“Do you know how difficult it’s been,” he started, doing light strokes over my clit, “to wake up to you draped over me in the morning?” he asked as my breathing got faster and more shallow. “How I have to keep my hands to myself when what I want to do is tear off your panties and slip inside you,” he told me. “Like this,” he added as two of his fingers thrust inside me, making a surprised moan escape me. My muscles clenched around him, making a low groan escape him. “One day, you’re going to squeeze my cock like this,” he told me just before his fingers started to thrust.
It wasn’t slow or sweet or explorative.
He fucked me with his fingers until my hips were writhing against his touch, until my whimpers became loud moans, until my hand slid down, pressing his palm against my cleft, engaging my clit with his motions.
His fingers got rougher and more demanding as I got closer and closer, my walls tightening around him as he pushed me toward that edge that, with one more little push, would send me free-falling into oblivion.
“Nope,” he said, his fingers slipping out of me. “If you want to come, Isabella, you’re going to come around my cock,” he told me, shooting me a devilish smirk as he pulled his hand out of the water, then made his way back toward the bedroom.
Alone, the embarrassment had a weak, pathetic whimper escaping me as my hands rose, covering my face, not sure how the hell I was ever going to be able to face the man again after that.
It would have been bad enough if I’d had an orgasm. But it was somehow much worse that he’d denied me it.
“Damnit damnit damnit,” I grumbled to myself, opening the drain, and sitting there until the tub emptied completely while calling myself any number of things, but all of them having to do with being a complete freaking idiot.
Cold and frustrated, I toweled off. Then took a really long time to lotion, brush and braid my hair, do my skin routine, then finally get dressed for bed.
Long enough had passed that I figured there was no way the man could possibly still be awake. I cracked the door and listened, hearing the steady, deep breathing that said I was right.
Then I scurried right the hell out of there and down the stairs to curl up on the couch instead.
Remnants of the party were all around. The tables were all set up. The bottles of liquor, both full and empty, were still on the makeshift bar they’d set up. The glasses were lined up beside the sink and the dishes were in it, but I figured they would stay that way until Primo’s housekeeper showed up to deal with it.
The housekeeper that sucked his dick the day of our wedding.
I had no right to feel as pissy about that as I did as I snatched my jacket off the rack to use as a makeshift blanket.
I tried to tell myself it was just a matter of tact. How the hell was I, the wife, supposed to exist in the same space as her, the housekeeper, and sucker of my husband’s cock? It created a weird dynamic. I wasn’t looking forward to navigating it.
Maybe I’d find some excuse to get out of the house the next day before she showed up. I would have someone on my guard shift. They could take me somewhere.
The idea of more shopping made me a little sick, but this was the city. There was never a shortage of places to go or things to do. I could, I don’t know, take a class or join the gym, something that would give me a reason to leave the house more often so I didn’t start going stir crazy since it didn’t look like Primo was going to want me to work. And, quite frankly, why should I? He was the one who forced me into this whole mess. He could be the one to finance having a wife.
Decision made, I flicked on the TV to drown out the voices in my head, then curled up and went to sleep.
But what did I do?
I dreamed of him, of course.
The sweaty kind of dream, too.
Because my body needed more of that.
Right before we got to the really hot part of the dream, though, I felt hands grabbing me, leaving me to wake up with a gasp to find myself being lifted up into Primo’s arms yet again.
“Stubborn ass,” he mumbled as he cradled me to his chest.
“Put me down, Primo,” I demanded, voice sharp.
“No.”
“Put. Me. Down,” I demanded, emphasizing each word with a jolt of my body, hoping he’d get annoyed and put me onto my own feet again. But, nope. This was Primo we were talking about. In his giant arms, I might as well have been a flailing toddler.