Page 155 of LA King

He pulls my dress down and smooths it over my hips and ass so that I look presentable again. Then he drags his thumb over my lip, pulling my mouth open slightly.

“The next time you sulk like a child because I didn’t make you come, I will fill this pretty little mouth with my cock. I need you to understand that I’m a busy man. Tonight’s phone call was unexpected, and yes, I admit I could have been more courteous in the kitchen earlier, but there will be times when all I need from you is a quick fuck. And when I do, I expect you to comply.”

“I don’t appreciate being treated like a toy for you to use whenever you please, Alejandro.”

He stares at me, his nostrils flaring, but I refuse to take back what I said. Then he cups my cheek in his palm and brushes his thumb along my cheekbone. “You are my wife, not my toy. I respect you, Alana, and I will use and worship your body as frequently as I am able to. But never without your consent.”

All I heard was respect, worship, and consent, and that’s enough for me for now. “Magda left a lasagna in the refrigerator. Shall I pop it into the oven for dinner?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. I feel embarrassed and awkward, and I’m not sure whether he’s still angry with me.

He shakes his head “The only place you’re going is the bath to soak that beautiful ass and then bed.”

My ass would appreciate that, actually. Very much. My body also sings at the idea of curling up in bed after. However, my stomach growls its protest, and Magda did prepare us a beautiful meal. “What about dinner?”

“The lasagna will keep. And I can order us takeout. How about we eat in bed watching TV?”

How about who are you and what have you done with my grumpy Mafia-don husband? “And get food all over your beautiful million-thread-count sheets?”

He dips his head and kisses me softly. “Those sheets are going to need washing in the morning anyway. Because I am nowhere near finished with you tonight.”

I suck in a breath. “More punishment?”

He dusts his knuckles across my cheek. “No, Alana. There’s no punishment in my bed. Only pleasure.”

I shiver at his words, and then his hand travels to my ass. He squeezes it possessively, and while it’s still tender from my spanking, the pain has turned into a pleasant throb now. One he’s igniting. “Tell me who this sexy ass belongs to.”

His possessiveness is a red flag, but all I see is green. Green, green, green. Seems orgasms make me drop dozens of IQ points. “You.”

“That’s right, princesa. Every single part of you belongs to me.”

He picks me up bridal style and carries me to our bedroom. The guards have disappeared into the shadows now, where Alejandro prefers them. It’s good being wrapped up in his powerful arms. It makes me feel cherished, even if it’s only part of the post-sex aftercare.

I close my eyes and get lost in the fantasy of what it might be like to be truly loved by this man.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Alejandro

Fuck me, she’s beautiful.

Sitting in bed in a T-shirt of mine, her hard nipples protruding through the thin white fabric, Alana drives me to distraction. Her hair is still damp from her bath, curls loose over her shoulders, and her skin shiny—from both her moisturizer and with happiness.

She licks a drop of sauce from her chin and holds her burger aloft. “This is delicious.”

“You are fucking delicious, princesa.” I immediately regret my words because I’m in danger of becoming far too open and honest about my feelings for her.

The shy smile that spreads across her face makes my slip worth it. I slide onto the bed beside her, and she takes my food out of the paper bag for me and places it on one of the small cardboard trays the restaurant provided.

It strikes me as such a small act of service but a perfect example of how thoughtful and caring she is. And that annoyingly leads me back to thoughts of her father and our meeting yesterday. “She likes to play at being a do-gooder,” he said to me, when nothing could be further from the truth.

I looked into the Maggie O’Malley Center today, and they’re the real deal, working with some of the most vulnerable people in the city. My wife isn’t playing at all; she genuinely wants to help others. So why is her father still pushing this pampered-little-rich-girl routine on me? Unless he’s so blind that he actually fucking believes it.

“Is your food okay?” Her soft voice cuts through the noise.

I’m staring into space, thinking about a man I despise instead of being here in this moment with her. This most ordinary of moments, eating takeout in bed while a stand-up comedian cracks jokes on the TV in the background, but she makes it feel extraordinary.

I can’t recall the last time I even had takeout, and I’ve never eaten it in my bed. As far as I can recall, I’ve never watched TV with a woman I’ve fucked either. I pop a french fry into my mouth. “The food is good.”