Page 80 of The Marriage Mistake

“You should see yourself right now,” I said, pushing my own pants and underwear to the floor. I stepped out of them as my eyes stayed glued to the heart of her, framed on either side by the ragged edges of her black tights. She wore a pink thong that matched her bra, the fabric wedged between her swollen lips, the fabric darkened by her wetness. “You should see how perfect you look. Dripping wet for me. Ready to take every inch of my cock.”

“Please,” she whispered, and my cock surged. I planted a hand in the middle of her back and tugged the thong free, shifting it over to the side. My tip slipped easily through her arousal, and I was tempted to paint her with my release just like this. Watch it drip down her thighs. Mark her as mine.

But she whimpered, hips grinding against the edge of the bed, and I couldn’t leave her like this. My perfect wife with her perfect, tight cunt.

We moaned in unison as I entered her. Her legs scrabbled beneath me, fingers curling into the blanket until her knuckles were white. My ring shimmered on her finger, proof that she was mine. She chanted my name like a prayer, pushing her hips into me. I snapped my hips forward and was rewarded with a high moan. Fuck, I loved the noises she made when I was inside her.

“You know you were made for me,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You know this is right. You and me.”

She moaned as I drove myself into her again. “Yes.”

“You know you belong to me. My wife.”

“Jack—”

“Say it. Who do you belong to?”

“You!”

My hand closed around the waistbands of her thong and her tights, using it for leverage as I pistoned into her. And she took it all, every hard inch, because she was mine. My wife. My love. My woman.

She came so hard her scream echoed in the room, and that was my undoing. I couldn’t resist any longer, and I pulled out and marked her. I stood there panting, one hand wrapped around the ripped fabric circling her waist, holding her down so I could watch the way my release dripped down her thighs.

A feral, savage part of me hummed with dark satisfaction. I gathered her in my arms, sat on the bed, and kissed her as she softened against my chest. I wondered if she knew that as much as I claimed her as mine, the truth was she owned every part of me.

TWENTY-ONE

EMBER

Three days later, on Thursday, I made my way to Sadie and Gideon’s house to try on the dress that Sadie had altered for me. They lived in a little cottage nestled in the woods, perched on a small incline that overlooked a slice of the Atlantic. It was serene and secluded and gorgeous. I pulled up outside the home and made my way to the front door.

Sadie opened it wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a huge smile. “Come in! I can’t wait to see how it fits!” She reached across the threshold and gave me a bone-crushing hug.

I froze, arms dangling for a second, before I could really process what was happening. Then I awkwardly patted her back and smiled as she pulled away.

I wasn’t used to hugging people…or having people who wanted to hug me.

Still, it felt good. Like I belonged here and I was part of something bigger than myself.

I followed her down a short hallway into a room with a wall of windows overlooking their view of the ocean. The water was a hard gray capped with white waves. The room had two big couches and an open-plan kitchen. On the dining table, Sadie’s sewing machine was set up. I could see the dress on a padded coat hanger, hooked on the handle of one of the top cabinets in the kitchen.

Sitting on the couch with her back to me was a dark-haired woman I recognized as the woman from the bakery, Caroline. She put her arm over the back of the couch and nodded at me. “Sadie’s been raving about this dress all week. I had to come see it.”

“Oh,” I said, blinking. I was so bad at social interaction. Awkwardness made my muscles feel tight and clumsy.

Caroline’s lips tilted into a sly smile, and she tilted her head toward the coffee table. “We have wine.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” I said, frowning.

“Yeah,” Caroline said, “That’s why we have wine.”

A surprised laugh fell out of me. “I’m driving,” I said, “but maybe I can have a small glass.”

Caroline poured me her version of a small glass of white wine, which reminded me of the vat of wine Jack had poured for me that first night. She touched the rim of her glass to mine. I could see smudges from her vampy lipstick on the edge and lifted my gaze to see her watching me.