Page 43 of Coerced Wife

Fuck it. I can’t be bothered to cook. I’m too on edge, too close to ripping off Anya’s clothes and showing her who she belongs to.

“Rusty’s,” I say, drawing Anya’s leg roughly back to mine and unintentionally spreading her knees in the process.

I smooth my hand over her leg, brushing up the hem of her dress, and rest my palm high on her thigh, my fingers inches away from her crotch. She sits as quietly as a little mouse next to me, wisely not prodding the monster she lured out of its cage with her earlier comment. The mistake she made was suggesting we hadn’t been exclusive from the moment I’d locked my fist around her neck and claimed every breath she was yet to take. Every fucking breath she drags into her lungs is mine. They’re all mine, for the rest of her life.

Kevin exits the underground parking lot and steers the car into the street. Per habit, I scan the surroundingsthrough the windscreen. My attention locks on a white car that pulls away from the curb just as we pass, inserting himself between our vehicle and those of my guards.

In a second flat, my hand is on the gun I keep under the seat.

A soft gasp falls from Anya’s lips. I don’t let go of her leg. I keep the gun in one hand and the other on her thigh, squeezing her soft flesh to reassure her while my attention remains on the action outside.

My guards act fast. The driver of the first car overtakes and cuts off the interloper but not before I’ve gotten a good visual of the car.

The license plate confirms what I already know.

Detective Jordan.

Jordan swerves, inviting some honking. The maneuver forces him to line up behind my guards. He’s not trying to be discreet. No, he wants me to see him. He’s sending a message, letting me know he’s watching me. As if his psychological games will have any effect on me. I almost laugh out loud at that.

“Is everything all right?” Anya asks in a panicked tone, glancing at the gun I hold on my thigh with the barrel pointing toward the opposite door.

“It’s Jordan.” My voice is clipped. “He’s tailing us.”

Knowing that a deal is going down at Rusty’s tonight when some high-end players are meeting there, I tell Kevin, “Go left here.”

He doesn’t question the change of direction. He turns, and when I look through the back window, Jordan’s headlights creep up behind the second car in my convoy.

I give Kevin the name of a high-end restaurant in Manhattan. They’re always fully booked, but they’ll give me a table.

While we drive, I slide my fingers to the junction ofAnya’s legs. She’s wearing a lace thong. The fabric is rough beneath my fingertips. And damp. My good little girl is always wet for me, even when I threaten to kill any man who’d dare to touch her. Even when there’s a gun on my lap.Especiallywhen there’s a gun on my lap.

She won’t admit it, but she loves the high that comes with danger. It turns her wetter beneath my probing hand. It makes me reckless, not caring that I’m all but fingering her underneath the meagre protection of her dress.

I press my fingers together and turn my palm sideways, parting her folds and shoving the lace between her pussy lips. She grabs my wrist and flattens her back against the seat. When I rub up and down, dragging rough lace and slick arousal over her clit and through her slit, she bites her lip and throws back her head.

Her fingers remain locked around my wrist, but I’m not sure if she’s holding on or urging me to move faster. She’s definitely not pushing me away. So I go faster. Harder. I watch her come undone right there beside me, her pussy clenching around nothing while my driver is none the wiser.

She’s breathing hard when we reach our destination. Holding her gaze, I lift my hand to my nose and inhale her scent. She’s musky and ripe summer fruit and a beautiful Indian summer. An unexpected, prolonged stretch of balmy days and perfect sunshine. A gift I don’t deserve.

I put away the gun and get out to open her door.

The restaurant sits in the middle of art galleries on a trendy street. It’s one oftheplaces to be seen. I only come here because I like the food. The menu is an eclectic selection of dishes from around the world, featuring spicy curries and richly flavored tagines. The slow-cooked tomatobredieis one of the best I’ve had. Anya will like it.

The hostess smiles when she opens the door. “Welcomeback, Mr. De Luca.” She takes Anya’s coat. “Will it be just the two of you or do you expect a bigger party?”

I flash Anya a smile. “Just me and my fiancée.”

“Oh.” The hostess glances at Anya, trying to but not succeeding in hiding her surprise. “Congratulations.” She hangs the coat on a stand. “Please go through to the bar while I prepare your table. Drinks are on the house.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking Anya’s hand and pulling her behind me as I weave through the tables to the bar on the raised platform at the back.

“Do you always get what you want?” Anya asks when I seat her at the counter.

I slide onto a stool next to her. “No.”

She averts her gaze, and I know exactly what’s going through her mind.

Rachele.

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