Page 57 of The Unwanted Wife

My steps slow. Fact is, he’s right. I want him, so why am I running from him? I stop halfway up the stairs, then turn to find him standing at the bottom of the staircase. He’s looking at me with a quizzical expression, one foot on the step above him. He’s still in his tux, not a hair out of place, while I feel disheveled and sweaty. His gaze meets mine, and it’s like a traction ray drawing me to him. He doesn’t need to chase me, when I already want to be his.

And damn… but that feels like I’m giving up my power when I’m not. I’m owning this… connection between us. I’m reveling in it, when he’s always tried to run from it. I take one step down, then another, until I stop halfway down to him. I throw off my heels and look up to find him watching me closely.

I bend, pull up my dress and slide off my garter. I hold it up, and his blue eye flashes silver, while his brown lightens with golden stars. I certainly have his attention. I throw it at him, and he catches it, then watches me with a speculative look.

"I see you’ve decided to give into the inevitable without a fight?"

"On the contrary—" Without taking my gaze off of his, partly so he can read my lips, I slip off my panties. When I straighten, a flush blotches his cheeks.

I was right; he wants me, very much. He can’t hold himself back. He was trying to swing the balance of power in his direction with that primal play. Yes, I know what that was, having read enough spicy books. Even if I didn’t know the technical term for that, my instincts tell me he was trying to take control of the situation. And while I’m more than happy to let him have that, I plan to, at least, hold my own against him, even if it’s only for a short period of time.

I toss my panties at him. Of course, he catches them. He brings them to his face and sniffs, and that action is so erotic, so filthy… My knees buckle. I grab at the banister to hold my balance.

He slides my panties inside his pocket, then reaches up and loosens his bowtie. It should not be titillating, but the way his biceps stretch the sleeves of his tux turns my brain cells to mush. He undoes the top button of his shirt, and the next. When he undoes the third, strands of his chest hair are visible. My mouth goes dry.

He unhooks the button holding his jacket lapels together, and when they fall apart, showing the stretch of his shirt across that lean waist, my pussy clenches. Moisture bathes my core, and I have to clamp down on my inner walls to stop the cum from sliding out.

His nostrils flare. His gaze darts down to my pussy, which is only covered by my gown, then back to my face. He shrugs off his jacket, which slithers to the floor. My gaze is drawn to his chest, to the shadows of his nipples visible through the white of his shirt, to the cleavage of his pecs.

As if in a dream, I reach forward to undo the next button, but he grabs my wrist and twists my arm behind my back. The action forces me up on my toes.

He drags his gaze down to my breasts, and his throat moves as he swallows. "Your tits are going to be the death of me." He lowers his head to the valley between my breasts, then licks my cleavage. The action is so primal, so lust-filled, a moan spills from my lips. It seems to snap him into action, for he straightens, then bends his knees and throws me over his shoulder. He throws my size sixteen frame over his shoulder. He is the first man to want me enough to touch me, and make me feel beautiful, and carry me, and run up the stairs like I weigh nothing. I’m too shocked to move, too surprised to say anything. Then, he enters a room—his bedroom, I assume, for the next moment he’s throwing me down on the bed.

I bounce once, then shove the hair out of my face. I begin to sit up, but he grabs my ankle and pulls me over to the edge of the bed, my dress riding up my body in the process. I yelp and try to back away, purely on instinct. In response, he grips my other ankle and holds me down. I look into his face to find his gaze locked on mine. There’s an intense look on his features; his jaw is set. He shoves my legs apart, and when I yelp, one side of his lips twist.

"Fight me," he growls.

I’m not sure what makes me follow his direction, but my hindbrain kicks into gear. All of my senses narrow in on him. There’s something in his eyes. Something that tells me he’s serious. And when my gaze drops to the tent between his legs, I realize, he’s turned on. I begin to struggle. "Let me go."

He doesn’t reply. But his breathing grows rougher, so I know I’m doing the right thing. I try to tug my legs from his hold. The next moment, he’s pushed my legs up, so my knees are next to my ears.

"Nate." I swallow.

He doesn’t reply. He’s busy staring at my bare pussy. The way he devours me with his gaze, I’m sure his next move is going to be—I cry out, for he’s bent his head and licked me from back hole to clit. "Oh, Twilight Zone!"

He glances up from between my thighs. "Your swearing is a fucking turn on."

"It… It is?"

"Makes me wonder what you’ll do when I?—"

I yell, for he’s slapped my pussy.

"What in the Peaky Blinders are you doing?" I try to pull away from him, and he laughs. It’s a dark, evil sound, filled with promises of all the dirty things he can do to me. And I want them. And I want to please him even more.

Okay, so I’m a slut. We’ve established that. Can we just… cut me some slack? I’m just a woman parting her legs for the man who’s the love of her life, the only one I’ve ever wanted to be with.

And then, he slaps my pussy again. This time, my entire body jolts. I growl at him, and he smirks at me. Then he lowers his head and bites my clit.

"Bloody Bridgerton!" I try to pull away from him.

He looks up and smacks his lips. "You taste so fucking delightful."

"And when you release me, I’m going to smack your balls. We’ll see, then, how much you like it—" I huff, for he releases his hold on my one leg, only to stick that finger inside my pussy. I gasp. It’s only a finger—his one thick finger—but it already feels like he’s stretching me. He scoops up my cum, then proceeds to smear it around my forbidden hole and—nope, not ready for that yet.

I press the foot he’s released against his shoulder and push. And somehow, that unbalances him—bet he does it on purpose—so I can get free. But I don’t care. If he wants to shove his monster cock up the wrong hole, then I’m taking him up on his offer to run and to fight him. I scramble back, then manage to jump to my feet.

He slowly straightens. Even standing on the bed, I barely reach to eye level with him. He’s so tall. And the way he rolls his neck, the tendons of his shoulders pop. I feint to the left, and when he follows me, I race to the right of the bed, jump down and around the foot, and toward the doorway. I burst out of the room, and a fierce ball of emotion fires in my chest. At least I’m making it difficult for him to catch me.

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