I finished my whiskey and shook my head.
“Put the project on hold for now.”
Marco’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing. He knew better than to question my orders. That’s why I put him in charge of things like this. Projects of a more personal disposition.
I gathered up the file. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to pick it back up again,” I said.
It was a dismissal. Marco gave a short nod and got up from the bar, leaving me alone. I gestured for another whiskey, my fingers tapping the bar.
But it wasn’t the report I was thinking about. It wasn’t work, either.
Sitting in a hotel room all by herself was my innocent, nubile bride. Probably fuming about her distant, asshole husband.
The things I wanted to do to her…
I savored my drink, not caring that I was getting buzzed. Usually I didn’t drink to excess, but tonight, well, tonight I was on my fucking honeymoon. Spending it alone in a bar, chasing ghosts and fantasizing about my hot, virgin wife. The wife I couldn’t touch.
I leaned back and allowed myself a moment to imagine what I might do to Tori if she wasn’t an innocent. If she wasn’t so pure. So sweet. So inexperienced. I thought about her face during the opera, how captivated she had been—how her hand had reached for mine. I shouldn’t have taken it. Shouldn’t have encouraged her naïve romantic fantasies.
She wanted what I could never give her: Connection. Intimacy. Trust. That much was clear from the questions she’d been asking me, all her attempts to get to know me better.
If she knew who I really was—and what she’d married into—she’d stop asking. She’d stop trying to find romance in this arrangement. Because that’s what it was. An arrangement. It wasn’t a real marriage and it definitely wasn’t a fucking romance. It was a contract.
Still, I couldn’t help the fantasies whirling through my mind.
I imagined stalking back into the hotel room, finding her still wearing that lace lingerie. Waiting for me to give her a lesson on what it means to please a man.
Her body was perfect—supple and athletic, with just the right amount of curves. I’d start by ripping the lingerie off, leaving her naked and vulnerable while I stood there fully dressed, fully in command. I’d force her onto her knees, and when she looked up at me with those big blue eyes I’d whip my cock out, shoving it so deep down her throat that she’d choke on it. My wife would learn how to suck cock, and she’d love every second of it.
After I had my fill I’d push her up against the wall, my hand finding the smooth, soft skin between her legs. Her pussy would be wet for me. So fucking wet.
There’d be no resistance when I stroked her, her clit aching for my touch. I’d pump my fingers into her until she arched against my hand, begging for release, but I wouldn’t let her come. Instead I’d spin her around, shove her against the wall before unzipping and slamming into her. It would be rough and fast and fucking hot as hell. She’d be moaning and clenching that tight cunt around me with each thrust.
Fuck.
If I knew what was good for me, I’d put those fantasies away. Permanently. I wouldn’t keep torturing myself with thoughts of her on her knees, her pouting little mouth wrapped around my cock. Or her riding me, her virgin pussy squeezing me hard as she came, losing her mind over the first orgasm she’d ever had with a man inside her. Or taking her from behind, her hands fisting the blankets as I gripped her hips and jackhammered her into moaning submission.
I knew that I needed to stop thinking about her—and if I knew what was good for me, I’d ignore her completely.
But if there was one thing I’d learned by now, it was that I didn’t give a damn what was good for me.
