Page 18 of His Little Spitfire

Ididabandon her. Left to try to forget about everything. Left her all alone to deal with her cherry popped and my cum coating her thighs.

She pulls the blankets tighter to her body like it can hide the short-lived waves of trembles that rock through her.

“I’m sorry.” The words sound foreign as they roll off my tongue without thought, and I can’t stuff them back in. No, I mean them. When was the last time I apologized for anything?

During those times when I was younger, worrying my mother over bullet wounds and stabbings I’ve received from being reckless. That one time I killed a member of our family for being a rat, though that wasn’t a genuine one.

That’s it. Now I’m adding another one to my list. For making my wife cry.

Eliza doesn’t say anything, she just sniffs again. The sound is already beginning to haunt me. Everything inside of my head is demanding I fix this. I’ll take her hatred happily, but she’s not allowed to be sad. I’m not allowed to make her feel this way.

I erase the distance between our bodies. Rolling onto my side, I join her on her half before wrapping an arm around her. She’s so small in comparison, easily sliding over to me with one tug.

Rather than fight me, she just shakes her head like she’ll never forgive me. She has to.

“What can I do to fix this?” My words ghost over the crown of her head. Lifting my hand, I swipe at her wet cheeks. Who knows how long she’s been like this. How long I left her alone to wither in sadness.

Fuck, I want her to say she wants to stab me. I’d let her. Anything to make her feel better.

“I want to sleep and forget this happened,” she huffs under her breath. “I’ll find a room closer to Camellia, and you can do whatever you want.”

Her voice wobbles, and I realize I’ve given her too much time to get lost in her head.

I should agree. That’s the easiest and most peaceful route.

However, my chest seizes up as the thought alone makes me forget to breathe.

Just minutes ago, I thought I could give her up. Now, I’m starting to realize this is far more complicated than I thought it would be. I have to accept that my heart isn’t a boulder in my chest. I’m feeling things. Calling her a weakness is an understatement. I have to accept the truth.

I feel better having her within my reach.

As my fingers leave her cheeks, I trail them down her throat, her collarbones, and down the curve of her breast. The tip of her nipple pressing through the fabric is enough to make a groan form in the back of my throat.

I enjoy touching her. Not just for my pleasure, but I want to bring her the same thing.

When I had her draped over my lap, feeling her juices soaking through her clothing as I rubbed her through each hit should’ve been my realization point. It’s why I kept doing it. It’s why my cock was hard as steel, the reaction instant.

“This room is on the opposite side of the estate,” I tell her as I circle the small bud. “What will you do when your body gets all worked up when I’m not there? Walk through the halls, all flushed and wet for any man to see while you try to find me?”

She doesn’t bat my hand away, much to my approval.

I’m talking hypothetically here. However, we both know the hunger will remain between the both of us. I can’t go five seconds near her without my cock coming to life. I don’t know about her, but I’m sure her pussy is getting wet just from a light touch.

We’ve ruined each other. Even if we don’t want to admit it, we’re a match. Two stubborn individuals that keep wanting to fight the truth.

“Camellia says I can get stuff delivered out here. I’ll–” She sucks in a breath as I pinch her nipple before squeezing her entire breast. “–get a vibrator. Had one back at home. Thanks to you, I can get something bigger now.”

A silicone toy? She thinks that’ll be enough to satisfy her? I’m tempted by the thought of picking one out myself, and watching her attempt to try.

She’d get so frustrated and impatient, she’d beg for my cock by parting her thighs, inviting me inside.

Fuck, she really has ruined me.

“That won’t be enough,” I promise her, my voice growing thicker as I picture the whole scene playing out.

Her stomach flexes as my hand runs lower. Reaching the waistband of sweatpants I’m confident are mine, I dip between her thighs. My knuckles ache in pain as I scrape against the inner side of the blanket, but the sting is not anywhere on my mind. Hearing her groan under her breath, I pause. “Are you in pain?”

She doesn’t answer for the longest time. Pain is a weakness, admitting it out loud to someone you hate is an impossible task.

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