave her hips a bruisy squeeze to fight back the breathtaking pleasure, resisting this avid, ardent onslaught of love.
"I'm just doing what you said," Marc muttered, hardly able to elaborate a coherent sentence. A devilish toothy grin traces his lips.
"I know what I said," she groaned, processing the soreness between her legs following the rushed invasion, "it's my turn now, baby."
He was trying desperately to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss to see her intimacy down her thighs fully merged with his. But once Layla begins to ride him, Marc closes his eyes, triumphant and ecstatic.
Neither of them come to know about Steven covering his ears and face to respect their intimacy, having accidentally watched them at first. The diaphanous glass of the aquarium allows a clear perspective of their lovemaking. The mild mannered man couldn't help but to marvel at her body, dyed in bluish hues as his eyes contemplated her through the water. Guilt stirred his heart, but he's glad to see Layla happy after their ordeal.
The other reflection just stares, petrified with silent awe.
Or maybe with homicidal envy.