Page 46 of Bloody Vows
13
TRISTAN
Ispend the entire night tossing and turning, my dreams full of Simone.
My wife.
As far as I’m concerned at this point, my fucking nemesis.
My father told me to get her under control. To show her who was in charge.
He also told me to get her pregnant, which is the last thing I’ve been doing. Instead, I’ve spent the last two days punishing her and fucking my own hand while I paint her with my cum—which, while highly erotic, won’t result in a child.
I should be fucking my wife. Instead, I’m trying to master her, which feels like a losing battle right now.
At four a.m., four hours before my flight, I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling, hard as a rock, and thinking about my rebellious bride.
I know what my father would say if he knew about the state of affairs in my house—which, God willing, he’ll never fucking find out about—that I should be putting aside my obsessions, fucking my wife when necessary, and focusing on business. He’d probably approve of Simone’s plan. After all, the only time that Ineedto come to her bed now is when she’s primed to provide me with an heir. Her suggestion—rote, businesslike fucking on the appropriate days and avoiding each other afterward, is exactly in line with what my father said I should be doing.
But that’s not what I want.
I want my wife to submit to me. To admit that she wants me. To beg for me. I want her to admit that she doesn’t hate me—she hates that she feels out of control with me. That she can’t manipulate me or make me her lapdog.
She also hates that you took over her inheritance. Her life. That you stole everything and made it yours.
I banish that voice from my head—the one that whispers things that make sense. That reminds me that Simone’s actions are that of a woman who has had her world turned upside down in a momen. That decisions have been made for her every step of the way since then. That, if I were her and in her position, I’d probably react much the same.
It’s easier to banish than the image of Simone bent over the bed, her skin flushed and marked from my hand, the pearlescent sheen of my cum marking her reddened ass. The way she looked at me afterward, defiant and aroused in equal measure, like she was fighting a war with herself and losing.
Christ.
I’m hard again, aching for her, and I know I could walk down the hall, wake her up, and fuck her until I have the release I so desperately need. Two days of my own hand hasn’t done anything for my libido—if anything, the circumstances have just made my arousal rage out of control. But I force myself to lie there, my hand drifting down as I ignore just how easily I could have my wife.
This isn't me. I've never been the kind of man who loses control, who lets a woman get under his skin so completely that I can't think straight. I've had my share of women and enjoyedthem all thoroughly, explored my kinks, but it was always controlled. Always on my terms. Always something I could walk away from when it was over.
Simone is different. She makes me feel things I don't understand, makes me want things I've never wanted before. The need to possess her, to break down every wall she's built around herself, to make her mine in every possible way—it's consuming me.
It’s getting in the way of what I came here for. Not to become obsessed with a woman, but to build a legacy of my own. Simone was the key to that, but a key is kept out of sight until it’s needed. And she’s occupying my thoughts far too often.
No. I’m going to go to Vegas this morning, and I won’t touch her until I return. When I do, it will be controlled. Businesslike. When I want—I’m not going to adhere to her ridiculous schedule—but it will be to the point. Not this obsessive need to punish her, to break her, to make her admit that she’s mine.
Sheismine already, in every way that matters. Nothing else should.
I let out a long breath, my fingers curling around my cock as I seek to ease the tight heaviness there, the throbbing need that won’t go away until I do.
When I’ve come to the memory of my wife bent over the chair in the library, her skin glistening with my cum, I toss the used tissues into the wastebasket and get up, resigning myself to the fact that I’m not getting any more sleep. I shower and dress, then head down to get something to eat before the driver takes me to the tarmac to board the private jet.
To my surprise, Simone is in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee and staring broodingly out of the window. She jumps when she hears my footsteps, and I chuckle, enjoying the look of irritated surprise on her face.
“I should put a bell on you,” she snips, and I smirk at her, going to get a mug out of one of the cupboards.
“Good luck,célie. Plenty of women have wanted to leash me. None have succeeded.”
Her cheeks flush, irritation plain on her face. I lean against the counter as I fill my coffee cup, one eyebrow raised as I look at her. “You don’t like hearing that? How many other women I’ve fucked? You want me all to yourself,banphrionsa?”
“I don’t care if you fucked all of Boston.” She takes a sip of her coffee, and I think she’s lying. Her nose flares when she lies. “I don’t care who you’re fucking as long as it’s not me.”
“Liar.” I take a sip of my own coffee, black. “You hate the thought of me making another woman moan. Of another woman getting what you want.”
