He pins my wrists above my head again, one big hand holding both. The other grips my throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing my pulse.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I glare up at him, breathing ragged.
“You fight all you want,” he says, voice low and filthy, “but your cunt is dripping for me. Soaking my cock. You can hate me. You can hate this. But you will come. And you will do it screaming my name.”
He fucks me harder, hips snapping. Skin slaps skin. The headboard bangs the wall in sharp, angry rhythm. I arch, trying to regain control, but every thrust shoves me closer to the edge. My thighs tremble. My toes curl.
I bite my lip until I taste blood, refusing to give him the sound.
He leans down, mouth at my ear. “Come for me, wife. Milk my cock like the good little thing you are going to learn to be.”
The words snap something inside me. Heat explodes through my body, shattering me. I come hard, clenching around him inviolent pulses, a raw scream tearing from my throat. My nails dig into his shoulders, drawing blood this time.
He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts turning erratic, and then he buries himself to the root and comes, hot and thick, flooding me. I feel every pulse, every spurt deep inside. He stays there, breathing hard against my neck, cock still twitching.
After a long moment, he pulls out slowly. Wetness follows, slick and warm, dripping onto the sheets. He rolls off me and sits on the edge of the bed, back to me.
“There is a guest room down the hall,” he says, voice flat again. “Third door on the left. Sleep there if you want.”
My chest is heaving, body still shaking with aftershocks. I drag the sheet over myself, covering the evidence of what just happened.
Sitting up, I grab my torn bra and underwear from the floor. Pull them on with jerky movements. Walk to the door without looking at him.
I leave. Lock the guest room behind me. Sit on the edge of the strange bed.
My body hums. Still wants. Still aches for more even after all that anger.
I hate him. Hate this. Hate myself most of all for wanting him.
But tomorrow, I have to pack up my children and move them into this house. Tomorrow, this becomes our life.
I lie down and close my eyes, but I don’t sleep.
In the morning, I shower in the guest bathroom, put on yesterday’s dress because I have nothing else, and head downstairs. A woman in the kitchen offers me coffee. I take it and drink it standing by the window.
Luca appears around seven, already dressed in a suit. He looks like he slept fine.
“A car will take you home at eight,” he says. “Pack what you need. You and the children will be back by noon.”
“That’s not much time.”
“You don’t need much. Anything you’re missing can be purchased.”
I set down the coffee cup. “Fine.”
I start toward the door, but he stops me. “Anna.”
I turn.
“The twins. Their father.” His eyes are steady on mine. “Is he going to be a problem?”
My heart pounds. “He’s dead. He died years ago.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
