Page 6 of Wicked Union

The home itself is white stucco, square and tall, hidden behind vehicles and streetlights. There is absolutely no curb appeal, which means the inside must be nothing but over-the-top pretension. It disgusts me, but it's not my job to decide how he lives, only to meet my portion of this agreement. Marry the man and bear a child and stay with him for ten years. That's enough responsibility for me.

"Here you are," Mom's driver says, setting my bag next to me on the sidewalk. Mom climbs out and wraps her arms around me tightly one last time.

"You are my sweet, precious girl. If you need anything, you call me." She places my phone charger in my hand and kisses my cheek, and I nod.

"Thank you. I will." And with a brave face, I pick up my bag, knowing the driver will crate the rest of them into the house, and walk around the back of the Range Rover and toward the front door.

The concrete steps offer no place to welcome guests. I already hate this place. I ring the doorbell and wait, and a young Latina woman with bold brown eyes and a warm smile opens the door for me.

"Mrs. Ramiro, welcome to your home." She swings the door open and steps back as I enter, and someone whisks in to take my bag from me.

The home is larger than it looks from the front. Deep, swelling rooms with high ceilings are decorated in modern furniture and paintings, though none of them are extravagant. I'm mildly surprised by the modest look of the place, and I wonder if I'm atthe wrong house, mostly because she called me Mrs. Ramiro and I've only ever been known as Ms. Peralta before this.

"Ah, my beautiful wife," Tito says, and I spin around to see him standing near a gas fireplace that's turned off. He holds a glass of some sort of amber-colored liquid and has a cynical smile.

My belly flutters with nerves, and I clutch the phone charger in my hand so hard the plug bites into my skin. He's staring at me like a piece of meat again, and last time he did this, it made my body do things I hated. But this time, he's going to make my body do things I like. I just know it. And what if it makes me think differently of him?

"Mr. Ramiro," I acquiesce, nodding. But he scoffs and shakes his head as he moves toward me.

I glance around, wondering why he looks like he's amused and stalking me all at once, but I'm alone. The help is gone, off to God only knows where, and he is now inches from me.

"Mr. Ramiro is my father. I'm your husband. You should call me dear, or honey, something lame like that. Don't you think?" With a single pinky, he touches my eyebrow, drawing a line across my forehead until the hair is off my face and I'm no longer veiled.

My heart pounds against my chest with rage. I don’t want to feel turned on by him, but I do. He's bold and commanding. He owns me, and I have to do what he says, even if what he says is something I wouldn't otherwise do—for him or anyone else. And he smells good, like a god descended from the heavens to bring my every pleasure to the surface and sate me.

"Dear," I say through gritted teeth. The anger resurges—anger with myself for noticing how the top few buttons of his dress shirt are undone, his tie missing. Anger at myself for letting mygroin warm at the thought that he will request sexual favors from me, most likely tonight, most likely soon. It's been a while. My body is tense.

"Now see, that wasn't so hard. Not as hard as my cock." His smirk is painful to look at. I steal my gaze away from his face and stare at the wire in my hands. "They've brought your things to my room. Up the steps, third door on the right. If you don't have some sort of negligée, then wear nothing. I'll be up in ten minutes." He waves his hand as he speaks, and I feel my face contort into a glare. "Be naked when I get up there."

I scoff, and he raises an eyebrow, and I know I’m not getting out of this. The disgusting part is that I want to do what he says. It's like he has a power over me that I can't fight, as if he's climbed into my mind and is manipulating even my desires. I feel my cheeks warming, and my lower belly is set ablaze.

"Go on," he says, flicking his wrist, and I turn and stomp up the steps. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

6

TITO

The cute little huff Aria gives me before stomping away makes me laugh, and I watch that ass of hers shake. I like the fire that bubbles beneath her surface just waiting to come out. It's women like her who make for the best fuck, and I fully intend to lean into that fight when I fuck her. I've been fantasizing about it since the minute we met, bending her over and leaving red handprints on her ass.

I sip the whiskey in my glass and retreat into my den. The long day has me fatigued, but not too tired to indulge in Aria's body. It's one of the perks of this arrangement I believe I'm going to enjoy most. I've never had trouble finding women willing and available for my pleasure, but there's something about knowing this one is being forced to be here, with or without her consent. It gets my blood pumping.

I down the rest of the whiskey and set the glass on my desk. I've instructed my help that I'm not to be bothered this evening. I've thought of how I will consummate this marriage probably a hundred times. All of those ideas have boiled down to only one possible scenario, which I'm eager to play out.

Aria needs to know who I am, what I'm about, and how I expect to be respected. The best way to teach her that is if she is vulnerable, and the most vulnerable position any woman can be put in is to be stripped naked and fucked into oblivion. It opens them right up to education, which I will provide for my new bride tonight.

I make my way upstairs slowly, savoring the sensation of pressure building in my groin. Just the anticipation of what I'm about to do with her makes my dick swell, and I know she already holds power over me. I hate to admit it, but marriage isn't going to be as bad as I thought. I'll get off on controlling her, mapping every line on her body and dominating her. But I'll also enjoy the comfort of knowing she must submit no matter what I ask. Maybe that's just my pride talking.

At the bedroom door, I wait, listening to what's happening inside the room. I hear a drawer open, then shut. I hear her muttering things under her breath. She sounds hostile and angry. That will work in my favor. Breaking someone is so much more fun when they fight you. Besides, it's a turn on. Not that I would ever force a woman to have sex with me. I'm not evil, but I do like to convince them, and I always have them begging for it.

The door pushes open easily, and I lean on the jamb and watch her jerk back from one of the drawers and shut it quickly. She's snooping, but she won't find anything. What on earth would she be looking for, anyway?

"Mi casa es su casa, Aria." I push off the jamb and walk deeper into the bedroom. "Anything you want to know, you can ask." My hands slide into my pockets as I take her in, still clothed and glaring at me. I knew she would be. She'll be a tough nut to crack, but I'll do it.

"I don't want to know anything," she says hastily, folding her arms over her chest.

"Then why were you rifling through my underwear drawer? Trying to find out whether I wear boxers or briefs?" I chuckle and cock my head at an angle.

Aria only continues to glare at me and puff her chest out as if she has something to prove. It was her family who initiated this arrangement between the two of us, so it's very possible she is feeling slighted by her father's wishes. Our parents only do what's best for us and for our families. I myself have been at the receiving end of some such situations, so while I don't enjoy her attitude, I can at least sympathize. Still, she must learn the ropes, and teaching her will be fun.

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