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Does he hear the words screamed inside my mind? Or maybe he can’t take slow anymore either, I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is he’s finally moving. Harder, deeper, faster, he thrusts inside me, his hands tightening on my hips until I can feel the bruises forming—I don’t care. I’ll gladly take the bruises if it means he doesn’t stop fucking me.
I lose his mouth as he throws his head back with a groan. Lungs greedily inhale air as my head comes down on his chest. All I can do is hold on tight as he sends me flying off the edge of the world. Down, down I fall, once again splashing into an ocean of pleasure I had no idea existed until Manuel.
I’ve touched myself as I read the stories Josh gave me to inspire the BDSM fantasy. The stern words of my Catholic nonna kept me hiding in the dark of my room, beneath the covers, furtive and guilty with every touch. While I managed to have an orgasm, the pleasure was often over so quickly it barely felt worth it. To the point I only did it every few weeks—sometimes going months without. Those orgasms paled in comparison to the orgasms Manuel gave me. I wonder if it’s him or that it’s someone other than myself.
As I float in the pleasure with Manuel holding me still while he buries himself deep inside me as he comes with a groan, I have no doubt it’s all Manuel. The intense heat of him coming inside me sends a shimmering ripple of pleasure through me all over again. God, it feels sodamnamazing.
Too soon, he’s lifting me off him. I hate it, yet I don’t dare argue. Shame fills me at the feel of his wet heat slipping from me. I’m reminded I’m still not wearing panties.
I’m unsteady as he sets me on my feet. Without thought, my left hand goes down on his shoulder to stay standing. His eyes go to the hand on his shoulder. I flinch and begin to pull away. He grasps my hand, bringing it up to his lips, he presses a kiss to the back of my hand. The gesture sends a twisting to my chest.
I gasp when he slides an enormous ruby and diamond ring on my ring finger. The center stone is a round cut ruby at least ten carats, bigger than the ring my mother was proud my father gave her. But I’m pretty sure it’s more. The diamonds surround the ruby, but not in a halo, inset around the base of the center stone in a platinum setting with the diamonds large enough to be at least a half carat. It fits perfectly. How? Wait. “Was this the ring you got for the woman you were going to marry?”
He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t buy her a ring. I was going to let her pick it out the same way I let my wife pick out hers.”
I’m not sure why I cover the ring with my other hand, as though I were afraid he would take it back. “Why did you pick out my ring?”
An eyebrow goes up as he stands. He’s only inches away. I find myself swaying toward him. Catching me with his hands on my hips, he shakes his head. “I want it clear you are taken.”
“Are you going to wear a ring?” I notice there’s no tan line on his finger. I’m remembering Dominic said his wife died only a few months ago.
“I wasn’t planning on it. You want me to.” It’s not a question.
Shy, I nod.
His smile is so delicious, I wonder if my knees are holding me up or if he is. “Then I’ll wear one.”
“Thank you for mine. I love rubies. Diamonds always seem so cold to me.” I sigh at how deep the red is.
“Your mother mentioned it. I went with the biggest one they could size to fit you the same day. It’s a warning to others, unless they can put a better one in its place to not even look—let alone dare to touch you. No one is allowed to touch you, or I’ll kill them.”
It’s a good thing I’m becoming acclimated to hell, because I’ll be spending eternity there for the thrill his possessive statement sends through me. Especially when I have no doubt he means it. “Were you this possessive with your first wife?”
Shaking his head, he tightens his hold on my hips. He’s confirming what I hoped. And I hate I can’t do the happy dance with him watching me. “No. You understand me? No one touches you.”
I nod. “I understand. No one touches me or you’ll kill them. Are the children allowed to touch me? What about my mom?”
He doesn’t like me teasing him. “As long as a woman isn’t gay, she can touch you. The children are fine, but I come first before them.”
The order sobers me. I’m not teasing him anymore. “There’s no way I can say yes to that. There are going to be times when they have to come first.”
Grabbing my purse, he hands it to me as he guides me out of the apartment. “No.” He shakes his head as though I might not have heard him. Locking the door takes him long enough for me to begin doubting this is a good idea.
“I appreciate the thought. The whole reason I’m marrying you is for them to have you as a mother. However, they do not come between us.”
As the elevator doors open, something about the way he says it stops me. “What does that mean? Me as a mother. Stepmother, right?”
His hand at my back urges me off the elevator. He doesn’t answer the question though until we’re in the car. “Seatbelt. No. As far as they will know, you are their mother. Blanca will not be spoken of or referred to in any way.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t lie to them about their dead mother.” We’re stopped at a light. I wildly wonder if I can jump out and run away from all of this.
“Yes, you can, and yes, you will. Blanca is dead. That she birthed them instead of you is not important. What is, is that you will be the one to raise them.”
My head is beginning to pound. His inability to display or feel emotion or whatever is really pissing me off. He’s talking about disappearing his children’s mother from their life like she never existed—as if we’re discussing the architecture of Chicago, for fucks sake. “How in the hell can you say it’s not important? I—”
“This is not up for debate. I am not asking you. I’m telling you. All of her things have been removed from the house. My mother packed up a large box with some pictures in case they want them when they’re older, but that’s it. Once they are no longer children with childish thoughts of blood mattering more than who raised them, you can tell them. I would prefer they never be told, however.”
“Childish? How is it childish?” I need him to explain how the hell I’m supposed to be okay with this.
