“Get out.”
My chest contracts, and I flee back to my room. I climb into my cold, empty bed, and I don't let myself cry even though I want to.
Crying would mean admitting that I'd hoped for more, that I'd thought maybe this would change something between us.
And I can't afford to hope anymore. Hope is what got me into this mess in the first place.
—
We don't speakabout it the next day. Luca is gone before I wake up. The ginger tea is on the counter, as usual. The prenatal vitamins are waiting next to it, as usual. Everything is exactly the same as it was before.
Except it's not. Something has shifted. The physical barrier between us is broken now, and the tension is somehow even worse than it was before.
I catch myself watching him at dinner that evening—a family gathering at my father's house where we have to play our roles again. He's talking to Romeo about something business-related, his expression serious, his hands gesturing as he makes a point. And all I can think about is the way those hands felt on my body last night, the way his fingers dug into my hips. The way he touched me like he was trying to brand me, claim me, and punish me all at once.
He glances over and catches me staring. For a moment, our eyes lock, and I see something flash in his, what looks likeheat and anger mingled together. Then he looks away, and the moment is gone.
The next three days are torture. I find myself making excuses to be in the same room as him, staying up late in the kitchen, hoping he'll come downstairs for water or a drink or anything that will put us in proximity again. I feel pitiful and desperate, but I want him so badly I’m past caring. I feel starved for touch, thirsty for that connection with my husband, no matter how it happens.
The next night, I can’t sleep. I feel hot and restless, my skin tight. I go down to the kitchen to make myself some tea that I know won't help. My stomach is unsettled, not from morning sickness this time, but from anxiety and the desperate hope that he'll appear.
And then he does.
He walks into the kitchen in sweatpants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, his eyes dark and unreadable. He stops when he sees me, his body going tense. I can see his muscles flex, all that bare, hard, inked skin on display. I try not to look down, but I can’t help it. I can see the imprint of his cock against the front of his sweatpants, already thick and half hard just from the sight of me.
My entire body responds, going tight, wetness flooding between my thighs. My voice comes out choked when I speak. "I couldn't sleep.”
"Neither could I." His voice is rough. His gaze holds mine, and we stand there in the dim light from the stove hood, the silence stretching between us. I can feel the tension building, crackling in the air like electricity before a storm.
We can both feel what’s about to happen. Neither of us moves.
He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "This is a bad idea."
Excitement thrums through me. "I know."
"It doesn't change anything."
"I know that too." My voice is high, breathless. I see his cock jerk against the front of his sweats, tenting the fabric, fully hard now. He hasn’t even touched me, and he’s got a raging erection.
"I'm still angry with you."
"I know." I take a step toward him, my heart pounding. "I know all of that. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to love me. I'm just?—"
I don't get to finish. He crosses the distance between us in two strides and backs me against the counter, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth crashing down on mine with the same desperate intensity as three nights ago.
This kiss is just as angry and raw. His hands are rough as they pull down my sleep shorts, leaving me in my tank top as he grips my thighs and lifts me onto the counter. There's no gentleness, no tenderness. Just need and anger, and the terrible awareness that we're both too weak to stop this.
His hand closes over my breast through my tank top, thumbing my nipple until it’s hard and tight. He yanks down the waist of his sweatpants just enough to free his bare cock, fisting it in his other hand as he guides it between my thighs. The blunt tip spreads me apart, pushing into my drenched entrance, and I gasp as I feel him sliding into me.
He’s always just on the edge of being too big, too much, but it feels so fucking good. He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He thrusts in hard, yanking me forward to meet the base of his cock as he leans me back and starts to fuck me. Every thrust feels so good, I can’t stop the sounds coming out of my mouth, and he presses his thumb against my clit, rolling it roughly as he drives me toward a quick, messy orgasm.
I come hard around his cock, squeezing, gasping, clutching the edge of the counter. The orgasm rolls through me in unceasing waves, and I hear him growl, feel his hands tighten onmy breast and my hip as he shoves himself inside me again, and I feel the hot spurts of his cum inside me. He groans, rocking his hips as he fucks it into me, drawing out the pleasure.
It’s still over too quickly. He pulls out, and I see a drop of cum still pearling on his slick cock as he shoves it back into his sweats. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen without another word, leaving me half-naked on the edge of the kitchen counter and dripping his cum.
I should feel ashamed, degraded by the way he's using me—by the way I'm letting him use me.
But I don't. I feel alive for the first time in weeks. I tell myself that maybe, eventually, this will be enough to build something on. That maybe if I'm patient, if I take what he's willing to give without asking for more, he'll eventually soften and forgive me.
