Page 84 of Broken Vows

“You’re soaked,” he says with a low rumble as he keeps tracing my clit, my cunt, my skin. “You greedy fucking girl, look at the way you’re coating my fingers.”

He grips my jaw again, dragging it to the side and kisses me, hard. An unsteady, shaky breath leaves my mouth. I reach behind me to grip his cock outside of his jeans, but he tilts away. “You don’t get to touch what I don’t tell you to fucking touch.”

His words nip at my skin like a flogger. This is my punishment for defying him. “Don’t you want me to touch you?” I say, breathless.

He doesn’t answer, but a finger slips inside me, and I moan. He moves to the side of me, and grips my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Keep your fucking eyes on me when I’m touching you,” he says and slips in a second finger. “I’m in control now, do you understand? You will do exactly as I say.”

Oh God, oh God… I can’t stand upright. Pleasure soars through me as he’s knuckles deep in my cunt. Stars fill my vision, my breath turns choppy and ragged. The wall and his arms are the only thing keeping me upright, and oh… oh fuck… he pinches my swollen, throbbing clit and heat surges through me.

“Did you honestly think I was going to let your behavior slide?”

I swallow at the harsh tone and moan as he shoves his hands in my shorts and drags his fingers across the collection of nerves. “I… love playing with you,” I stammer without any of the confidence I’m trying to portray.

He stiffens, yanks my shorts down to my knees and lands one, then two, then three hard, sharp smacks on my ass. My breath seizes. Hot, blinding tears spring to my eyes, and I moan into the wall. “That’s what you get for making me so fucking crazy today I couldn’t concentrate.”

And then he’s on his knees. The flat of his tongue runs over the stinging pink flesh on my cheeks and he smooths it out with his palm. He lifts each ankle to slide off my shorts and tosses them to the side.

And then he spends the night deliciously making sure I pay for what I did.

36 Lexie

Denial is a lovely state of being and I’m happily living in it. The wedding is six weeks away. Six weeks. Even though I’m stressing at the timeline and pretending I’m not worried that they were supposed to call it off over a month ago, even though I try not to cry when I’m alone anticipating the worst, the sense of what’s coming sits heavy in my bones.

Annabelle gets back from Italy next week. While it seems like we’re all on the same page about the wedding, she’s still a silent invisible entity that generates a little fear. When she returns, I’m sure things will be different. Right now, Theo’s at my place every night, or I’m at his. We’re together as much as humanly possible. But when Annabelle comes home, he’ll want to see her. Of course he will. What if being around her makes him wonder if he made a mistake? What if Annabelle looks at him and decides she doesn’t want to cancel the wedding after all? And then…

I cut the thought off before it can sink its teeth in, just as Michael pulls up outside Theo’s place in Tribeca.

The elevator takes me up to the penthouse, but when I let myself in, he’s not there. Weird. He should be home by now. I dig my phone from my purse and type a message.

Lexie: Are you almost home?

I decide to grab a protein shake from his refrigerator. I drink it in front of the beautiful skyline.

And I wait a little more.

Theo: No

The brisk response jars me. Maybe he’s with a patient and just tapped his smartwatch. I can’t keep dissecting every message, every pause, every imagined slight—or I’ll drive myself crazy.

I take a shower, slip into pajamas even though it’s not even seven p.m., and watch some TV on the couch, when I finally hear the click of the lock opening. I toss my phone and go to greet him, but the second he walks through the door, my chest sinks.

His eyes are dark—not the sexy kind, not the ravenous kind. Just dark. His mouth is a flat line, nostrils flaring slightly. It throws me, because since we got together, every time he sees me, it’s like I’m his favorite thing in the world and he can’t believe his luck.

He throws his phone on the counter, followed by his keys, and dumps his backpack onto a chair, storming past me to grab a water from the fridge.

I hesitate, unsure what to do. Is he mad at me? Did I do something? “Are you okay?” I ask, pressing my palm against his forearm. He’s strong—he’s so fucking strong—but tonight, the veins popping from under his skin are tighter than I’ve ever felt. When he doesn’t answer, I drop my hand. “Do you want to go grab a drink? I can get dressed.”

The muscle in his jaw stretches. “No.”

No matter how much I want to straighten my back and lift my chin to show him that his bad mood doesn’t affect me, I can’t. My shoulders slump. “Did I do something wrong?” I hate the slight insecurity in my voice, but it’s too late to take it back.

His eyes soften. “No… you didn’t do anything.”

The sliver of relief is not enough to counteract the internal raging storm. “Do you want dinner?”

“No.”

A long silence passes as he keeps his arms crossed. Like he wants to keep his distance from me.