The next morning I wake, not surprised to find I’ve got morning wood. Fucking hard as a rock. I have a vague thought that I had sex dreams featuring my new wife and her pretty mouth on my cock, but I can’t remember details. I mean, I had sex for the first time in a year last night, and I’m nowhere near satisfied.
She’s still snoring softly in the bed. Good. I didn’t restrain her last night because my gut instinct said I didn’t have to, that she wouldn’t try to escape so soon, not surrounded by bodyguards and me.
I briefly consider taking her again, but she’ll be sore, and even though I’ll take her again soon, I wanna make sure she’s ready for me.
So I adjust myself, groan, then walk to the bed and gently shake her shoulder. “Time to get up. I need a shower, and you’re coming in with me.”
“So I’m still your prisoner?” she asks. God, she’s adorable when she wakes up, all tousled, her cheeks a little pink and her eyes half-lidded. I turn away because I don’t want to soften myself toward her.
“Do you mean I still don’t trust you not to run away? Of course. We have shit to do, and I don’t want to waste any more time.” I gave her ass a little swat over the bedclothes.
I peel down the sheets and blankets, not surprised to see she’s got red marks across her ass and the tops of her thighs. She’s not bruised or welted, though. We’ll work up to that.
I ghost my fingers over her swollen, reddened flesh, gentle enough that I won’t hurt her again. Enough that she’ll feel me, though. “Are you sore?”
“Uh, yeah. You could say that.” She rolls over and gives me a reproachful look.
“Don’t give me that look,” I warn her. “I don’t care how sorry you are, you start that sass with me, and you’ll end up right over my lap.”
With a little pout that might mask arousal, she asks, “You’re just dying to punish me, aren’t you?”
“Honey, you have no idea.” I stand up. “Shower. Now.”
I don’t give her a chance to disobey but pick her up and carry her to the bathroom.
“No morning sex?” She gives me a wry look and wriggles herself on me. “Looks like you’re ready.”
I groan. Fucking tease. “I’m always ready.”
“Oh that’s not arrogant at all.”
“It isn’t. It’s the truth. I want to take my time, and we don’t have that right now. I want to give you at least a couple hours to heal up.”
“Very chivalrous of you.”
I shrug and hold her with one arm while I turn the shower on. “If you’re being passive-aggressive, you better knock that shit off.”
She doesn’t respond, only squirms a bit uncomfortably and changes the subject.
“Okay, Orlando. I really want to take a look at you. You’ve checked me out, and I briefly got a glimpse of you before you plucked me out of bed. I’ve noticed you like tossing me around like I’m spoils of war or something. But dude, you are not even winded carrying me with one arm. It’s like you have superhuman strength.”
Dude? Cute.
“Maybe it’s my superpower.”
“You say that as if it’s normal.”
I don’t answer. In my line of work, it is.
Steam heats the bathroom, and it feels so good to be in here I want to stay all day, just lapping up the luxury of hot water, a huge bathroom, privacy. A fucking wife.
God, what I’ve taken for granted.
But I do what she asks and slide her to the tiled floor as I gather towels and check for toiletries. Of course someone’s already thought of that, and the bathroom’s well-stocked.
“Wow,” she breathes. “Okay, so I’ve heard that it’s pretty…common…for guys in prison to kind of work out a lot…like they’ve got not much else to do, but…damn.”
She likes what she sees. Cute. That pleases me.
I pick her up and place her at the end of the tub away from the hot water. “It sure as fuck passes the time and being strong helps me with my own job.”
“So can you tell me what the job is now?”
“Your father really didn’t tell you anything, did he?”
She shakes her head. “Like literally nothing.”
Asshole. “I’m the group heavy. Enforcer.”
“You’re the one that breaks bones?”
“Yeah.”
And beats the shit out of traitors, inflicts punishment on those that double-cross us, and kills anyone that rats us out. Among other things.
“Sounds…violent.” Her voice is a bit raspy. Scared? “Do you like violence, Orlando?”
I don’t answer as I lather up a washcloth and hand it to her. I’m hard as fuck watching her run it over her curves, her breasts, between her legs. I’m half jealous of her own hand that touches her. She watches me with a hooded gaze. Aroused, is she?
I don’t know how to answer that question. I fucking hate violence, but I’m so used to it I barely think about it anymore. Violence is duty and survival, the only way. “Enough questions. You turned on, Elise?”