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That's all I manage to say before Fynn is out of the car again, coming around to collect me. He all but lifts me out, leaving our bags in the trunk before going to the elevator. My hiccups and gasping breaths echo in the quiet as we ride up. Now that I've had a few seconds to think on it, he's probably brought me here to collect the rest of my things since I didn’t take everything to his mother's.
I follow him down the same hall where I carried those gigantic flowers what feels like forever ago, and the last of my tears dry up. I'd been so brave that day. So determined. Unwilling to settle for less than what I had to have.
And it worked. I got what I wanted.
I'm still that same woman. The one who drove a rental car from Minneapolis to the Gulf Coast of Florida wearing twenty pounds of satin and lace. The one who finally took charge of her life even though it put her in danger. The one who stopped caring if she disappointed her parents, because they never cared if they disappointed her.
I was ready to fight then and I’m ready to fight now.
I manage a deep breath as I follow Fynn inside his condo, lifting my chin and straightening my spine even though I know I look like an absolute mess. I cross my arms, digging in my heels, ready to plead my case the same way I did the first time I came here. "I don't want this to be the end of us."
Fynn doesn't even look my way, just drops his car keys into the little dish where he keeps them. "Good, because it's not."
I've already got my mouth open, ready to lay out all my reasons, but his response has me stumbling over the words. "I... Wait... What?"
He finally turns to face me, looking ridiculously handsome in his work attire. Like usual, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone and the cuffs are rolled up, leaving a lot of visible skin to distract me. He waits for my eyes to find their way to his before explaining. "You made me many promises, wife. You promised to attend events with me. To be an adoring and loving wife for everyone to see."
"But Jessica admitted—"
"I don't care what she admitted." Fynn cuts me off. "Her involvement is no longer relevant. This is about what you promised, and what you promised was to show everyone in Sweet Side that I have a beautiful wife who is beyond smitten with me." His expression is deadly serious as he continues. "And, based on the population of Sweet Side, that could take years." Heat flares in his eyes as they trail down my body. "Possibly even decades." His wandering gaze finally comes back to my face. "It might even require us to have a couple children, just to be sure they're convinced."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, so I clamp it shut again.
But Fynn’s having no problem finding words. He tips his head at the barstool next to him. "Now come here so your husband can show you his appreciation for all the sacrifices you've made."
My feet don't move. They can't. I'm stunned, and still a little confused about what exactly he's trying to say. It almost sounds like—
"Valerie." His tone is a little sharper. More commanding. "Come. Here."
The urge to please him—to make him happy—carries me forward, my sandaled feet quiet as they move across the hardwood. I stop in front of him, because I'm not really sure what comes next. "Are you saying—"
Fynn’s hands grip the hem of my T-shirt, dragging it up over my face before I can finish asking my question. When it’s cleared my head and is falling to the floor he reaches for my bra. "I'm saying I'm not finished with you, wife." He unhooks the clasp and drops it at my feet. "I don't know that I will ever be done with you."
His long fingers move to the button of my cutoffs, barely pausing as his eyes hold mine. "Are you done with me?"
I shake my head, not wanting to give him any reason to stop whatever it is he's planning to do.
His lips curve into a knowing smirk. "I thought not." He leans in, nipping my lower lip as he undoes the fly and pushes my shorts to the ground, sending panties and all to my ankles. Then he lifts me up onto the barstool, detangling the denim and cotton from my ankles before flipping off my sandals and dropping to his knees. He grips me by the backs of my thighs, bringing my ass to the edge of the seat, sending me tipping back against the cushioned back. Then he hooks my knees over his shoulders and his mouth is on me, hot and wet and demanding.
My head is spinning. I feel like I've got whiplash, going from thinking Fynn was done with me and that I’d have to convince him otherwise, to realizing he's not done with me at all.
Not even close.
I'm so shocked I can't stop staring at him—at what he's doing. That means I witness every flick of his tongue. Every purse of his lips. The glide of his fingers as they slick over my flesh before sinking into my body. If I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes, I’d worry it might stop happening. Or that it might not be real.
But the orgasm that barrels down on me in record time is absolutely real and happens way too fast. Fynn’s barely started before I'm coming, gripping the edge of the seat as my body shudders and my thighs clamp tight. I grip his dark hair, holding on as I rock against his mouth, the sucking pulse of his lips around my clit dragging the orgasm out until I physically can’t take anymore and my body gives out, refusing to do anything but breathe.
It’s likely I’d roll right out of the chair if he didn't continue holding me as he stands up, keeping me balanced as he undoes the front of his pants. I’m completely boneless, but my eyes follow his every move as he pulls the hard line of his cock out and slides it through the wetness between my legs. He notches against me but doesn't push inside. Instead his gaze meets mine, focused and intense. "Tell me your mine, wife."
"I'm yours." It's an easy admission to make. It's possibly been true since that very first night at the bar. When I discovered Fynn was not at all what I believed.
"That's right." He grips my face with one hand, forcing my eyes to stay on his as he continues. "You are mine now and you will be mine tomorrow." He surges forward, sinking into me in one quick thrust. The sudden fullness is startling, but feels so good I think my eyes roll back in my head.
Which doesn’t make him happy.
“Eyes on me, wife.” His hand grips tighter on my chin as he leans into me, balancing his weight on the palm gripping the seat of the stool. "No one is going to take you from me. Understand?" His next thrust punctuates the question, hips connecting hard enough to bounce me against the cushion. "No one."
He sounds angry again, but it doesn't seem to be directed at me. It also seems to be fueling each hard spear of his body into mine, so for the first time in my life, I'm not opposed to a little anger.
