Jay’s eyes twinkled more than the ocean before us. He grasped onto my hip and yanked my body to his, the other hand moving underneath my dress, in between my legs and right into my panties.
It was broad daylight, and we were not hidden, not in the least. Two people were meandering, looking at the boats, taking photos with their phones. Soon they would be close enough to see what was going on.
I did not stop my husband.
His finger moved inside of me, and I clutched onto his shirt.
“You have a choice, wife,” he murmured, finger moving lazily. “You let the tourists get more than they bargained for.” He nodded to the approaching people. “Then, of course, I’d have to kill them for gazing at the sight that is my wife coming around my fingers.” He moved the aforementioned fingers, rubbing that incredibly sensitive place inside of me, and I would’ve collapsed if he wasn’t holding me up. “Or,” he continued, lips moving inches from mine. “You get on your boat and you let me feast on your pussy until you scream.”
I sucked in an unsteady breath. “The second one.”
He grinned wickedly.
Then he took me on board and ate my pussy until I screamed.
The boat—my boat, it even had Stella written on it in gold script—was even more opulent and as expensive than it had seemed on the outside. And it seemed pretty fucking opulent on the outside. The interior consisted of a full living room with plush sofas and armchairs, a wet bar, a kitchen and a bedroom suite.
Suite.
With a huge bed, chairs at the end, a balcony, a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub. There were three levels, more bedrooms, a study, various living and eating areas on deck, and a full sunbathing platform with pillows and a mattress.
It was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
And we were spending the rest of our honeymoon on it. Sometime during Jay’s feast, someone had delivered our things to the boat. Things that had been packed and ready since Jay had told me we’d be leaving this evening. Going home. I’d hid my disappointment poorly. Though I missed our home, my friends, the routine and life we’d built, I wasn’t overly eager to return to it. Yes, our friends were there, my job, but so was Jay’s. So were the realities of what was going on in his underworld. It had crept in to our bubble, tarnishing the golden edges, with me waking in the middle of the night to Jay staring out of a window, brows creased and jaw tense. With phone calls that Jay took in other rooms.
I knew that life would be much different when we returned. Something had been building before the wedding. Tension. Danger. Though I didn’t know much, I knew well enough that the peace we were enjoying was wearing thin.
The fact that we were escaping to the Mediterranean was just fine with me.
“Just how much money do you have?” I blurted as we laid on the deck of Jay’s yacht. Or what I guessed was my yacht now.
Jay looked at me over the top of his Ray Bans. Those and a pair of low hanging linen shorts were the only thing he was wearing. His skin was glossy from the sunscreen I’d put on him, his hair messy from me running my hands through it, and gaze relaxed since I’d had my lips around his cock not one hour ago. He’d reciprocated, of course. He always did.
We’d been soaking up the European sun quietly since then, the gentle splash of the water hitting the boat the only sound. Our captain—we had a freaking captain, along with staff—had found a secluded little cove two hours from Capri. We’d hung off the anchor for the night, and I for one, was in no hurry to get back on dry land.
“I know it’s uncouth to ask such a question,” I continued, moving up on my elbow and pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head. “But I figure, as your wife, I should have some sort of an idea. You can buy mini cruise ships and call them boats, fly us to Europe on a private jet, give me more shoes and purses than I know what to do with.” I tilted my head. “And that, good sir, is no mean feat.”
Jay’s mouth lifted into what might be considered a smirk, but I classed it as a full-blown smile. “Let’s put it this way... You’ll be in clothes and shoes for the rest of your life.”
It hit me then. Our life, my closet, our bed, our home, our future was bought with the money that Jay made off ... running the streets. Money that people had died for, killed for. My mind went to Diane, bleeding in our bathroom, talking about how much she liked Love Actually. People had been irreparably damaged by this business and I was sitting on a yacht in Italy as a result of it.