Page 23 of Forgotten Deeds

He grins. “I’m too big for a lot of things, aggeloudhi mou.”

“Stop it, and stop calling me that. I’m not your little angel,” I inform him crossly.

“Whatever you say, wifey,” he tells me in an amused tone.

I grab my bag in frustration, marching to the bathroom and slamming the door before locking it. Gripping the vanity, I try to calm my breathing. My God, how did I wind up here? Married. To a mobbed-up man. A crazy, mobbed-up man who just sniffed my pussy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Examining myself in the mirror, I look absolutely wild. Hair disheveled. Face flush. Eyes dilated. Nipples visibly hard. It’s official—I’m crazy too.

Stripping out of my clothes, I take a long, hot shower—racking my brain for a way out of this mess. I give a little acrid laugh. Had I not forgotten my damn backpack at the club, none of this would be happening. Choosing the goddess of helplessness for my essay is turning out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I step out of the shower and dry off, putting on my new clothes before doing an abbreviated bedtime routine. Walking out of the bathroom, I stop short. Darius is laying on the sofa bed, shirtless, with his boxers pulled down.

Jerking his huge dick.

I try not to gasp. No wonder he’s secure in his manhood—his dick is seriously bigger than my forearm. Unable to tear my eyes away, it takes me a moment to realize his anatomy looks different based on my limited experience.

“You’ve never seen an uncut dick?” he guesses.

I startle at being caught, and yet I’m unable to look away. Shaking my head, I say, “I’ve only ever been with my ex.” Oh my God, why did I just tell him that?

He growls, the sound causing my nipples to pebble. “Fucker may have got there first, but I’ll be there last, that I promise.”

Opening my mouth to speak, I can’t find the words.

“I thought I’d even the score to make you feel better. Let you watch me,” he says in a husky tone. “You told me we weren’t consummating this marriage, but you can’t stop me from imagining it,” he tells me, continuing to stroke his dick, his eyes never leaving mine. “Our first time, I’m fucking you slow and sweet. Treating you like my queen,” he promises, the low timbre of his voice causing me to squeeze my legs together.

The movement catching his eye, he smiles, and continues, “The next time, Diávolos’ is fucking you down and dirty. Treating you like his slut.”

I exhale a sharp breath.

“Ah, does my little angel like that idea, being Diávolos’ dirty little slut? I think she does.”

Gasping, I run to the bedroom and close and lock the door behind me. My breath’s coming out in jagged bursts as I lean against the door, listening to Darius finish in his hand.

He lets out a string of Greek before everything goes quiet.

“Night night, wifey,” he calls.

Chapter Eleven

Lily

“Morning,” Darius tells me when I exit the bedroom. His curly black hair is damp from the shower, and the fabric of the Atlantic City T-shirt he bought last night in the gift shop is being stretched dangerously taunt by his muscular chest and arms. “How did my little angel sleep?”

“Not your little angel, and I slept great.” Such bullshit. I tossed and turned all night in frustration. Sexual frustration, and frustration at myself for being turned on in the first place.

“Hmm,” is all he says, reaching behind his back and producing a cup of coffee, holding it out for me.

Wasting no time, I hurry over and grab it. “Thank you.” I take a sip, shifting uncomfortably when I realize I’m wearing only a thin white tank top and shorts I picked up last night in the gift shop.

“Of course.” His eyes unabashedly roam over my body, and I swear it feels like I’m being touched every place his gaze lingers.

“Stop it,” I snap.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that!”

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