Pushing off the bar, I saunter to her and grab the back of her neck. She gasps in surprise as I propel her forward and slam her front against the desk. Pens go flying, and so does her dignity when I flip up her dress to expose the curve of her ass. I give it a firm smack, causing Cecilia to cry out and rock forward.
“If I tell you to do something, you do it. You’re my wife now, Mrs. Delacroix. You will obey me.” I dip my hand inside her panties and glide a finger through her slit. “You’re wet already. What turned you on this much? Seeing your friends die, or our verbal sparring?”
She hisses through her teeth but stays down. “I hate you!”
“I can certainly feel how much you hate your husband.” I sink two fingers inside her tight cunt and keep her down with my free hand around her neck. “Your pussy seems to disagree with the sentiment.” Her skin flushes when I pump my fingers.“Hear those wet sounds, Mrs. Delacroix? That’s your pussy’s love language.”
“You’re an asshole,” she grinds out, making me chuckle.
I slip my fingers out and smack her pussy. “Be good for your husband.”
“You should have married someone else if you wanted a compliant wife. I’m going to make your life a living hell?—”
Releasing her neck, I drop to my knees behind her and silence her tirade with my mouth on her sopping cunt, sucking on her pussy through the damp fabric of her lace panties. A strangled moan escapes her.
I’ve never cared for cunnilingus before. But as I slide her panties aside—greeted by her pink folds and dripping juices—there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted to taste more. I’m ravenous as I dive back in, spearing her with my tongue, gripping her hips.
“Oh, Christ,” she chokes out, rocking back against me and seeking more friction. “Darian…”
My name on my wife’s lips must be the most addictive sound I’ve ever heard. Sinclair’s voice warns me somewhere in the back of my mind that my ship is taking on water, but fuck if I care. I’m eating Cecilia’s pussy like a starved, rabid animal.
I lick, bite, and suck, growling against her. The apocalypse could happen, and I would be none the wiser. I wouldn’t even care.
Cecilia moans so loudly that I’m surprised security hasn’t rushed here to see what’s happening, but it’s Reckoning night. I could be tearing her limb from limb and no one would care.
“Yes, yes, Darian,” she whines, gripping the table’s edge. “More. Fuck…”
I’m bruising her hips with my tight grip and painting her with my marks. I can’t get enough. Cecilia begins to shake as I fuck her with my tongue—fuck her like it’s my cock tearing through her tight pussy.
I briefly wonder how many other men have had the pleasure of feasting on what’s mine. I make a mental note to have my PI look into it.
My wife won’t even know they all met an untimely death. I’ll have their records wiped, and it’ll be like they never existed.
Cecilia is trembling now, ramming her pussy in my face.
She looks back over her shoulder. “Aaah! Darian.”
Then she comes, and it’s a beautiful thing to behold. She moans and writhes, fighting to get away, to get closer. I lick her through it, lapping up her slick arousal.
When her breathing returns to normal, I stand up and tighten my tie as I lick her off my lips. Then I lean over her and press a button on the intercom. It crackles, and a masculine voice says, “Mr. Delacroix?”
“I need a cleaning crew in here pronto.”
Cecilia shoves me off her, growling, “Fucking asshole.”
Ah. Married life. Such bliss.
Inever saw myself marrying. Never entertained any of the countless women who batted their lashes at me. The idea of putting up with a nagging, high-maintenance wife, whose life purpose is to drain my bank account, never entered my radar until Cecilia. My quest for vengeance is rotting away in the dank darkness, and I’d almost given up hope of finding Cecilia until she waltzed into my life like a head on a silver platter.
I have a pep in my step as I enter the gym. Sinclair is already on the treadmill, his gray T-shirt drenched with sweat between his shoulder blades.
“You’re looking chipper this morning,” he chirps, barely winded despite pounding the treadmill with his top-of-the-range sneakers created for premium comfort. “Did someone die?”
“It was the Reckoning last night. Lots of people died.”
Sinclair presses a few buttons and the treadmill slows to a walk. Reaching for his sports bottle, he squirts water straight onto his face like an uncultivated prison inmate. I swear the man was raised by wild coyotes.
“Fair point.” He takes a sip, then tosses the empty bottle aside. “Good times. Shame we have to wait another ten years for the next party.”
