I want him to treat me like one. As if I’m his.
And no one else’s.
“Help me out of the dress, Perry,” I say with a confidence I don’t actually feel. He grabs hold of my upper arm, stabilizing me as I try to step out and over the pile of fabric that is my wedding gown, but I nearly fall over.
He catches me before I do. Wraps his arms around my waist from behind and completely lifts me up, making me squeal. He kicks the dress out of his way before he deposits me back onto the floor. I’m about to turn and face him but he doesn’t give me the chance, moving far too quickly. His hands find my waist once more and then he’s pushing me, sending me toppling onto the bed, where I land on my stomach in the middle of the rose petals.
I try to turn around yet again but he’s on me, pressing my body into the mattress, the scent of roses surrounding me, the petals sticking to my skin. I turn my face to the side, my cheek resting on the bed, and I close my eyes when I feel his big, hot body wrap all around me, holding me in place.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he mutters and I wonder if he’s talking to me or to himself. “I shouldn’t.”
I don’t speak, afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. Worried I’ll snap him out of whatever spell he’s currently under that has him wrecked over me.
Wrecked in the best possible way.
A soft moan leaves me when he begins to kiss my back, his lips following the ridges of my spine. I arch upwards with my hips, my ass nudging against his front and I can feel his erection.
He’s already hard for me, and that sends a heady thrill spiraling.
“Damn it.” He sounds angry but the emotion doesn’t scare me. His touch, his mouth is soft yet firm, and everything inside of me tightens with anticipation.
What will he do next?
When he pulls away, the crash of disappointment is almost my undoing. My muscles tighten and I brace myself for more cruel words of rejection. He’s so angry, so frustrated with me and everything that happened. Even though I had nothing to do with it, he still blames me, and I suppose he’s right in wanting to do so.
None of this would’ve ever happened if I hadn’t had an affair with my instructor in Paris. If I hadn’t had my stupid dreams of being an architect or studying European architectural history. I’d only wanted to stretch my wings and try something different. Something for myself.
Instead, I practically ruined my life and fell for the wrong person. If I’d only known who Seamus was related to back then, and who I’d be paired with now…
I would’ve never done it.
The realization smacks me in the chest, making my heart ache. I want to be with Perry. Despite everything we’ve been through, despite how our relationship started in the first place, I want him to give me a chance. I want us to give each other a chance.
I think we could be good together. Does he see that? Or is he too angry with me to realize it?
The sound of rustling fabric tells me Perry is shedding his shirt and I’m so tempted to watch. To lust over his chest and abs. But I refuse to look at him, afraid he might stop.
And that is the last thing I want.
The thump of shoes being kicked off sounds next. The clank of his belt buckle. His accelerated breaths. The whir of a zipper being undone. I lie there among the rose petals, breathing heavily, my skin prickling with awareness. His eyes are on me. I can feel them.
Slowly I lift up my knees, keeping my head on the mattress, my ass up in the air. I stretch my arms out so they’re above my head, crushing the petals, and I grip a few in my palms, turning my wrists so my hands are angled toward me, releasing the petals so they rain down upon me.
“Fuck,” Perry groans and the triumph that races through my blood nearly has me laughing. With joy.
With victory.
He rests his hand on my right ass cheek, his fingers splayed, teasing the edge of my thong where it curves over the very top of my ass. I arch into his palm, seeking more but he doesn’t give it to me.
“I suppose I can fuck you on our wedding night, right, wife?” He slips his fingers beneath the lacy strand that runs between my ass cheeks, tugging. The fabric tightens around my pussy, my now throbbing clit, and I close my eyes, wishing he’d do it again.
“Yes,” I whisper and thank God he does it again. Pulling on the lacy strip of fabric so it cuts against my delicate skin, making me hiss in pain. In pleasure.
His hands are on my hips, fingers curling around the lace as he slowly pulls them down, revealing everything. He stops when the fabric is around the tops of my thighs, binding me so I can’t move before he slips two fingers inside of me without warning.
I cry out, bucking against his hand, and when he removes them, I whimper.
“Fucking soaked,” he says, sounding pleased as he jams them back inside of me. “You actually like it when I’m mad at you?”