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I'm so conflicted by that. I love her in that crown and yet my title, my role, the fact that I brought her here to this palace, is most of our problem.
If we were still in the States, if I could have dated her in Louisiana or Nebraska, this would all feel a lot easier.
Instead, I married the only woman who has ever consumed me like this.
And who just kind of likes me.
And I do think she likes me. I think she even cares about me. We definitely have shared passions.
But fuck, I want her to be over the moon for me.
I shift my hips back and thrust into her again. I feel like punishing her for making me feel this way. And yet, her gasp of pleasure fires my blood.
I thrust into her hard again and again. "I feel like you're under my skin, inside me, part of me," I tell her, almost accusingly. “How do you do that? How did that happen?"
I keep pounding into her, pushing her against the door.
But she doesn't seem to mind. She's gripping my shoulders, as if she needs to be closer. Her thighs are tight around my hips and she's gasping in pleasure.
“Yes! Torin, yes!"
I tighten my fingers around her throat just slightly, and she moans. I squeeze her ass and pick up my pace. I know if anyone is on the other side of the door, they know exactly what the pounding sounds are.
"Dammit, Abigail, you're everything to me."
She gasps and suddenly, just like that, she shoots over the edge. Her pussy clamps around my cock and I feel her coming. She shudders in my arms, legs locked around me, her pussy milking me.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, but she's crying out my name. “Torin! Oh my God, Torin!”
The ecstasy on her face shoves me over the edge of my climax and I roar her name. "Abigail!"
Everything in me empties into her. Physically, and emotionally.
She has my heart. My soul. My everything.
I put my face against her neck and stay pressed into her for nearly a minute before I realize that I have my wife, the princess, smashed against a hard wood door.
Still buried inside her, I pull her against my chest and stride to the bed. I lay her down and she murmurs in protest as I pull out of her.
I realize it's a little depraved, but I do enjoy seeing what a mess I've made of her. And no, I don't intend to clean her up.
I lean over and kiss her forehead. "Be right back."
I pad into the bathroom and shrug out of my clothes. I don't need to stay in my tux anymore. Not that I needed to be in it to fuck her, but there was something primal about stripping her and taking her like that. Lust tightens my gut again. Dammit. I have very strong feelings for this woman. Maybe I should just concentrate on the ones that I know are returned—admiration and respect, friendship, desire.
Yes, we can be very happy with just those things, right?
I return to the bedroom and see that she's still lying exactly where I laid her down with her eyes shut.
I scoop her up and pull the covers back, then lay her down again, climbing into bed with her and pulling the covers up over us. She snuggles into my arms as she always does. And it's only a few minutes before she's asleep.
Okay, so I guess we don't need to talk about the fucking against the door. I don't need to ask if she's all right or if she has bruises.
I scrub a hand over my face. She better not have bruises. I’m sure she will on her neck where I sucked and bit. That's different. But if she has bruises on her back from that door, I’m going to be pissed at myself.
I lie there for far too long. I’m tired. But I can't fall asleep. I want to wake her up to talk. To declare my undying devotion. To tell her I’m madly in love with her and to beg her to feel the same way. And that is fucking pathetic.
It's also ridiculous. I can't wake her up. And her feelings are her feelings. I can’t force her to love me.
