Page 46 of Married to the Devil

He leans closer and breathes as if filling himself with my scent. “But you will too, wife.”

Then he pushes back and stands. My face is at crotch height and he’s rock hard, the outline of his massive dick straining against his tight joggers. My mouth opens at the memory of that monstrous cock filling me again and again, and I’m shivering as he walks away and disappears into the bathroom.

I hurriedly climb into bed. Screw this. I can’t handle talking to him anymore. It’s ridiculous, the way I want him. I curl up, pulling the covers over my head like a child hiding from imaginary monsters.

But mine’s not fake.

He’s nowhere near a dream.

Rafe’s the real thing. An actual demon.

The bed doesn’t make a sound as he gets into his side. He clicks off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

I stay still, trying to sleep, but trapped listening to him breathing, aware he’s doing the same to me and wondering how this is ever going to work if I can’t even close my eyes when he’s around.

If I can’t stop myself from diving headlong into my own ruin with him.

14

RAFE

Iwake early and let June sleep.

She had trouble getting comfortable last night.

I’m the same. Having her in my bed for the first time in years was difficult, much more difficult than I thought.

I kept wanting to roll toward her. To touch her, pull her against me, devour her body, ruin her with my tongue and my cock, leave her messy and wanting more.

But I want to respect her space. I wasn’t lying when I told her our marriage will be forever, and I don’t want to be with a woman who sees me as her enemy.

I dress quickly and slip out of the room. In the hall, I pause to listen to the quiet of the house and check my phone for messages. I have dozens of emails, a few texts from my brothers, and a thousand tasks to handle. That’s the life of a man in my position. I’ll carve out forty minutes at sunrise to exercise, and then it’s into my office for the remainder of the day.

When I look up, I notice Hattie’s door is open.

She’s standing on the threshold, staring at me, sleepy-eyed and frowning. She’s in pink and blue matching pajamas with a stuffed unicorn clutched under her left arm.

“I’m hungry,” she says, her slate gray eyes calm.

God, those eyes. The eyes of my brothers. The same eyes I see in the mirror.

My mother’s color. My father’s intensity.

This girl is a Corvino deep down to her bones.

I glance over my shoulder. June’s still asleep. She’s been through a lot and needs some rest. I could wake her to handle Hattie. Hell, I should.

But I’ve done this before.

It’s been years, and my brothers weren’t this young, but I know what to do.

“What do you like to eat?” I ask, softening my voice. It feels strange, but Hattie responds to it.

She rubs a fist to her eyebrow. “Cereal. Cotton-candy. I like apples. Pears too. Mommy says blueberries make me poop.”

“That’s good to know. We’ll skip the berries.”

“Can I have apples? And cinnamon toasties?”