Page 23 of His Bride

The way her sharp tongue can match my wit and jokes and volley shit back to me that’s bigger, sharper, funnier, and she does it with ease.

I love how she challenges me at every turn, refusing to be tamed but still yielding under my touch.

How she doesn't bend to my will easily. She doesn't follow my orders blindly. She responds with defiance, with sparkles of fiery determination that set me aflame every single time. And God, how that makes my dick hard. She lets me hunt, makes me work for her surrender, and when she does, it’s fucking magic.

I love how her kisses can bring me to my knees. The way her tongue can playfully tease one moment, then become a stroke ofbold heat the next. The way she arches under my hands as if her body was made purely to respond to my touch.

The way her nipples harden for me.

How her pussy sucks me in deeper.

Christ, I should just fuck her right now. If she would let me. But that’s the thing; she won't. Not today. Not tomorrow.

She's a challenge, my bride, has been from the very beginning and most likely will be until the end. But fuck it all, I love that about her.

I take one last swig and slam the bottle down. That woman’s in my head, her touch and taste, her scent and heat. She’s everywhere, driving me insane with visions of her under me, on top of me, bent all the way down before me so I can watch my dick slide in and out of her.

I undo my pants and pull out my hard cock, palming it, rubbing my thumb over the tip, jerking off to fantasies where she’s the fucking star.

A low groan vibrates up my throat. It’s been too long since I’ve had any release. Way too long.

Jerking off to her, being buried balls deep in her cunt, her mouth, her ass is enough to?—

God, I’m making myself worse, not rubbing one out, hot and bothered with a boner that won’t quit and no relief in sight.

“Fuck.” I stop and let go of my cock, frustration pulsing everywhere. I take another gulp of alcohol before tucking my aching dick away. “This is stupid.”

I want her. Not my hand. Her.

She’s what? Thirty seconds down the damn hall? So close. I can be inside that hot, tight snatch right now, yet I’m here, and she’s there, and…

“Fuck this.”

Without another thought, I hurl myself to my feet and stomp to my door, throwing it open.

Is she a fucking witch? Has she worked that voodoo, mumbo-jumbo shit on me? Because I know this is fucked up, and here I am, storming down the hall anyway.

I shove open her door without knocking.

In her hand’s a bottle of sherry, or port, or something disgusting she’s managed to dig up from somewhere.

“Please leave, Caelian. I’m not in the mood.”

“What? No lovers’ quarrel?”

“Screw you.” Her cheeks, soft and almost curved, are marked with tears. They clump in her lashes. It should be enough to make me come to my senses and leave. I know wrong and right. Good and bad. Smart from stupid. And that’s what this moment is, isn’t it?

Wrong. Bad. Stupid.

I’m a little drunk, a lot horny, and a man who likes doing wrong—read bad—overly stupid shit.

And her tears…

They make me angry. Furious.

“You’ve been crying,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

“How observant of you,” she retorts, but her voice lacks real venom. It's muffled, dull, and soaked with pain. My anger morphs into something closer to guilt. I ignore it.

---