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I roll my eyes before facing Ferro and hold in the sigh I want to heave. “Exercise and being in good health can make a pregnancy go much more smoothly, husband,” I tell him, reaching down and grabbing the small towel I use to mop the sweat from my brow.
“I must say, at least it’s done nothing to shrink your tits. They’re still a generous handful,” he says, reaching out and squeezing one of my breasts as I go to walk past him toward my bedroom. “Ugh!” He jerks his hand away, and it takes everything in me not to smirk at the look of disgust on his face as he wipes his hand on his denim-clad leg. “Go shower, Arabella. You’re as sweaty as one of the Johns when the ladies are done with them.”
I want to talk back, tell him that’s what I was on my way to do before he groped me, but instead I play my part, nodding and giving him a pliant smile before disappearing into my room.
In my bathroom, I close the door behind me and let out a long breath. Tonight is the last time I’ll see him until my next ovulation cycle in a few weeks. The last time I’ll have to endure his rutting while I lie there and take it, allowing him to fill me with the child-creating liquid I render useless with the tiny pills I pull from beneath my sink, hidden in one of my emptied eyeshadow pallets. One of the perks of having a limitless bank account is that I can pay my gynecologist whatever the hell it takes to keep her mouth shut and me supplied with birth control with no paper trail.
I swallow one with a mouthful of water from the sink, then store it away before undressing, wiggling out of my tight sports bra and my leggings that fit me like a second skin. I throw the sweaty, stretchy material into the hamper and tell myself to do laundry after Ferro leaves.
Instead of taking a long shower, I make it quick, ready to get this over with so I can relax when he leaves. I’m in the middle of an incredible audiobook, and I’ve been trying to beat the same level of Toon Blast for three days straight, driving me crazy.
I come out of the bathroom, towel drying my hair, and don’t bother putting on any clothes. Ferro is already at the bedside, unbuckling his belt. He hasn’t bothered undressing fully in years. Doesn’t even worry about taking off his shoes. I assume my normal position on the edge of the bed and spread my thighs, concentrating on keeping a pleasant look on my face as he stands between my legs, and I see him smear his own saliva on his shaft in order to sink into me.
I close my eyes and think about what might happen in the next chapter of the psychological thriller I’ve been listening to for a week. Will the female detective figure out who the serial killer is before he strikes again, or will he succeed in bringing her to the dark side, since in his mind he’s grooming her to be his perfect protégé?
It takes only a couple of minutes of thrusting for Ferro to heave out a breath as he plants himself deep and fills my useless womb. He steps back, closes my knees, and then pushes them to my chest, taking one of my pillows and shoving it beneath my ass. An attempt to keep his sperm from dripping out of me.
Whatever makes him feel better and gets him to leave faster.
He pats me on the knee, and I hear him buckle his belt.
He may be an ass, and a horrible person in general, but he’s never been violent with me. He makes his snarky comments, but he’s never been verbally abusive toward me. Our marriage is a business transaction, one he thinks I’m successful at on my end, even though I haven’t given him any children. In the public eye, I make him look like the perfect husband and I the perfect wife. Plus, he knows my father would have his head if I were to show up with bruises or even a tear in my eye if Ferro were the cause of either.
“Until next time, wife,” he murmurs, pulling his phone from his pocket and checking notifications as he walks out the bedroom door. A moment later, I hear the elevator door of my penthouse close, and I wiggle off of the pillow. I stroll into the bathroom and sit on the toilet, taking care of business and using wet wipes to clean myself up. There’s a tinge of pink, probably from not being at all aroused while he rutted away. I’m so used to it I barely even notice the discomfort while it’s happening, and at least he’s quick about it.
