Page 92 of Sinful Bride

And I’m supposed to kill him.

I force the thought out of my head as he guides my hips, teaching me to ride him. I find a rhythm, and he groans, his head falling back on the pillows. “God, you’re a quick learner,” he murmurs roughly. “You look so pretty on my cock, wife.”

He reaches down, spreading me as he plays with my clit. “So perfect,” he rumbles. “God, you feel so good. So beautiful.”

His praise makes my chest ache. I’m anything but perfect. And he has no idea.

I moan his name as he makes me come, arching and shuddering as I ride him, and he follows a second later, fingers digging into my hips as he thrusts deep inside of me. And as I feel him gently ease me off his softening length, I try not to think about what I'm supposed to do.

—

As if to make it worse, he throws himself fully into trying to be the best possible husband he can be. He brings me white roses, my favorite, though I never told him that. He must have asked someone. Maybe one of the staff at my father's estate. The gesture makes my chest ache. Another day he brings me pastries from a specialty bakery in Little Italy in a variety of flavors, leaving them for me with breakfast along with fancy coffee.

We have sex constantly, and every time he focuses on me before he ever takes his pleasure. We fuck in the morning when we wake up, in the afternoon, late at night. He touches me like he can't get enough, like he's trying to memorize every inch of my body. And every time, I respond and let myself get lost in the pleasure and the way he makes me feel wanted and desired and seen. I can’t help it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt, and I want him as much as he wants me.

But underneath it all, my father's words echo in my mind. Kill him. Be free.

I have opportunities to do it. I keep the vial on me when I can, and one afternoon, I'm in the kitchen making tea when Declan comes in for water. He's been working out, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair disheveled. He kisses my temple as he passes casually, and I watch him pour a glass from the filtered pitcher in the fridge.

The poison is tasteless and fast-acting. All I'd have to do is slip it into his water, wait for him to drink, and then it would be over.

My hand trembles as I pour hot water over my tea bag. Declan doesn't notice. He's checking his phone, frowning at something on the screen. "Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just business." He looks up and smiles at me. "You want to go out tonight? There's a new restaurant one of the guys told me about that we could try.”

"Sure," I say, and watch him drink his water. He sets the glass down and kisses me again before heading back to his office.

The vial is still in my pocket.

Another night, I find him in the living room reading. He's sprawled on the couch, one arm behind his head, completely absorbed in whatever book he's holding. He looks relaxed and unguarded. Vulnerable.

The gun is upstairs. Small enough to hide in my hand. I could walk up behind him, press it to the back of his head, and pull the trigger before he even knew I was there. I stand in the doorway watching him, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. But he doesn't look up, just turns the page and keeps reading.

I turn around and go back to the bedroom.

I don't get the gun.

—

Three days after my father's revelation, Declan takes me to dinner at Gibsons. We're halfway through our meal when his hand finds my thigh under the table. His touch is warm through the silk of my dress, and when I look up at him, the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch.

"Declan—"

"I can't stop thinking about you," he says quietly, his hand sliding higher. "About this morning and the way you looked when you came."

My face flushes. "We're in public."

"I know." His fingers find the edge of my panties, teasing. "But I don't care."

"Declan." My voice is breathless now. "We can't⁠—"

"We can." He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. "Come with me."

He stands abruptly, pulling me up with him. I barely have time to grab my clutch before he's leading me through the restaurant, past the curious stares, toward the back hallway where the restrooms are. But he doesn't stop at the restrooms. He finds a door marked "Private" and pulls me inside.

“What’s the point of all this power if I can’t fuck my wife when and where I want?” he growls. I realize we’re in a small office—someone’s office. But Declan doesn’t care. Something about that sends a thrill through me as Declan locks the door behind us. Then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. I kiss him back desperately, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"I need you," he growls against my lips. "Right now."