Page 90 of Bloody Vows
The realization scares the hell out of me.
I feel her start to come on my fingers, feel her tremble the instant before the explosion hits her, see her back arch and her lips part as a helpless moan spills from them. I feel her buck against my hand, feel wetness flood over my fingers, and I’ve never been so hard in my entire life.
She feels like fucking heaven. Watching her come is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I stare at her as she comes apart, gasping, writhing, and then—before she can fully come down from her orgasm—I'm lifting her, turning her around, bending her over the desk.
I need to regain control, need to remind both of us who's in charge here. I need to put some distance between us, to prove to myself that this is just physical, just sex, just two people taking what they need from each other.
That she’s nothing more than a means to an end, as she once accused me of making her. That I’m just seeking my own pleasure now, the way I just gave her hers.
I flick open my belt and yank down my zipper, freeing my cock with one quick motion as I line myself up and thrust into her. A groan comes from between my clenched teeth as I sink into her wet, velvet heat, the sensation of her against my bare cock almost painful with how exquisite it is.
Nothing has ever felt so good. I could fuck her for hours, and at the same time, I want to come in her right this second, fill her up until she’s dripping with me. She drives me insane, makes me want to never leave her and get the fuck away from her all atonce, makes me crave her and fear what she does to me at the same time.
I draw out to the tip and then slam into her again, fucking her hard and fast, trying to reestablish control. But it’s shattered, my mind swimming with how much I need her, how I’d never fucking recover if I never got to be inside her again.
I’m obsessed with my wife. Addicted to the feeling of being in her. That’s what it is—that’sallit is, and while that’s a problem in and of itself, I cling to it, because the alternative is something so much more than I ever planned to allow myself.
I can’t last long. I feel her clench and flutter around me, hear her moans as she starts to come on my cock, and it drives me past the point of no return. I clutch her shoulder with one hand, thrusting hard into her as I stiffen and throb, and a groan of pleasure tears past my lips as I fill her with spurt after spurt of my cum.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I’m breathing hard and so is she, my cock still pulsing with the aftershocks of my climax, and I let out a hiss of breath as I slide free of her. I glance down, seeing my cum pearling at her entrance, and my cock twitches all over again.
Simone straightens, slowly, her thighs pressed together as she reaches for her clothes.
“Is that all?” She looks at me, her chin tipped up, and I can’t begin to figure out what she’s thinking. She doesn’t look angry, but her voice has that haughty note in it that I recognize so well, a sound that seems to have Pavloved me into getting half-hard instantly.
I’m tempted to bend her back over the desk and remind her all over again of who she belongs to. But instead, I reach up, gripping her chin between two fingers as I meet her gaze, a slow smirk on my lips.
“Not even close,” I promise her, just before I let her go.
—
I work until late,going over documents for business deals, answering texts from Konstantin and my father, trying not to spiral over the situation with Sal. At one point, I pull up the video of Simone again, stroking myself to a quick and messy orgasm as I watch her make herself come again, my arousal barely ebbed even after I come.
When I finally make my way upstairs, the house is quiet, everyone asleep.
I pause outside Simone's door, listening for any sound from within. But there's nothing. She's probably asleep, exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the day.
We still have separate bedrooms. The thought bothers me more than it should. After everything that's happened between us, after the way she responded to me tonight, the physical distance feels wrong.
But it’s for the best. I wanted to keep her in my bed when we were first married, but now all I can think is that putting some space between us is likely the right thing to do. I’m feeling things for her that I shouldn’t, things that could complicate our marriage far beyond what it already is.
Mafia marriages aren’t about love. I’ve never wanted or expected to love a woman, least of all my wife. But the feeling I had today when I thought something might have happened to Simone, the way I felt when I pushed her toward her orgasm on my desk…
I’m starting to feelsomethingfor her, and I’m afraid to put a name to it. Afraid to do anything other than shove it down into a deep, dark place where it can wither and die, because I wouldn’t begin to know how to nurture it.
I sleep fitfully, dreams of Simone keeping me from sleeping too soundly and causing me to wake up rock-hard and aching forher again. I reach down to give myself the release that I need, but I don’t want that.
I want my wife.
I throw the covers back, stalking out of my bedroom and down the hall to hers, shirtless and in only my sleep pants, slung low on my hips and tented with my erection. I barge into her room without knocking, pausing when I see her bed unmade and empty.
The light is on under the bathroom door. I stride toward it, fully intending to interrupt her no matter what she’s doing, only to hear the sound of someone very obviously being sick.
My arousal deflates in an instant, replaced by worry. “Simone?” I call out, only to hear the sound of more retching.
I shove the bathroom door open, stepping inside to see her bent over the toilet, her hair caught back in one hand. She looks up with alarm, embarrassment coloring her features, but I only notice that for a second before I see something else.
There’s something on the counter. Something that I recognize the instant I see it, my stomach dropping to my toes.
