“Did you fuck him?”
“No.”
“You wanted to,” he accuses, his hands are still between my thighs, still inside me, and he thrusts again, though muchslower. “Did you imagine it was his dick filling you when I took you in our bathroom?”
“No,” I say, desperate to move away. I grab his hand, but he shakes off my hold. His thumb sweeps over my clit, and I jerk, torn between wanting more and needing to put some distance between us. “Are you thinking about him now? What his hands might feel like in place of mine?”
I shake my head and meet his gaze. “No. I would never.”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Freckles. You owe me more than that.”
He covers my lips with his and slides his tongue inside, taking my mouth with furor and need. I moan, though I know I shouldn’t. I want this to hurt, because deep down I know it hurt him to hear it.
Gabe slides his hands free on my body.This is the moment he’ll push me away. But he doesn’t. I glance up at him, filled with desire and remorse, desperately wanting to wipe the anger and pain from his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, but he presses his fingers to my lips—the ones he just had inside me and shoves them into my mouth, effectively shutting me up. My taste hits my tongue, sweet and sharp, just like my betrayal.
Gabe lifts the hem of my sweater, and pulls it over my head. I help him, though I know I shouldn’t. I should insist that we talk about this, that he let me explain, but I’m scared that if I do, he’ll never hear the reason why it happened. Not that there’s a valid excuse. Not that anything would make kissing another man on my wedding day okay.
“Get on the fucking bed, wifey,” he says this last word with utter disdain, and my heart sinks. I quickly peel off my tights and underwear, and climb onto the mattress. I sit looking up at him as tears run down my cheeks. He sweeps his thumb over them and then brings it to his lips, sucking deeply. I’ve never seen himlike this. Sure, I’ve seen him wild and possessive, hungry, and even vulnerable, but I’ve never seen this angry, dominant side of him.
“On all fours,” he commands. A shiver runs the length of my spine as I comply and present myself to him.
He makes a disgruntled sigh of appreciation as he spreads my cheeks apart and I feel his dick dip into my arousal and slide the length of my slit. My arms tremble as I hold up my weight, wet and slick and ready for him even though my traitorous heart is breaking.
Gabe pushes inside my entrance and thrusts deep, right to the end of me. I squirm and try to get away, but his hands grip my hips, and his large torso covers my back. One hand wraps around my body and plays with my clit, and I can barely keep myself upright as he pulls out and thrusts back inside.
The wrongness of what we’re doing here, of not talking this out properly and just fucking our feelings instead hits me, and I squirm away from his touch, but Gabe has other ideas. He holds me tight as he fucks me and intensifies the speed of his fingers on my clit and my entire body turns to Jell-O. “You wanna come, Freckles?”
“Y-yes ... god yes.”
“Then fucking beg for it.”
Anger and desire war within me, settling heavily in my stomach like a pit, a kernel of hate and loathing, but it’s not him I hate, it’s myself. “Please, Dash. Please? Make me forget. Fuck me and show me I’m yours. Please, please, please?”
“Fuck yeah, you’re mine. You belong to me, Lo. Always have,” he curses in my ear, grasping my lobe in his teeth and biting down hard.
The pressure of his thrusts, his hand on my clit and hot breath on my neck are too much, and I come hard, flooding the bedding beneath us.
“Jesus, fuck,” he growls and follows me over the edge, spilling his seed inside me. I can no longer hold myself up, so on shaking limbs I try to shift, but his arm tightens around me, and he eases us both onto the bed, his dick still inside me. I lay on my side, panting, crying, as he spoons me from behind. For a moment we just lie there in deafening silence, and then my husband squeezes me tightly, as if he’s saying goodbye, slips out of me, and climbs off the bed.
“Gabe?” I turn and face him, but I’m not ready for the hatred I see in his gaze.
He pulls on his jeans and storms to our suitcase at the end of the bed, riffling through until he finds a sweater and pulls it on. “Did you go there to fuck him?”
“Of course not.”
“You left our bed, in the middle of the night ... on our fucking wedding night. Why else would you do that?”
“I was angry. He told me he loved me during our reception.”
“And that made you angry?” He shakes his head, and then his eyes narrow and I see the moment comprehension hits. “Was that before or after I fucked you in the bathroom and you spent the night crying?”
I swallow hard. I don’t want to tell him this. I don’t want his memories of what should’ve been the happiest night of our lives to be tainted with my infidelity—no matter how small. “Before.”
“So, let me get this straight. Arturo tells you he loves you at our wedding reception, and you kiss him, and spend the night crying?”
“I-I was confused.”