And it went on until her ass was an excruciating shade of purple and she could no longer feel anything other than the impact on her brutalized skin.
"No!" Lauren sobbed when her evil spouse finally leaned her on one hip in his lap and pulled her arms around his neck. "Don't! I hate you and you can't-" Thomas ignored her as she felt his long arms around her, enveloping her and humming low in his throat as he rocked her. "You don't get to try to comfort m-me!" the girl wept, still so overwhelmed that she couldn't move her head from his shoulder. "You don't care and you did this so it's sick to pretend- I can't-" Lauren finally gave up and sagged against him, weeping helplessly. She didn't understand why she was clinging to this horrible man. She didn't understand why he was pretending to be comforting after setting her ass on fire. And she most particularly didn't understand why her center was even slicker after he'd slapped her there.
For his part, Thomas was fighting an unpleasantly alien sense of confusion. He hadn't experienced that emotion for years. After all, his entire focus was always centered on calculating every possible outcome, every move, and counter-strike by both enemies and allies. He never failed to predict the result of any action. So, why was he feeling a sudden sense of anxiety for this stubborn, ridiculous girl crying like her heart was breaking? That if he didn't convince her to behave more carefully, more obediently, that her life could be in danger? Of course, the formidable Number Two could not say any of these things - not yet - so he simply sighed and held his puzzling new wife more tightly, rocking her as she cried for the second day in a row.
When Lauren was finally calm, she tried to pull away from the strangely comforting grasp of her husband and hissed in pain as her abused ass met his lap. Standing up like he'd set her on fire, the girl backed away from him, clumsily trying to pull up her undies and jeans at the same time. Thomas didn't move or try to correct her, he simply sat comfortably as he watched her awkward efforts, which of course made Lauren hate him even more. He waited until his rebellious bride was clothed again and had furiously scrubbed all the tears off her cheeks before speaking.
"As I've said, I'm heading into the office. I require you to be dressed properly for a dinner out, something suitable to meet some of our most important clients by 7 pm. I will send a car for you. Your role tonight is to be demure and pretty- my blushing bride." Thomas stood and straightened his jacket, idly brushing a couple of her blonde hairs off his shoulder. "Our clients would expect us to be on our honeymoon." He watched as she flushed angrily, turning her head away from him. "Lauren. Look at me." Her wet gaze met his immediately, and without thinking, Williams murmured, "Good girl..." noting with interest that she sucked in a breath harshly, flushing at his words. "These clients can be..." he seemed to be searching for the right words, and she watched him curiously, "...they can be coarse. Ignore them, blush sweetly and be my lovely wife. Can you do this?"
For her part, Lauren tried to force down the hysterical laugh trying to bubble up from her throat and come shrieking out of her mouth.Dothis? Be a monster's bride and giggle and blush like a complete idiot? Swallowing heavily, she paused for a moment before answering him. "I'll be ready," she answered levelly. "I'll make sure I don't embarrass you." When her gaze rose to his, it was empty of the kaleidoscope of emotion she usually radiated when around him. Strangely, Thomas felt the lack of it.
Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Very good. I'll see you this evening." He turned and left the house, pretending he didn't hear her begin to cry again as he shut the front door.
Mechanically painting her face that night, Lauren tried to avoid thinking about how this had ever happened- trying to stop the hurricane of terror and confusion that had swamped her ever since this beautiful maniac had invaded her life. Her ability to power through what would have been her breaking point was honed after her mother died and falling apart was no longer an option. When Frank couldn't "handle" planning her funeral and an 18-year-old Lauren had to pick out a casket for her dead mother.
You just had to pretend none of it really involved you- like it was a stranger experiencing these awful things and you were just a spectator. Finally zipping up an elegant black dress with sheer panels just above her breasts and around the hem of the flared skirt, the girl mechanically adjusted the neckline, her blank expression catching the light reflecting off her suitably large Tiffany diamond. Thinking of her time pinned on the lap of her terrifying and beautiful husband that morning, Lauren wondered again why she'd been so wet and slick down... there when he'd finished.
"Y??!"roared the burly man at the head of the table, and Thomas and Lauren repeated the phrase, raising their glasses for a toast. If it hadn't been for the unfortunate reality of her present company, the girl would have been thrilled to be here. The Social Eating House was a brainchild of Gordon Ramsay's protege Jason Atherton, the most sought-after restaurant in London. But their Corporation guests were not known for their nuance. She had learned this when her dark husband had smoothly reintroduced her to their Russian wedding guests. "Why are you not on your honeymoon?" leered Karl Romanoff, one of the more brutal of the Bratva lieutenants, "You have such a lovely bride."
"Ah," chuckled Williams easily, "my sweet wife understands that I have obligations to our new, valued associates."
Tossing back another drink, Romanoff looked Lauren up and down, insultingly lingering near her breasts. "Is this true,malen'kaya nevesta? You will sit and wait for your husband to service you?"
Time seemed to stand still for Number Two and the rest of the table as his new wife hesitated. But then Lauren turned to look at Thomas, simpering adoringly. "Mr. Romanoff, I am sure a man of your responsibilities understands that business must sometimes take precedence over... um... pleasure. But I have faith my dear husband will more than make up for the delay in our honeymoon." Smiling blandly during the harsh laughter that followed, she pressed further, "But you- I am sure there are little ones that miss their Papa?" There was dead silence for a moment. No one had ever thought to inquire after anything related to any human emotion with the lieutenant responsible for melting informants in a bathtub full of acid. But, there Karl was, pulling out his wallet in a careless gesture that made The Corporation operatives slide their hands into their jackets, just touching their shoulder holster. But he was only flipping it open to show Lauren pictures of his three sons and a baby girl, while she praised their attractiveness and obvious strength. Thomas exchanged a glance with Kingston, who'd been watching the interaction with great interest. Number One nodded to him, raised his glass of wine in a little toast to his Number Two, and continued watching the bizarre photo session.
But the warm little moment was the only one of the evening, and after a while, Lauren found she was taking a gulp of wine every time one of the Bratva men made a lascivious "joke" about the newlyweds in Russian. Three glasses later, she realized this was a drinking game she couldn't win. And Thomas's mouth was tightening as well. He'd been watching his new wife flush and look down when the men talked about her in their language, and he began to suspect that she was quite aware of what they were saying. Which meant his slinky little minx could speak at least some Russian.
Clever girl.
When the laughing and toasts got too loud for the elegant restaurant, Thomas smoothly piled everyone into discreet black Mercedes' and brought them to a loud dance club where they could drink to boisterous toasts and roar with inappropriate laughter all they liked. Lauren and Number Three's fiancée sat together for moral support, and Clara eyed the men. While Thomas graciously ignored the vilest commentary from the Bratva operatives, Fassell reveled in it, laughing just as loudly while getting discreet translations. "Most of the business dinners I've gone to haven't been like this," Clara volunteered.
Lauren looked at her, squeezing her hand. "I guess some groups are just bigger partiers than others." For the first time, she felt the stirrings of concern for this girl, already feeling more world-weary and in the thick of The Corporation's dealings, like Arabella. The two chatted together and tried to ignore most of the conversation and shouting, until one of the older men slid across the couch, his thigh boldly touching Lauren's.
"We should dance, you and I," he leered, attempting to look down the neckline of her dress.
Suddenly, Thomas was there, his hand taking Lauren's and lifting her up. "Ah, my apologies,moy drook, but the first dance with my lovely bride belongs to me."
As Thomas pulled her to the dance floor, Lauren was rigid and as brittle as a cube of ice, visibly flinching when he ran one hand around her waist to the small of her back, pressing her into his body. One thick, muscled leg slid between her slimmer ones, easily resting her suddenly heated pelvis against his thigh and rubbing it gently with the elegant sway of his hips. The girl groaned internally, the music was slow, sultry, and worse- it was a singer she loved- Chet Faker with the cover of a hip-hop song.
He coulddance?There was no god, Lauren thought despairingly, proven by the fact that her horrid husband could actually move those lean hips with all the grace of Maksim Chmerkovskiy. The slow roll of his pelvis against her suddenly heated one made her breath hitch in her chest, feeling the coiled grace of all that lean muscle and controlled strength around her.
Then, it was as if the horrid, knowing chuckles of their Bratva guests melted away, along with the stares of Numbers One and Three from The Corporation. They were alone on that shadowy dance floor, feeling the throb and pulse of the music seep through her feet and tingle up her legs to her spine.
This time, Lauren's groan was audible. The way his hips thrust so seamlessly with the chorus, winding, and twirling and carrying her suddenly loose body along with his. The girl's hands went to Thomas's lean waist, gripping him and one sliding up his back to try to stabilize herself, to get herself to focus again. But Lauren couldn't - her scary new husband simply felt so good - moving her gracefully along with him as they swirled and dipped among the anonymous, ghostly dancers around them. When the song faded away, she suddenly felt his mouth on hers, their second kiss ever and it was hot and slow and delicious, just like the music. Thomas continued exploring her mouth with lips and tongue until her legs felt shaky and she was pretty sure his arm was the only thing holding her up. Lauren gasped as he lifted his head, staring at her. His eyes were blazing, and cobalt blue. Taking her by the hand, Williams pulled her off the floor and headed for the exit.
"Where- wher'we going?" Lauren managed, following him and trying to keep up in her sky-high heels.
Hustling her back to the Mercedes as the driver hastened to open the door, Thomas looked down at Lauren, kissing the girl until she was breathless. "Going? To my bed, little girl."
Chapter 6 – The Wedding Night
In which Lauren is deflowered. And enjoys every moment of it.
She should be stopping him.
Lauren knew that - shedid- but Thomas had yanked her onto his lap the moment the door shut behind them, the privacy screen already tactfully raised and her thighs straddling his waist, her skirt rucked up to a scandalous degree and exposing her pretty black satin panties. Ironically, the gorgeous underwear was a gift from Arabella from her grim "Hen's Night," but Lauren had to admit, Number One's wife had spectacular taste in lingerie. She'd never expected Thomas to get a look at it since he assured her he was no rapist and there was not a chance in the blazing pit of HELL that she would give herself willingly. But, there she was, finding her back arched as she rubbed shamelessly against the wool of Thomas's trousers and the hard cock beneath it.
Moaning a little, Lauren was pleased that his warm hands were sliding up her thighs, growling as he discovered the gossamer-thin stockings, held to her legs by lacy garters. There was something about the way his rough thumbs stroked appreciatively over the strip of bare skin between the girl's stockings and panties that made her shudder.
