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And ten years later, I’m still fucking numb.
2
ELOISE
Rough, masculine grunts fill the room, mingling with wet, sloppy sounds. Massimo’s head lolls back in pleasure, his jaw clenched and his fists gripping tightly as he pumps harder, pushing deeper.
“Yes, puttana,” my husband groans as he picks up the pace of his manic, irregular throat-fucking. “Such a good little slut.”
I roll my eyes, turning away from the scene in front of me to stare out the window at Central Park. I lift the flute of champagne to my lips, sipping deeply as I try to ignore the disgusting sounds of Massimo getting off not ten feet away from me.
Mercifully, not involving me.
“Eloise.”
I ignore him and continue to stare out the window of the high-rise penthouse. Present gross scenario and the generally craptastic nature of my life notwithstanding, the view from here of the park and the entire East Side of Manhattan is truly stunning. Not to mention a total change after spending most of the last year staring out at the Pacific Ocean.
And yet I know the splendor of this view, just like the one of the stunning ocean in LA, will eventually fade and tarnish.
A “nice view” only sustains you for so long when the rest of your existence is shit and ash.
“Look at me!”
Part of my delay is me purposely ignoring Massimo. The other part is that after three glasses of bubbly on an empty stomach, my response time is slightly slowed.
That’s another tactic, alongside “nice views”, to block out my day-to-day life: alcohol.
“Look. At. Me. You. Bitch!” he snarls.
I jerk, choking on my champagne as the shoe he’s just thrown at me narrowly misses my head. Turning, I glare daggers at Massimo as he leers at me, his hips pumping his frankly revolting dick in and out of the other woman’s mouth.
His lips curl into a malicious smile. “Yesss. Watch, my worthless wife. Watch how a real woman pleases a real man.”
I only refrain from rolling my eyes because I’d like to finish my current glass of bubbles without getting another shoe thrown at me.
A REAL man.
Says the guy still wearing socks, with his pants around his ankles.
How terrifyingly alpha.
The woman kneeling between his knees sputters a little. But she’s a pro—literally—and keeps bobbing her head on his dick as his hand tightens in her hair.
There are few upsides to being married to Massimo Carveli. But the biggest one by a landslide is that he doesn’t touch me.
Not once.
Not ever.
Massimo’s “thing” ever since I was forced to marry him a little over a year ago—his kink, I guess—doesn’t involve touching me at all. In fact, I think it specifically involves not touching me.
Humiliation. That’s his thing. A sort of reverse cuckold kink where he belittles and demeans me by fucking other women in front of me, usually while calling me worthless, stupid, a bad wife, or sexually frigid.
It’s not that I’m in any conceivable way jealous of the man I hate screwing other girls in front of me. It’s not that I care what names he calls me or give a rat’s ass what he thinks about me. But I hate being an unwilling participant in his game. I hate being forced to sit here and watch him abuse some poor girl, even if she’s being paid handsomely for what she does.
Massimo’s no idiot. He doesn’t actually think that his little kink makes me jealous, because he knows full well I despise him. But he does know I hate the forced participation. And that’s where his satisfaction comes from.
I allow him to lock his gaze on mine, and I swallow back the sickly feeling that washes over me again when he groans in pleasure.
