Ruthless Monarch

Looking at Matteo right now is like looking at the dark king in all the fables. He’s filled with evil but passion too.

I stand from the couch and lift my shirt off, and then start to remove my pants. The whole time I undress, he watches me. Trailing his gaze over my now exposed skin.

No one has ever looked at me like this before.

Now fully naked, standing before him, the hunger in the air is palpable. His eyes are dark and ominous in the soft candlelight of the living room.

I watch through hooded lids as he strips out of his own clothes. Even though I saw him in the shower the other day, this is different. Seeing him naked has my mouth opening, and my tongue going dry.

He’s beautiful.

Devastatingly beautiful.

He’s cut from marble. Ripped and chiseled to perfection.

He is everything and more. A perfect specimen of a man.

He’s a Titan.

“On the couch, Princess,” he orders.

I don’t hesitate to lie on the couch, waiting as he moves closer to me.

A predator stalking his prey. A lion about to pounce.

As he descends on me, he takes himself in his hand, stroking himself.

“Do you have a condom?” I croak.

His eyes narrow. “You are my wife. I’m not wearing a condom.” The gravelly way he says wife has my insides melting. He crawls up over my body, his free hand pushing my thighs apart.

Then I feel him rub himself against me.

He’s teasing me.

Toying with me.

He’s attempting to drive me insane, and it works. He is.

I thrust my hips up. Trying desperately to put myself out of my misery and get him inside me, already.

With one hard thrust, he gives me what I want. He pushes all the way inside me until he has completely bottomed out.

His grip on my body tightens.

Neither of us moves for a beat.

He allows me to adjust to his size, and when I lean up and kiss his lips, he retracts.

I miss him instantly, kissing him harder, digging my nails into his back to tell him what I want.

He chuckles against my lips, but he gives me what I need. Pushing back until he’s fully engulfed again.

He keeps up a slow and steady tempo.

Pulling out and then pushing back in.

His strokes are leisurely.

Each one sending more and more pleasure rippling through my body.

It feels too good.

Intense.

A sensation starts to take root inside me. It’s almost there. Close, but not close enough. It’s like it’s hovering above me, and I can’t reach it.

“Harder,” I plead. “Faster.”

Again, he chuckles but regardless of the humor he finds, he listens and gives in to me.

His slow movements become harder. Until he is fucking me with quick, deep thrusts.

This feeling is beyond anything I have felt before.

We claw at each other.

Both desperate to make the climb.

Our kissing becomes more frenzied, his movements erratic. My nails scrape down his back.

I can feel myself falling over the edge.

My body grips his.

He continues to move inside me, thrusting a few more times before he groans out his own release.

We are both panting heavily as we come down from our own highs.

A few minutes pass before I realize what we just did.

Now what happens?

Yes, obviously we are married, but did that just change everything?

“What are you thinking about?” He lifts his head out of the crook of my neck and looks down at me.

There is a line forming between his brows.

“Nothing,” I lie.

He moves to get off me, and I instantly want to pull him closer. I’m not ready for this to be over. When he stands, he walks a few steps to pick up my clothes.

I feel weird and awkward as I place my shirt on.

What does one say to their husband after what we just did, when they barely know them?

It feels like the end of a one-night stand.

Do I just get dressed and go home or, in this case, go to my room?

Once I’m fully dressed, I look at him as he places his own clothes on.

He really is the most stunning man I have ever seen.

I take a deep breath, and when he looks over at me, I speak.

“I’m going to—”

“Like hell you are.” He walks over to me, more like stalks, and then before I can ask what he means, he’s lifting me bridal style in his arms.

I gasp at the movement. “What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done the day we got married.”

He starts to walk toward the door, and then we are in the hallway, making our way to the stairs.

“And what is that?”

“Carry you over the threshold.”

I’m shocked when he moves toward the stairs and starts to ascend.

He carries me like I’m a bag of feathers, and to him, I probably am. Once we reach the top of the stairs, he heads in the direction of his bedroom.

I don’t say anything. I pretend as though I’ve never been here before. He knows I have, and I know I have, but at least this way, I can keep a little of my own dignity intact.