I beg him, pleading for him not to stop. He doesn’t. My desperation just eggs him on further. Each time he comes up for air, his face is even wetter with my arousal. His skin is raw from it, chapped, and yet he continues to dive in for more.
I roll my head back, looking up at the tiled ceiling of the bathroom, then my eyes flutter closed as he tongue-fucks me.
“Please, Marcus, don’t stop,” I beg.
Then he stops.
I look down at him in surprise. “Call me your husband,” he says. There’s no smile, no teasing this time.
My brow furrows in confusion. “What?” I say.
His hands wrap around, massaging my ass cheeks. A finger runs down my crack until it reaches the opening of my pussy from behind. There it lingers, toying with my opening. I pull in a sharp breath, willing his finger to delve deep into me. But it doesn’t. Just lingers there, taunting me with what could be if only I comply with his wishes.
“Call me husband,” he says again. One of his eyebrows raises high on his forehead and he tilts his head. He starts to back away as if he’s ready to leave any moment if I don’t say what he wants to hear.
He leans further away and I grab his shoulders to stop him from going. “Please don’t stop, husband,” I say.
A smile forms on his perfect lips and he presses his finger into me. I gasp as it sinks into me. He takes it out, leaving me with a feeling of emptiness that I desperately want filled.
“Again,” I beg.
“Again, what?” he says.
Is this really turning him on, me calling him my husband? It must be because his cock is raging hard and jerks in response to my voice when I say, “Again, husband.”
I’m gifted with two fingers this time.
“Husband,” I say under my breath.
Three fingers fill me. Can I handle more? It’ll be a tight fit, but I think I can.
I lean over so I’m close to his ear and whisper, “Husband.”
A fourth finger enters me and my entire body starts to spasm. When he pulls his hand away, its dripping with my juices. He uses my natural lube to lather his cock before lifting me up and impaling me onto his stiff rod. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he holds me up against the wall, fucking me hard, drilling, pounding. He’s a beast, sweating and grunting, fucking me so hard I start to see stars.
His lips latch onto mine in a heated, passionate kiss. When he pulls his mouth away, he says, “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I tell him desperately. I fought so hard against it, but I’m his. I’m truly, helplessly in love with Marcus Steere. “I’m all yours, every part of me.”
“No one else can have you,” he demands.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
Our bodies continue to slam together, making wet, sweaty, sounds. As his pubic bone continues to rub hard against my clit, I feel myself starting to lose control.
“I’m about to come, baby, please keep going,” I say.
At first I think he’s going to stop again because I didn’t call him husband, but he is beyond stopping. The muscles in his back flex and turn to steel beneath my clawing fingers, and he lets out a violent roar at the same time I lose my mind to a blinding orgasm.
When his breathing finally settles into a steady rhythm, he kisses my neck, leaving a warm trail to my lips. He brushes the sweaty hair away from my forehead, then lands a peck on my nose.
I smile at him, blissed out and feeling amazing.
“Still nervous?” he asks.
That’s when I realize that, no, I’m not. While he was between my legs, I’d forgotten we were even in the air.
“Not at all.”
“Good. After that work out I’m starving. You hungry?”
“I can eat.” I could eat a freaking horse, actually. My body is worn out. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. The energy has been zapped out of me and I could probably sleep the rest of the trip.
And that’s just what I do. After we eat, I pass out and don’t wake up again until we’ve landed.
6
Jet lag is real and I’m living it. I find myself very overwhelmed by everything that is Paris, France. Different language, different everything. Being so far from home and everything I’m familiar with makes things feel incredibly lonely. I’m just glad Marcus is here to stave off some of the strangeness I feel.
If I’m being honest, part of all the weirdness is knowing I’m about to go meet Marcus’s ex-wife. Undoubtedly she’s far more sophisticated than I am. She knows the fashion lingo. This is her world and Marcus’s world and I don’t belong. She’s going to take one look at me and know that I’ll be gone in a blink of an eye and have no staying power. From the articles I’ve read about her online, she’s a tyrant in the fashion industry and not well-liked. She’s gorgeous. Far more beautiful than I was expecting. But there’s a snake-like quality in her eyes that makes her look too severe, too blood thirsty. I can see why Marcus had been with her, but I can also see why he left her.
If she’s this terrifying in pictures, I can only imagine what she’s like in person. I wish I didn’t have to find out.
Another part of me is afraid because what if, when seeing her again, Marcus feels something for her? What if her presence rekindles old feelings and I’m pushed to the side?
As if sensing my reservations, Marcus comes up behind me where I’m standing in front of the mirror, wearing one of his incredible gowns. He wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck.
“I wish we didn’t have to go out. Right now, with you in that dress, I … I just want to rip it off of you,” he says.
I smile at him in the reflection. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”
That is if he still wants me later.
I hate how insecure I feel. But I’ve never felt like this before with anyone, and never this fast. My feelings for Marcus make my head spin. It didn’t take long at all for me to know that he’s the one. Now I’m desperate to hold onto that even though it’s a real possibility that he’s in it for the moment, for the duration of our agreement, and I will lose him as soon as it’s over. Even though I feel lonely in Paris, part of me wants to stay here forever because I know as soon as we get home, everything is going to change, and maybe not for the better.
Before we leave, I put on my sweater. He looks at me with a strange grin. “That’s an interesting choice to pair with that dress.” He doesn’t make it sound like a bad thing, even though I know my sweater is tattered and stretched out and doesn’t go with this amazing gown at all.
“It was my mother’s.” Looking fondly at the sweater, I say, “I know I should get a new one, but the things you love can’t be replace.”
It’s the only thing I have left of her now.
“No, don’t get a new one. I like it the way it is.” He stands back and admires me. “You might have even given me an idea for my next design.”
“Happy to help,” I say.
We leave for the meeting. It’s taking place at a fashion convention where Marcus’s ex-wife works. When we get there, it’s a red-carpet event and there are far more people here than I expected. My anxiety is on full alert.
As soon as we get out of the car, cameras are shoved in our faces, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the great Marcus Steere and his mystery date.
Marcus takes me by the hand and leads me through the crowd. The paparazzi ask me who I’m wearing and who I am. They want to know my name, where I’m from, how w
e met. All of their voices clash together into white noise. I ignore them, fighting back the nerves that make me want to break away and run for the quietest corner I can find. This is his life everyday. I don’t know how he deals with all of these people. It must get tiring being this important.
Once we’re inside the building and shut away from the reporters, things are less chaotic, but not by much. Marcus seems to know everyone we pass. They shake his hand and compliment his new line of menswear. Then their eyes move down to our hands clutching each other. I’m studied as if I were in a lab under a microscope. They notice everything from my strappy heels, to my glamorous dress, to the ratty sweater that they are all very curious about. They think it’s part of the dress, part of the ensemble and they love it. Marcus gives me a wink and I giggle.
Some of the crowd look on with curiosity, while others—mostly men and a handful of women—look at me as if I have no clothes on at all. I have to admit, the way this dress shows off the swells of my breasts is quite something to behold. In the fashion industry, surrounded by twiggy girls, they must not see too many bodies like mine.
Marcus latches on to me as if reading their dirty minds. He’s protective and seems to get a little jealous when handsome men start to pay too much attention.
He introduces me to all the big-wigs, names I’ve heard roll off celebrity lips on TV when bragging about the clothes they wear. People you always hear about but never see. Most of them are flamboyant and over the top, but I guess in this sort of business where it’s always a struggle to stay on top, you have to stand out. Marcus is so different than his peers. He’s subtle, graceful, elegant, and yet he sticks out far more than the other men wearing loud colors and crazy hair, looking like extras on the set of Hunger Games.
People respond to me in ways I never imagined. They look at me and then at Marcus and say things like, “If she’s the muse for your women’s clothing line, then I’ll take every piece in the collection.”
The pride I feel when he introduces me as his wife and looks at me with affection makes me feel radiant. Sometimes, when he’s talking to someone, he absent-mindedly rubs my back or caresses my arm, as if he needs to be constantly touching me. Maybe he’s nervous too and I’m a source of comfort for him, though I doubt it. He always looks so calm and collected. Maybe he just likes touching me. I like that scenario a whole lot better, and yet I can’t let myself get my hopes up.