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With a shrug she rolls onto her side, her back to me. Not that it helps; the floor-to-ceiling mirrors are there for a reason. I shrug off my jacket, slip off my gun holster and gun, careful to put it right there where my kitten can be tempted. I unbutton my shirt, toss it to the floor, and carry on with my belt. Tasha’s never been one to look away, and she can’t resist me now. Soon I’m naked, erect, and ignoring my blushing bride as I head to the bathroom.
I take my time in the shower, shave again, then towel dry. I put on cologne for good measure, then step out into the bedroom, a towel around my waist. I drop it as soon as I’m in her line of vision, letting her see everything. My need for her isn’t shy, and there it is… that little swallow and the lick of her lips telling me everything I need to know.
I ignore her as I walk to the closet and open it up. I get dressed in a fresh suit, taking my time.
“Where’re you going?” she asks as I make to slip on the jacket.
“Since none is to be had at home, I’m going out for some company.”
“Company?” She sits up and I quirk a brow at her.
“Yes.” She doesn’t need to know that I plan to hang out with Benedict. You can go to his place and not see anybody for days as he hides out in his dungeon.
“If you’re going to go soil your cock with some whore’s cunt tonight, like you did that night in Sicily, I swear to God I’ll… I’ll…”
I want to burst out laughing but bite my tongue. When did sweet Natasha Armstrong learn to use all those words. In that tone? Jealous much? And that night in Sicily? Fuck, I didn’t know that pissed her off this much. This one’s a keeper.
“You’ll what, kitten?” I wait, but she’s gaping like a fish out of water. The gun’s right there, loaded. All she needs is to cock it and shoot.
“I’ll… I’ll…” She’s breathing short little breaths now, angry, infuriated with being unable to give me a sharp comeback.
“You’ll kill me?” I prompt. “Can I remind you how that went the last time?”
She glares at me, the anger in her eyes sparkling with lust. “Don’t you dare?—”
“Dare what, kitten?” I toss the jacket onto the bed, reach for the gun and drop the bullets out. Won’t risk things going wrong here. I place it back on the nightstand, waiting for her next move. Now she looks like she wants to slap me, scratch me, and let out all her anger and frustration.
And I’ll let her if it helps. Up to a point. What she needs is to be comforted, to know that whatever happens next, I’m here. Hand over every part of her to me and allow me to take care of her. Submit to me—completely.
I’ll give her everything she needs and more. She can break apart a thousand times, and I’ll pick her up and gather her close a thousand and one.
I step up to her side of the bed and cup her face. “Dare what, sweetheart?” I slip my fingers to her neck, into her hair, slowly in that way that makes her burst out in goosebumps.
“Dare to give me a lesson in anatomy again. I know all that stuff,” she huffs softly, already weakened by my touch. Or maybe it’s because I called her sweetheart. She softens to a marshmallow whenever I call her that.
“I have a lot of things I can teach you,” I say as I gather her hair, dipping my gaze to her hardened nipples. That godawful sweatshirt is thick, but not thick enough. “Must teach you, in fact.” I twist her makeshift ponytail in my hand, firming my grip on it and manipulating her head so she’s forced to look up at me. “Like how to stay put when you’re asked and bloody well know I expect you to stay put.”
“I’m not a thing, Matteo, an inanimate object.”
“No, far from it.” You’re on fire, battling every human emotion out there. I place one knee on the bed and lean in, crowding her with my body as I brush my lips along her temple. “You’re a needy, jealous wife who is going to give me a hard time, aren’t you?”
“You deserve it.” Her hands are on my shoulders, trying to push me away, but I grip that sweatshirt and tear it off in one swoop. “I hate you,” she hisses. “I hate the vows I made! I hate?—”
“Yeah?” I toss the offending sweatshirt into a corner as I stand again. Hate is one emotion I can totally relate to. “If you hate me so much, give me more of what you think I deserve.” Her chest is heaving, her tits fucking glorious in her arousal that she can’t hide from me.
I take her disgusting pants by the hems and pull, and with satisfaction watch as she struggles to stay upright, then fails and falls back as I rip the seat from right under her. She’s on her back, kicking at me, but the pants slide right off to reveal a pair of panties with kittens on them.
Fuck. She wore those for me. Little cocktease, thinking she can get away with shit like this.
I’m fast, and she’s so easy to overpower. I catch her wrists and tie her hands together with the pants’ stretchy fabric. She struggles, out of breath, ripping an array of curses as I knot her tightly to the headboard. Handy. And such a vivid memory from that night I had her just like this with my gun. Little did I know I was a lost cause already. I fell for her the moment she flung my phone across the apartment, defying me.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. She’s my wife.
She’s a fucking wildcat, still kicking, but I catch her legs by the ankles and press them open, trapping one with my knee, holding the other firm. I give her a moment to stop fighting, to catch her breath, staring into her eyes. “Calm down, kitten,” I purr, as I slide a fingertip down her chest, circling her navel, then along the edge of her panties. I trace her panty line several times, until all there is between us are her shallow breaths, her gaze begging me to do more, and my erect cock, straining against my pants, battling to get to her sweet pussy. When I caress her lower, tracing a gentle line over her slit, she quivers.
“Matteo…”
I trace the panty line by her inner thigh, right there where she is so wet, I can smell her. “Yes, sweetheart?”
