“Bronte.” His focus immediately flicks up to me. “Stop.”
His brows furrow, appearing unimpressed that I’m not listening or catching on to what he wants me to do.
Until it finally snaps in my head.
“No.”
That gets him to a full halt.
He glowers down at me because I finally discovered the missing puzzle piece to the mystery, and to him, it’s the worst thing I could do.
Or call him Bobby.
Bronte’s arm wraps around my back, yanking me closer to him and deeper onto his cock. He’s on his knees now, and I’m straddling him again, but at his mercy because if he lets me go, I’m falling onto my ass.
“What are you saying no to, Daydream? I just want to be perfectly clear.”
He knows what I’m saying no to, and he’s forcing me to say it.
To fully reject him as Bronte, the wrong man, the one who claims he had me first.
My brain kicks into the first time we met—I don’t understand why. He was charming, mysterious, and a bit flirty. He didn’t gawk at me or make me feel like he just wanted to sleep with me, then leave. He truly seemed interested; apparently, he took that several different levels because he married me…to save me?
“You know what,” I force from my thoughts and throat. “You can’t just…”
One of Bronte’s brows rises before he slowly cocks his head to the side a bit. “I can’t just, what?”
He takes that moment to lift me a little off his dick just to drop me back on it.
I involuntarily groan, and I hate myself for it.
“Fuck my wife?” Bronte theorizes, if you want to call it that, just as he repeats his actions and makes me fall on his length again. “What if she fucks me, instead?”
A fractured exhale escapes my lips, and I shiver while a thousand goosebumps line my skin.
My rationality, therightside of me, fails to step up and throw out at him that this is wrong. That he’s not Bobby. That everything he did, he didn’t do it the right way, because he could have come to me with all the so-called evidence.
But he didn’t.
And it’s not winning because the left side of me, she’s playing a very dangerous game of twin. That Bronte’s way of fucking me…it’s unmatched by how I think of the previous times it could’ve been Bobby.
I don’t know.
I don’t have an Excel sheet to compare and contrast the two.
I’m in limbo, in more ways than one, because I’m going to hell if I keep allowing this man free rein with me.
“I need words, Meirna,” Bronte prompts, and I feel his dick throb needily inside me as if it can’twait. “Yes or no.”
No.
You have to say no, Meirna.
“I thought you might like this,” he continues, softer this time. “It’s like we’ve finally come full circle where you know everything and who you shared Christmas with.”
No.
I shared them with Bobby.
