“I don’t know. You sure had a hell of a lot to say when you found out I was pregnant, didn’t you?” I shout. It’s enough to send Mr. Sprinkles running for the closet, his hiding spot.
Anger flashes across Armani’s face. This is probably the worst possible time to push his buttons, but I don’t care.
“How did you expect me to react?” he says. “I was in shock. I still am.”
“So was I, but I didn’t react like a complete asshole on instinct.”
“You’re right. I should have kept my mouth shut until I had more time to think.”
For a second, I’m too stunned to speak. Did he just say…thatI’m right? Did the great and powerful never-admits-he’s-wrong Armani Bellanti just concede for once in his life?
I open my mouth to give him another round of tongue-lashing, but as he walks toward me, the words dry up in my throat. It’s almost hypnotic, the way his tattoos shift as his muscles flex under his taut, golden skin. His abs are practically begging for my fingertips to run over them, that waistband primed for tugging down. He watches me watching him and a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips.
“See something you like?” he says, his voice low.
“No,” I lie, fighting the urge to reach for him.
Still looking smug, he stops next to the coffee table and drops his pants. Shamefully, my eyes go straight to his dick, which is hard enough to send a needy tremor through my core. This is torture. I want nothing more than to pull him onto the couch with me, straddle him and ride that cock until I’m coming fast and hard around him. Instead, I clench my jaw and look up.
Our eyes catch as I coldly say, “Not. Interested.”
He actually has the nerve to laugh out loud at my lie. “I’ll go easy on you.”
“I said I didn’t want to.”
Leaning closer, he takes my chin in his hand. I do nothing to resist his touch.
“I can see it on your face that you do. Don’t lie to me.”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “You’re seeing what you want to see.”
Without another word, he tugs the blanket off me and takes in the white T-shirt and plain cotton underwear I’m wearing, his jaw working to the side as he homes in on the peaks of my nipples beaded under the fabric. They’re so hard, they’re aching and tingling. I don’t have to look down to know what he’s eyeing.
“The fuck I am,” he murmurs.
He drops his hand to pinch my left nipple and my body immediately responds. Arching my back, I let out a gasp, pushing my chest toward him. When he pulls my shirt up over my head, I don’t stop him. I’m not wearing a bra, and his hands take advantage of my bare breasts, stroking softly as his thumbs rub electric circles over my nipples. My breathing picks up, soft little moans spilling uncontrollably out of me, and I make eye contact with him again.
I’m tempted to push him away and watch the excited expectation dissipate from his gaze, but I’m suddenly on fire for him and I don’t want to stop this. It doesn’t matter how pissed off I am or what he does to me—I always want him, and he knows it. I’m ashamed at how helpless I am, how badly I want him, despite everything he’s said and done. But there’s no holding back.
Before I even realize I’m doing it, I’m wiggling out of my underwear, hurrying to flaunt my naked body in front of my infuriatingly hot husband. Armani is on top of me instantly. He turns me so I’m kneeling on the couch, facing the back cushions, my elbows resting on the back of the sofa. He pulls my hips back so my ass is pushed out toward him and then covers me with his warmth, lining his cock up against my opening. Fisting my hair harshly enough to make me cry out in pain, he thrusts into me from behind in one perfect glide.
“Yes,” I moan, leaning forward to rest my head on my forearms.
As he pumps into me, I close my eyes, relishing the feel of his lips and tongue cruising the side of my neck. His mouth trails down to my shoulder, drawing little shivers over my skin. But as gentle as his kisses are, each of his thrusts gets harder and deeper, as if he’s working through whatever is going on in his head.
That’s when I realize: he came up here to use me. Typical Armani, feeling pissed and confused and pushing it all so far back that what he’s left with is nothing but adrenaline and testosterone and overwhelming horniness. And yet it doesn’t temper the desire coursing through me, or how my body responds so easily to him. Bracing myself against the back of the couch, I flex my hips to meet him stroke for stroke, imagining that he wants me for me, and not as a vessel for pounding out his emotional tension.
Fuck it. Like I care. It feels too good for me to care.
“Mm,” I sigh. “That’s it.”
His hand slides from my hair and covers my throat, not squeezing but gripping firmly. My mind replays the other times he’s grabbed my throat—hard—and how it feels, what it does to me. But this time, he’s being careful. Going easy on me, just like he said he would.
“Turn around,” he growls, pulling out of me.
I do, and he’s on me in a second, lifting me into his arms. I wrap my legs tight around him and he starts pumping into me again, even as he carries me into the bedroom. Arms around his neck, I moan in his ear with each thrust, trying not to come before we make it to the bed.
I’m tossed onto my back on the mattress, and then he climbs on top of me and rams inside me for the third time. Like a hand in a glove, a key in a lock, he fits me fucking perfectly. Every single time.
