Page 81 of Broken Hearts

The next few weeks are a blur of rehab sessions—excruciating and relentless. Cole is my rock through it all, his unwavering strength leaving me in awe. I attempt to mask the pain, to spare him from shared suffering, but he sees through me. His attunement to my every grimace, every tense muscle, is nothing short of humbling. At the slightest sign of discomfort, he’s there—soothing me with kisses, gentle caresses, and murmurs of comfort.

We’ve slipped into a rhythm, me and him, without a single word. Despite the nights when nerve stimulation therapy leaves me irritable and unable to sleep, we haven’t spent a single one apart. “For better or for worse,” he whispers against my ear, his embrace a sanctuary from the pain.

How could I not love this man? He’s an unstoppable force at both his best and his worst, and that’s precisely the heart of my dilemma. It’s why I lie awake in his bed, eyeing the black velvet ring box on his dresser, yet never opening it. Our pact hangs in the air—if I open it, I must wear the ring, and wearing it means no turning back, no divorce.

Waking up next to him at dawn, the madness of our situation hits me once more. We're so young, just nineteen and twenty, and already married. We jumped straight from conflict into matrimony, skipping all the traditional steps.

In the quiet morning, I notice the ring on his finger – a sleek platinum band with black diamonds. It's not just any ring; it's his promise, a symbol of his commitment. 'I may not be yours in the world's eyes,' he had said, slipping it on, 'but I am yours, and that's what counts.'

That ring, every time I see it, stirs something deep inside me – a sense of pride and ownership. It's more than jewelry; it's a testament to his love, his decision to be with me against all odds. The way he looks at me, those silent promises in his eyes, and the ring proudly worn, all shout his dedication to our unexpected, intense union.

Lying there, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine, I'm overwhelmed by the reality of it all. Cole Westbrook, with his strength and unwavering love, belongs to me. It's a thrilling, almost unbelievable thought, filling me with a profound sense of gratitude and awe. In these quiet moments, it's just us against the world, and that feels like more than enough.

I turn to him in the bed, watching him sleep, his blond hair veiling his face. Gently, I brush the strands aside, and his eyes flutter open.

“Morning, Angel. Is everything okay?” His voice is husky with sleep, but he’s instantly alert, his lips tenderly meeting the new raw, red scar on my hand. There’s no hint of revulsion in his gaze—only love, pure and unwavering. He’s been there through it all, kissing the wound, massaging salve into the cramping flesh, and now, looking at me with nothing but adoration.

“I do love you, Cole, more than I’ll ever love anyone; I know that,” I confess, and the words hang in the air between us. He looks at me, his expression unreadable, as my hand rests on his chest. Beneath my fingers, his heart races, yet his face remains calm. He’s waiting for more, but it’s all I can give right now.

He breaks the silence with a playful smirk. “Now be a good little wife and let your husband give you an orgasm.”

A laugh slips out, a sound that is both relieved and filled with love. “And does my husband get to come too?”

His eyes glint with desire as his hand trails up my leg under my nightgown, finding me bare and already getting wet. He slips one of his long fingers inside of me, and I let out a moan. “Nothing makes me come faster than hearing your little moans of pleasure as you unravel beneath me,” he murmurs, biting on my neck.

Spreading my legs wider, he slips another finger inside of me.

I feel his smile against my skin. “Good little wife,” he whispers as he increases his pace, pressing his thumb against my clit, and I come shamefully fast.

He removes his fingers and puts them into his mouth. “Ummm, delicious.”

I blush as his big body settles on top of me, the crown of his hard cock already brushing against my entrance.

“My turn,” he says, entering me in a long, sharp thrust.

I gasp, arching my back at the invasion. I love it when he does that. I love the duality in my man… my husband. Sometimes he makes love to me, sometimes he fucks me, and I can see with the light in his eyes and the way his hand finds its way around my neck that we’re in for a good morning fuck, and I’m here for it.

Resting my feet on his muscled ass, I spread my legs even more.

He growls. “Good little wife,” he repeats, thrusting hard, and it feels like calling me wife makes him even more possessive, more animalistic, and I love it.

Wrapping my arms around him, I can’t help but tease, “Fuck me like a good little husband.”

He jerks his head back, looking at me with surprise, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve called him that. I see the beast unleash in front of my eyes, and he thrusts harder, biting, sucking, licking every piece of exposed skin.

“You’re mine. You belong to me.”

Raking my blunt nails down his back, I tighten my walls around him with my second orgasm. He throws his head back and comes, calling my name before falling heavily on top of me.

After the intense moment of passion, I find myself lingering in the warmth of our embrace, but the reminder of reality soon pulls me back. I can feel a dull throb in my hand, the pain creeping in as a result of my intense grip. But I don’t want Cole to see that. I don’t want him to see me as fragile. I love when he’s this passionate, this unrestrained with me. It’s a part of our relationship I cherish deeply.

“I need to go to class,” he murmurs into my neck, his voice muffled and sleepy.

“Go get ready. I’ll make breakfast,” I reply, giving him a gentle push.

He protests playfully, “After the pleasure you gave me, shouldn’t I be the one cooking for you?”

Feeling the lightness of the moment, I laugh. “Trust me, it was mutual.”

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