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Leaning in with that damned grin even though his eyes seem lethal, he says in a tone that demands I listen, “I will not touch you, Sonia. Not if you don’t want me to. But when you want it, you will have to ask for it.”
“Read my lips, Santos. I. Don’t. Want. It.”
His smile falters almost imperceptibly. “Your pussy does.”
“My pussy doesn’t rule me the way your dick does you.”
“Except it’s not just your sweet pussy that wants me.” He glances at my breasts, to where the nipples poke through the wet material. “Your heart does too.”
“It doesn’t rule me either.”
“Yes. It does.” He bends down as if he’s about to kiss me, his lips coming within only an inch of mine. I stop breathing, waiting for that kiss, but it never comes.
Anger at my own reaction to what I just said I don’t want fills me and I shove him away. He laughs and walks toward the bathroom.
“I want my own room!” I insist.
He pauses momentarily. Then over his shoulder, he says, “You are my wife and will sleep in my bed. I will not touch you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go.”
“Are you sure you want to sleep beside me when you know how much I despise you? You might be a scary man, Santos. But a pissed-off woman is far more dangerous.”
Chuckling, he says, “I’ll take my chances,” before he shuts the door.
“You do that,” I whisper, as my own gleeful smile tugs my lips when an idea begins to form.
So he refuses to let me out of his bed? Fine. Then I’ll make sure the torture is equal. If he’s the Devil, then I’ll be his Hell.
* * *
Two weeks have passed since that morning when I almost let Santos fuck me. It started out fun. Several evenings, I chose to have dinner in bed, making sure to leave the steak knife on my nightstand and pretending it was just an innocent accident. I’d have done it longer if all of them hadn’t inexplicably disappeared from the kitchen, leaving me with only plastic cutlery.
Still, the suspicious glances he cast my way every time he lay beside me made it worth the inability to cut my meat properly.
Then I resorted to more devious tactics. I’d wait until he fell asleep before I pressed myself against him. He’d wake every time, his body going as stiff as I’m sure his cock was.
Unfortunately, that particular hell was one I followed him into, because it was just as difficult for me to be so near. As much as I hate to admit it, I do want him. Damn me, but I do. Physically, at least. It’s some sort of curse that doesn’t allow me to be attracted to any other man to this degree. I find many of them handsome, sure. After I divorced Diego, I even dated someone for a month.
But no one stirs me in the same way. No one else makes me burn like he does.
I was in complete and utter agony, desperate to surrender. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am ruled by my cunt. That has to be it, because the alternative is unacceptable. It simply cannot be that I’m ruled by my heart.
Regardless of the truth, when he announced he’d be gone for a week, I felt the first vestiges of relief. I could breathe again. Sleep again without the constant worry that I’ll betray myself and give in to my desire.
So it’s a great shock when after two days, I go into the kitchen for lunch, only to spot Santos and his cousin sitting at the counter.
My cheeks flame the moment my eyes lock onto my supposed husband, and all those emotions I’d finally gotten a break from come rushing back. My knees instantly weaken at the sight of him—his smoldering gaze, his full lips cocked in a crooked grin as he takes me in. The way his black T-shirt hugs his broad chest to perfection.
¡Jesucristo!My attraction to him is cataclysmic, and just as damaging.
“I didn’t realize you were home,” I say, tilting my chin up to prove how little he affects me.
“If you’re hungry, I can make you something. I’m a very good cook, amongst other things.” His grin widens and my belly tightens because I’m very well aware of how good he is at many things.
It infuriates me that he can do this to me. That he can make me want to cry and throw myself at him in spite of everything. “I’d rather eat with the pigs,” I spit out.
He shrugs. “That can be arranged. As long as you remain in my bed, I don’t care where you eat.”
I grind my teeth loudly so he can hear it. Then I give him my most seductive smile as I sashay toward him. Leaning in, I slide my hand over his arm, ignoring the heat of his skin against my palm. “I actually like sharing a bed with you,” I whisper.
“You do?” he asks with a note of incredulity.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “Because I know that deep down, you’re scared to fall asleep next to me.”
“Is that so?”
“Your dark circles give you away.” With that, I walk out with a grin of satisfaction on my lips and a vise of pain around my chest.
