“Then get wet for me,piccola,” he says, sliding his middle finger between my lips. “Men like me are never gentle.”
“I can’t,” I say, shoving at his shoulders, suddenly aware of how close I came to giving in without a fight. “Not for you.”
To my horror, my body disobeys my command to stay dry as a fucking desert. I hear his chuckle against my ear, a whisper that’s only breath with no sound, as wetness springs to life, slicking over his coaxing finger. I squeeze my eyes closed, my face burning with shame. At least he can’t see that, how humiliated I am that my body has taken his side, letting him take control not by force, but in the very reactions I have to his touch.
My only solace is that he’s breathing as rapidly as I am, that I can feel his body straining, his shoulders trembling under my grip as he holds himself back, his free hand fisting in the curtain as he braces his elbow on the wall. His slick finger explores my folds, spreading my wetness until it coats my lips, inside and out, and his finger. He circles my clit with his thumb, varying the pressure until I’m gasping and squirming for more than freedom.
Then, without warning, he buries his hand between my thighs and drives a finger deep inside me. I cry out in pain this time, tears springing to my eyes as my walls spasm and clench around him. I’ve never touched myself, never put a finger inside for fear that I wouldn’t be able to deliver on my wedding night. Now I regret that. If even a finger hurts, a cock will be torture.
“Fuck, you weren’t lying,” he groans against my neck, his other hand sliding down to grip my hair. He pulls back, watching my face while keeping his long finger buried knuckle deep in my untouched flesh.
I bite my lip, trying not to cry out again, trying not to let him see that it hurts. He’ll only use that against me, hurt me more.
“Let those pretty tears fall for me,” he murmurs, his voice a seductive purr. “You might have fooled me once, little wife, but you won’t fool me again. No more fake tears. I want the real ones.”
I fight to hold them back, but one escapes my lashes and trickles down my cheek. King watches, his gaze heated, as it slides over my skin. Then he leans forward and licks my cheek, his tongue leaving a wide, wet path from my jaw to my eye, taking every trace of my tear with it. He makes a little sound in his throat, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and presses his lips to mine.
This kiss is no more welcome than the one at our wedding, but it’s different. It’s not just business. King wants me, but the thrill of that knowledge is gone. I found out what happens when I poke the beast. His tongue slides between my lips, and I taste more than the salt of my own tears on his tongue. I taste his hunger, his dangerous desire. I tremble against him, bracing my hands against his chest to push him away. Before I can, he steps in closer, pressing his body to mine.
He begins to move his finger in rhythm with the stroke of his tongue, gently pressing against my walls in a slow, circling motion, hitting every nerve inside me with a pressure that makes my knees give way. A deep ache of pleasure builds in my core as the initial pain retreats. He strokes my slippery clit with his thumb, and I nearly cry out at the knife of pleasure that pierces through me. I’ve never had anything inside me, and it took a moment to adjust, but oh my god. I can barely register how much more complete my pleasure feels with his finger inside me and his thumb on my clit.
King groans and grinds his hips against me, and I feel the ridge of hardness biting into my thigh. An erotic thrill shoots through me, making me tremble with fear and lust at the same time. I have the absurd urge to reach out and touch it, but I stop myself, realizing I’ve been kissing him back without meaning to. His slick thumb massages my clit, and I whimper into his mouth, my resolve crumbling. Instead of pulling away, I bury my hands in his lush, dark hair and pull him deeper. I don’t care anymore. I’m drunk, and this is our honeymoon. I’m his wife, and I want to experience this, and this is the only man I’ll ever get to do it with. What does it matter if I hate him, if he hates me?
His hand is absolute magic. He draws his finger back at last, then drives it deep again, growling into my mouth. I moan in answer, and he begins pumping his finger into me, deep and quick. He fists his other hand in my hair, and I wince in pain at the tightness of his grip, but I don’t stop him. I rock my pelvis against his hand, needing relief from the ache he’s put inside me. At last, I feel myself cresting, and I break the kiss, letting my head fall back against the window as pure bliss grips my body and pulls me over the edge.
My walls clench around his finger again, and he stills, pulsing gently in answer to each throb inside me as I climax. My toes curl, and I grab onto the sill again, lifting my hips for him to push his finger as deep as it can go inside me. And I want more. I want his cock to break me open, to fill me fuller than his finger. I imagine it thrusting into me, spilling cum inside me, and I cum on his hand.
I’m breathing so hard I feel lightheaded, but at last I come down, uncurling my fingers and toes and opening my eyes. King is watching me, his eyes burning with intensity.
“Understand this, Eliza,” he says, his voice so cold it shocks me back to reality. “You can have your own life, your own mind, your own friends. But this is mine.”
I can feel how wet his hand is against me, that I’ve soaked his fingers and his palm, and embarrassment floods me. How could I let him make me lose control like that while he’s still completely calm? I squirm to pull back, tensing and squeezing my thighs together around his hand, but he tightens his grip, fisting my pussy while his finger stays buried inside me.
“You’re hurting me,” I gasp.
“Do you understand?” he asks, squeezing tighter.
I suck in a breath, my clit so sensitive after his ministrations that even a touch hurts. “Yes,” I gasp.
“Good,” he says, slowly withdrawing his hand. He tugs the edge of my dress out and slowly begins wiping his fingers on it one by one. “You’re my wife, and I take care of the needs no one else can. If you don’t want to talk to me, fine. Talk to whoever the fuck you want. If you don’t want to cook and clean and all that shit, we can hire someone. But I will be the only one paying the bills in our house, and I will be the only one who touches you. Understand?”
I don’t even know what to say to him, how to respond. I knew he’d put his foot down at some point, but this… I don’t know how to even answer him. He’s giving me everything—almost. He’s giving me so much that I want, how can I say no?
I nod, and King takes the edge of my dress and pulls it up over my head. I fight to bring it back down, but he yanks it off, tossing it to the floor and glowering at me. I wrap an arm around my chest, trying to cover myself.
“Let me see you,” he commands.
“No fucking way,” I shoot back. I push off the windowsill and try to step past him, but he puts a firm hand on my chest, pushing me back.
“Let me see my wife,” he says. “I want to know what’s mine.”
“Oh, you want to see the goods you paid for?” I taunt. “Fine, look at them. Doesn’t it make you feel so noble and proud to own such a pretty piece of livestock?”
I throw my arms out, letting him see the price I’m paying, letting him see what he bought like a fucking piece of furniture. That’s the only thing that explains why my father picked this asshole to marry me off to. King is nothing, a lowly soldier, and a new one at that. He’s never even killed a man. He’s only been in the Life for a few months. My father denies it, but that’s the only explanation. This asshole’s rich and paid him off, basically buying me. Of course he wants to see what he got for his money. I’m surprised he hasn’t claimed what’s his already.
He stares at me for a long minute, his eyes moving over me with agonizing thoroughness, slowly stripping me of my dignity. I should be terrified, even repulsed. Instead, my nipples harden under his gaze, and my cheeks go hot with shame that he can see what he’s doing to me. That his gaze on my skin is like a caress, bringing me to life. That he can see that I like him looking at me, wanting me. That it turns me on.
Goosebumps sweep over my skin, and a shiver goes through me. My clit pulses when his eyes dip lower, raking over my belly, my hips, my soaked panties, down my thighs. I can feel a tingling heat gathering between them, wetness blooming to life again when he reaches my feet and begins his agonizing examination from the bottom this time. His heated gaze slides over my skin, up my trembling thighs, catching between them. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows before continuing.