Keep looking, baby.
She bends slightly near the infinity pool, and the towel rides up, flashing the bottom curve of her ass still marked with my fingerprints from the jungle.
“Fuck …” I groan, pumping my cock harder.
I imagine dragging her back inside right now, bending her over the nearest surface, and fucking her until she forgets every escape plan in that pretty head. Until the only thing she can think about is my cock stretching her and my cum filling her. She turns, scanning the jungle again, and I squeeze the head of my cock, my breath coming faster.
“You can run all you want, Summer,” I mutter to the empty room, eyes locked on her. “I’ll always catch you. And next time I won’t be gentle when I breed that tight little cunt.”
My strokes turn rough and fast, the sight of her still plotting while wearing my marks does something feral to me. My balls tighten. I picture her belly swollen with my child, her tits full and heavy, everyone knowing she belongs to me. I come hard with a low, guttural groan. Cum shoots across my fist and onto the desk as I keep stroking through it, milking every last drop while my eyes stay glued to her on the monitor. Even after I finish, I don’t let go of my cock. I just sit there, breathing hard, watching her. She has no idea how deep she already is.
And I’m nowhere near done with her.
I clean myself up and get to work, emails, manifests, logistics, the empire doesn't stop because I'm obsessed with my wife and on my honeymoon.Maybe it should.Let me get through this backlog, and then I’m going to enjoy my wife. I work through it with her on the screen in the corner of my eye. She tries the service door off the kitchen. It’s locked, same as before. I notice she checks the windows in the east wing, they are sealed, hurricane-rated glass, they won't break without a sledgehammer. She walks the garden wall, running her fingers along the stone like she's looking for loose mortar.There is none.
Then she's inside, moving through the villa. She passes through the living area, and something catches her eyes, and she stops.
The library.
Finally, she’s noticed it.I built it months ago when I knew what my plan was, while she had no idea that her father was going to sell her. She was obsessed with the Beauty and the Beast tale, and I know her dream library was the one in that movie. So, I created it, flew a designer in to build the shelves, walnut and brass, floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder and reading lights recessed into the wood. The reading chair is Italian leather, oversized, and deep enough to curl up in. I had it upholstered in dark green because she wore that color to her father's Christmas party four years ago, and she looked beautiful. The books took longer than the shelves, seven years of surveillance means seven years of data. I know every book she's ever bought, every title she's searched online, every novel she checked out of the library. I know she reads literary fiction and romance in equal measure. I know she's read Jane Eyre four times and never finished Wuthering Heights because she thinks Heathcliff is pathetic.I would disagree.I know she dog-ears pages instead of using bookmarks and writes in the margins in pencil, and I had every one of her favorites sourced in first edition or early print where I could find them. She doesn't know any of this at the moment, all she sees is a beautiful library full of books.
On the monitor, I watch her face light up as she runs her hand along the spines. She pulls one out, looks at the cover, presses it to her chest, and smiles. She pulls out another, then another. Her mouth is open, and she's turning in a slow circle, taking in the shelves, the ladder, the reading lights, the chair. She sits down in the leather chair, pulls her legs up, opens a book, and stays there for the next three hours.
I watch her read while I continue to work, but I’m distracted by her sitting in the corner of my screen, curled up in the chair I chose, reading a book I put there for her, in a room I built because I've been in love with her for years.
At six,I shower and dress. I want to take her somewhere special tonight, so I put on a white linen shirt and dark pants. I walk down to the library, stand in the doorway, and watch her for a moment before she notices me. She's deep in the book, her legs are tucked underneath her, her hair has dried in waves from the pool, and the early evening light is coming through the window behind her and turning everything gold. She looks settled, comfortable, like she's forgotten, just for a few hours, that she's a prisoner.
"I see you found the library," I say.
She looks up with a start, so lost in her book that I scared her. The softness disappears instantly, replaced by the sharpness she wears like armor whenever I'm in the room. But it's slower this time, it takes a beat longer to come back.
"It's incredible," she says, and I can hear that she means it even though she doesn't want to. "Whoever stocked it has impeccable taste. Every book I've ever wanted to read is in here."
"Is that so?" I smirk.
"Some of them are first editions." She holds up the book in her hands. "This is a signed first edition. Do you have any idea how rare this is?"
I know exactly how rare it is. I paid fourteen thousand dollars for it at a private auction in London.
"I'm glad you like it," I say.
She narrows her eyes, suspicious. She should be, but she doesn't push it, not yet. "Get dressed. We're having dinner on the boat."
Her eyes widen. “But I'm reading."
She does look comfortable. "You can bring the book," I tell her.
She looks at me, then at the book, then back at me. A look crosses her face that I haven't seen before, curiosity.
"Fine," she says as she unfolds herself from the chair and walks past me, the book still in her hand. I watch her go and think about how I just spent an entire day watching this woman, and I still can’t get enough of her.
8
SUMMER
The dress is hanging on the back of the bathroom door when I get out of the shower. It’s black, floor-length, but I can see my hand through the fabric when I hold it up to the light. There’s no bra beside it, no underwear. Just the dress and a pair of strappy black heels on the floor beneath it. I hold it against my body in the mirror, and my stomach drops. I can see everything through the fabric. My nipples, the dip of my waist, the shadow between my thighs. I might as well walk downstairs naked.
Fucking, Kairo.
