“Filthy fucking wife,” I murmur, smiling. “Maybe I’ll fuck your sweet little asshole too.”
She devours me when I say that, and I let her.
Who knew hate sex could feel so fucking good?
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte
Iroll overonto my stomach, clutching my pillow in my arms, my eyes tightly closed against the streaming sunlight. The spot next to me is empty—I’m back in my own bed, alone and exhausted. My muscles ache. I hurt…everywhere.
All thanks to my husband and the marathon sex session we had last night. This morning. Only a couple of hours ago.
There was no actual anal sex involved yet—but he did just about everything else he could to my poor, tender ass. To the point he knew he couldn’t push me any further.
He used his fingers. His lips. His tongue. He penetrated me and made me cry out, my body clenching tight around his finger, scared to allow him to go further. Until he eventually gave up, though not without a fight.
And not without making me come either. God, it feels so good when he touches me like that. It also feels incredibly taboo, but he’s convincing me it’s really not.
The man is very,veryconvincing.
At one point he told me he was addicted to my pussy and I tend to believe him. He can’t leave the damn thing alone.
I feel the same way about him.
We are already on day three of this five-day honeymoon and I’m a little sad that it’s going by so quickly. Soon we’ll have to return home. Back to reality and more secrets and lies. I tried to get him to open up with me and be truthful last night at dinner, but it was pointless. He clammed up, making me furious.
He’s not going to tell me anything about his business or whatever it was he and Winston were talking about on the phone yesterday. I get the sneaking suspicion he was talking about me. And Seamus.
That’s whose head he wants to rip off. My ex-lover’s. I should find that ridiculous and territorial, but deep down, that’s not how I feel at all.
I like it. I want him to feel protective of me. And not because of business dealings or whatever. I want him to protect me because he cares.
Because I’m valuable to him—as a person, not a commodity.
I don’t know if that’s a pipe dream, but I can’t help wanting it.
Eventually I drag my tired ass out of bed and take a quick shower. Throw on a new bikini—this one hot pink with bottoms so skimpy most of my ass hangs out—and head for the kitchen, where I can smell coffee brewing.
I’ll need as much caffeine as possible to get through this day.
When I enter the airy kitchen, I realize my husband isn’t there. I pour myself a cup and add a little creamer, going to the massive window above the sink that overlooks the backyard, and that’s where I spot him.
Clad only in tropical-print swim trunks, pacing back and forth, his phone clutched to his ear. He’s talking animatedly, gesturing with his free hand, his voice rising and falling. As if he’s angry. I can hear the muffled sounds of his side of the conversation, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying.
Fortifying myself with a few sips of coffee, I set my cup on the counter and go to the slider, opening the door so his voice comes through loud and clear.
“…the plane will be available tomorrow, then? Good. We need to get on this.” His gaze lifts, meeting mine and his entire demeanor shifts, just like that. He looks away from me, growling into the phone, “I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” A pause. “Right.”
Disappointment leaves my heart heavy. I already know he’s going to tell me we’re leaving tomorrow. Only one more day with him in paradise.
Only one more day left that I have to convince him he can trust me with his business secrets. His personal secrets.
His everything.
“Hey,” he greets me once he ends the call. “You sleep well?”
“For all of two hours,” I answer, trying my best not to ask what that phone conversation was about. “How about you?”