It’s not that I’ve ever wanted to have sex with him. I knew who he was when I seduced him two and a half years ago. But I had to maintain the ruse. I couldn’t give him anything to suspect.
“Go to the bedroom,” Lucas orders as we step into the penthouse. It’s a sterile, modern place. There’s nothing here that's mine. You could tell me that it’s a showroom and I’d believe you. Navy blue walls make it feel like the space is closing in, white floors that sparkle unnaturally. There’s a living room with black sofas that feel like they’ve never been sat on. The kitchen is never used because Lucas prefers to eat out.
“Okay,” I mumble, stuttering slightly over the word as my voice purposefully trembles. I move in the direction of our bedroom but his hand curling around my arms stops me.
“I want you out of that dress by the time I get in there.” His eyes find mine and the lust in them is barely restrained. “I’m going to fuck my wife.”
He releases my arm with a rough shove, and I stumble towards the bedroom. Once there I shut the door and rest my back against it as my heart pounds in my chest.
With shaky hands I slide the hidden zip down at the side of my dress.
I hate this dress. It’s excessive, with a mountain of satinand tulle erupting into a skirt so massive it looked like it was swallowing half the aisle. The bodice has enough rhinestones to blind a small crowd.
If I could picture my perfect wedding dress it would be… well, I don’t know what it would be, but it’s not this. I never really pictured my wedding much growing up, save for who the groom would be. It wasnotLucas.
I fumble my way out of the skirt, nearly tripping as I step out of the suffocating fabric. Left in just my bridal lingerie, I glance at my reflection and grimace. The white lace balcony bra feels more like a cage than anything flattering, pushing my chest up unnaturally. The matching panties dig into my hips, their delicate floral pattern doing nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. The white garter clings to my thigh like a rubber band, and the flesh-colored stockings make my legs look pale and lifeless. The entire ensemble feels wrong—too delicate, too perfect—like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's fantasy.
Before I have time to decide whether to remove those too, the door pushes open and Lucas walks in. His eyes roam over my exposed skin hungrily.
“Get on the bed.” His tone leaves no room for argument, so I scuttle to the bed in the center of the room and sit gingerly on the side.
I hate this role. The meek wife. But unfortunately, it’s a role I agreed to. A necessary one at that. Lucas would never have agreed to marry me if he had known who I really was. What I was capable of.
Lucas’s eyes light up at my submission. “Lie down.”
I scoot back until I hit the headboard, then I lie still and stop breathing as I wait for his next command.
Despite my bravado, hedoesscare me.
Lucas undoes his tie, then slowly unbuttons his white shirt. His hands move to his belt, still unhurried as he removes it and then lowers his zipper.
Once he’s undressed, he moves towards me with purpose, like a predator ready to pounce on his prey. Kneeling on the bed, he looms over me, and I swallow thickly.
His hands cup my breasts through the lace of the bra and squeeze roughly. He leans down to whisper in my ear, “You’regoing to be a good girl for your husband, aren’t you?”
I almost vomit in my mouth.
He grabs my hips and then spins me so I’m on my stomach. He tears my panties off, the fabric digging into my skin painfully as he does.
I’m not sure when I last breathed. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I can hear it in my ears.
He grasps my hips again, pulling me up so my ass is in the air. There's the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open. Then in one motion he shoves roughly inside me. Tears threaten to spill at the pain, but I force myself not to whimper.
“So tight. Fuck,” he groans as he pulls out and forces back in. I almost roll my eyes.It’s tight because I’m dryer than the Sahara Desert, you asshole.
My face is squashed into the mattress as he invades my body.
Thankfully, he’s a bit of a two-pump chump, because it’s over quickly. I, of course, got zero ounces of pleasure from the experience.
When he’s done, he hands me a glass of water from the side of the bed in an uncharacteristically kind gesture.
“You should be grateful, you know.”
I peer up at him and his face is amused. “Grateful?”
“No one else would marry you. You’re too old.”
The man’s forty, but sure, the thirty-four-year-old woman isold.
