Page 48 of Claiming Genevieve

I manage to fuck her at least twice every one of those nights, and she comes every time, though she won’t admit it. She bites down every moan, every gasp of pleasure, and I find myself wishing I could wrench them free. Even at the height of my pleasure, I’m desperate for more—to hear her cry out, to feel her give herself over completely, to make her unravel. I want all of her, and she gives me almost nothing.

And it’s still so fucking good that I can’t remember what sex was like with anyone before her. All I want is her. For those six days, I spend as little time away from the penthouse as possible, fucking her every possible moment that I can get my hands on her. In the morning, in the afternoon, at night, until I should be sated, completely spent with desire. Until I should be satisfied that I’ve gotten what I wanted.

Instead, I only want her more.

There’s so much that I want to do to her—with her—and the strict rules that she’s set down for both me and for herself only make me even more desperate to have more of her.

In the hours in between when I’m inside of her, I try to distract myself with work, with the upcoming meeting that my father wants me to have with the other heads of the families, with anything other than my wife. But she creeps into my every thought, distracting me throughout the day, making me count down the hours and minutes until I have a reason to be back home, back in bed with her, inside of her once again. And, at the same time, I catch myself dreading the end of the sixth day, when I’ll have to wait until next month for us to try again.

Unless it works this month. Unless she gets pregnant, and then?—

I’m supposed to want that. It’s in the contract, after all, in black and white. If Genevieve isn’t pregnant by the time my father passes away, my inheritance goes to someone else. Not just the leadership of the mafia and the responsibility of running it, which I don’t really want—but also all of the money, including my trust fund, which Ido. And while the doctor’s estimate leaves us a solid four or five months, that’s not a guarantee. I shouldn’t want to draw this out.

In fact, I should be bored with her by now. That’s the way it’s gone with every other woman—and no other woman I’ve ever been with has insisted we do it the same way every night, with her on her back and nothing but the most bare-bones form of copulation involved. I should be sick to death of having Genevieve in my bed, ready to knock her up and be done with it—and yet I still feel as if I’m just as hungry for her as I was the night I met her. Like I’m a bottomless pit of need, and nothing that we do can satisfy me.

When I come home on the sixth day, I have every intention of sweeping her upstairs and keeping her there for as long as I can keep getting hard again. Instead, when I walk into the penthouse, I’m greeted by the sound of more than one feminine voice, and the sight of Dahlia perched on the couch in the living room, chattering away with Genevieve.

Frustration wells up in me, though on the surface I’m glad to see that she’s settling in. It’s been easier than I’d thought it would be, actually. She moved her things in without trouble, and she’s had her friends over a handful of times, especially since either Dahlia or Evelyn have been going to her doctor’s appointments with her. I offered to go, but Genevieve emphatically refused, saying it wasn’t part of the agreement.

I stand there in the entryway for a moment, just looking at her.I could get used to this,I think, and it startles me. But it’s true.

I don’t mind being married as much as I thought I would. I don’t mind being married toGenevieve. We still bicker and banter exactly as we did when we met, maybe even a little more, due to living with each other now. But there’s a rhythm to it that I find oddly soothing. A familiarity that seems to salve years of loneliness that I didn’t know I minded until now. I look at her, sitting across from Dahlia and moving her hands in the air as she talks, shaking her head and laughing, and I imagine the day when I come home and she’s not here any longer.

My throat tightens. It won’t even behere, I realize. By then, I will have had to leave this place behind, keeping it only if I want to for… some reason that would be more sentiment than need. I’ll have moved into the estate, taking my father’s place. Genevieve might live there with me for a little while, depending on the timing of her pregnancy and my inheritance. And then…

And then I’ll live in a mansion that feels like a mausoleum to me, with a child running around its halls shepherded by a nanny. Exactly the kind of cold, unfeeling life that I had growing up… and the kind of cold, unfeeling life I’ll have once Genevieve is gone.

I swallow hard, trying to push the aching emptiness that I suddenly feel aside. I’ve spent years carousing around Ireland on my own, with only myself and Rory, and an endless parade of women. My closest friend is a man who works for me. I’ve never had a real relationship, and I’m not in one now. It’s never bothered me before.

Unless…

There’s always the possibility, I think grimly as I look at my wife, that the endless women and expensive drinks, and raucous parties were there to fill that emptiness that I’m only just now acknowledging to myself. But that can’t be it.

If it is, then what the hell am I meant to do about it?

I shake my head, taking a deep breath, and toss my keys down. Genevieve looks over, and she smiles tightly as I walk in. Dahlia sees me too and gives me a small wave.

“I’ll head out,” she says. “I should probably get home, anyway. Alek wants to go out for dinner.”

Genevieve starts to protest, but stops when Dahlia says she has plans. She hugs her friend goodbye and waits until Dahlia is gone before looking at me. “Well?”

“You must want to avoid fucking me, if you were so desperate for your friend to stay.” I try for humor, but my voice is tighter than I mean for it to be. The days after today seem to stretch out in an endless march, day after day, where I’m not allowed to touch my wife. Where I’ll be reminded, constantly, that her goal is for me to never have to touch her again.

A part of me wants to walk out of the room, go to my office, and stay there until after Genevieve is asleep. We’ve fucked countless times over the last six days—if it’s going to happen this month, it probably already will. I could go ahead and resign myself to the upcoming weeks of celibacy and not give Genevieve the satisfaction of once again seeing the plain evidence of how fucking badly I want her.

Instead, I lean down, sweep her into my arms, and carry her upstairs.

We’re both naked in a matter of minutes. I spill her back onto the bed, careful of her leg, and lean over her as I spread them both apart. I’m already rock hard, my cock brushing against my abdomen, throbbing eagerly. Every time I’ve fucked her over the past six days hasn’t been enough. I’m not sure it’s ever going to be enough.

I press the head of my cock against her, feeling how wet she is. She’s always wet for me. No matter how silent she tries to be during sex, no matter that we’ve never kissed since the wedding or that she never touches me, she’s always dripping when the most intimate part of me touches the most intimate part of her.

She can lie to me and to herself all she wants, but her body can’t. She wants me. And I’m desperate to make her admit it, even just once.

Maybe that would do it,I think as I thrust into her, groaning with pleasure as her tight heat wraps around me.Maybe if she admitted it, I’d be satisfied. I’d be bored after that.

It can’t be that she’s the one woman I’ll never get bored of. It can’t be that I’m falling for her, slowly, and that I have been ever since I met her that first night at the party. That’s not possible.

I won’tletit be possible. I’ve spent my whole life not allowing myself to be broken by the lack of love in my life, not allowing myself to want it. If I let myself feel that for her, when she’s going to walk away…

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