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She tried to close her legs, even though she knew it would just draw things out, but his hips were already between them.
“I’ll teach you to avoid me,” he growled, already freeing himself from his slacks. His hand gripped her thigh, shoving her legs open wider as he forced himself inside.
She tried not to hold her breath through the pain of it. Holding her breath made the scrape of him worse.
“Goddammit—dry as sand like usual.” His disgust washed over her. He grunted as his hips surged against her, rocking the wrist he still gripped hard into the bed.
She couldn’t block the sob that escaped.
“Fucking liar. Look at me, gruaja ime!” He shoved into her harder, making her aware of her body instead of being able to float away. Or maybe that was her closed eyes. She usually stared into his eyes like he asked because it could make him kinder. It was a false kindness, but she would take it. She’d take almost anything that made things just a little better.
“I said look at me!”
His free hand moved to her throat, squeezing in warning. This time, she didn’t care. Not looking became the thing her mind clung to in order to avoid the pain. His other hand finally left her wrist, which felt like someone else’s as it lay broken on the bed.
Both of his hands wrapped around her throat as he continued to fuck her. She couldn’t breathe. He told her to look at him repeatedly, and each time only made her cling to her stubbornness as the lightheadedness returned, as her chest burned, as her unhurt hand clawed at his, where they continued to squeeze.
Time stretched, and her body doubted it would ever receive oxygen again. And then there was a throb down below, a mutinous one that she hadn’t ever expected to experience with her husband. It was the worst betrayal. Her brain tried to deny it, chanting no, no, no, no in her head as the throb intensified and spread and broke when his hands grew even tighter.
And suddenly those hands were gone, the air rushing into her spasming lungs as he braced against the bed and thrust into her clutching pussy. “Yes!” he shouted as he held himself deep inside her for his own orgasm.
His lips turned to brush her ear as he whispered, “Don’t open your eyes. Lie to yourself about who made you come.”
And then he was gone, the room empty except for her sudden, uncontrollable sobs.
Beatrice had curled into herself on the bed. Clutching her wrist against her chest had only made the pain worse. She’d rested it against the bedspread and stared at it, knowing in her heart that it was broken again. The smoothness of the skin made her mind stutter in the memory. There should be scars there. She could almost see them, and the thought had her jerking awake from the dream.
The scar was more than evident in the lamplight of her new room at the Coronella estate. It made sense that it hadn’t been there that night. Her body’s betrayal, so soon after her father’s, had led to those dark moments on a hotel bathroom floor. Her husband had choked her to orgasm again that night.
Him watching her almost bleed out on the tiles had changed things. He hadn’t choked her for a long time after that, even after she recovered.
Her finger brushed over the scar. Sometimes she believed she’d never recovered.
She could feel her husband’s possession of her body even now, even knowing he was dead. It was as if she’d never married another man.
A man who had once given her true pleasure, not her body’s frantic reaction to pending death.
She frowned at the thought, sitting up in bed before pushing to her feet in order to pace off the racing thoughts. They only raced faster.
She couldn’t clearly remember how it had been. That was another life; more like a movie she’d once seen than her own past.
Her feet staggered as she stopped in front of the dresser. Her hands clutched at the top of it. Montrell was her husband. She was married to someone else, but she was acting as if the Albanian still owned her.
She forced herself to think about letting Montrell fuck her instead. Her jaw tensed at the idea of it. He was bigger than the Albanian. It would hurt like hell.
But it hadn’t hurt all that much when he’d taken her virginity.
She shook her head, and her eyes were drawn to the movement in the mirror. She didn’t know who she was anymore, but she wasn’t that girl from before. Her body no longer reacted to stimulation the way it had. Sex wasn’t going to feel good. It would hurt.
That was fine. She wasn’t looking for an orgasm. Her body only knew how to do that if she was choked into it.
Montrell would never do that. He was sweet. He wouldn’t purposely bring her pain. She was starting to believe that.
Her eyes shifted to the dresser, where they found the knife she’d asked Vespa for. It lay next to the pearl cuffs she only took off at night. Vespa. Was it wrong to fuck her husband if he was in love with someone else? She pushed the thought away. She hadn’t confirmed her suspicious. Besides, he was her husband. She wasn’t the other woman.
Beatrice reached for the bracelets first.
She couldn’t continue to keep herself pure for a fucking ghost she’d hated. She hoped he was nearby, watching. He’d howl in jealousy that she was his. But she knew she wasn’t.
