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The nights, however, have become completely different from my days. The first two nights after the luncheon on the river, Rio left me completely alone. I should have been relieved, but instead found myself tossing and turning and wondering if he’d somehow stopped desiring me.
Why should I care if he doesn’t want me any longer? I should be pleased about that. But for those two nights, I only managed to fall asleep somewhere near dawn, tangled in my silken sheets and wondering if Rio was in some other woman’s bed. Buried deep inside her willing pussy and making her scream as she came, like he did to me.
The third night, the claustrophobia got to me. I left the bedroom curtains wide and threw open the doors that led onto the large balcony. When I lay in bed, at least I would have fresh air coming into the room and be able to watch the stars as I contemplated my current crazy existence.
As I turned from the window toward the bed, a shadow moved near the bedroom doorway. I let out a tiny scream and automatically jumped back, trying to hide my nakedness.
“Rio! You scared me!”
He stepped fully into the room, and the moonlight illuminated his features. He was unsmiling, as always, and I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes as they remained in shadow.
He moved swiftly, coming around the bed and grabbing hold of one of my wrists in a tight grip.
Excitement pooled between my legs at his touch. At the slight roughness in his movements as he pulled me close.
At the gruffness in his tone as he announced, “I have had unexpected business the past two nights, but it is done. I want you,cara mia.”
Cara mia? I didn’t have time to process the phrase and its meaning before his mouth crushed against mine, and I was transported instantly into a state of need. Need for him. For his touch. My body had been craving it for days, and I hadn’t known how much until that moment.
There was no foreplay that night beyond that first crushing kiss. When we broke off, both of us breathing heavily, he simply picked me up, threw me onto the bed, and then flipped me over onto my stomach.
While I gasped and scrabbled among the bedclothes, trying to find my purchase with hands and knees, he unzipped his trousers and gripped my hips, dragging me back toward him and impaling himself deep inside me.
I yelped at the invasion, but it felt so bloody good that my yelp was followed by a decadent moan. I wriggled my ass, trying to force him even deeper, and then he began to thrust.
“Oh my God, Rio. Yes. More.”
He growled above me. “Quiet, woman.”
“No, I—”
The sting of a hard slap on my left butt cheek instantly stopped my words.
Instead, I just whimpered and silently begged for more by dropping my face right down onto the sheets to give him the best access possible.
He fucked me hard, and fast, and the rush of heat inside me as he came sent me over the edge into an orgasm of my own.
There was no finesse that night, only need. No tenderness, only release. Until he carried me to the bathroom, and we started all over again beneath the sting of a hot and steamy shower.
Now, Rio visits my bed every night and stays until almost dawn. As much as my anger and frustration about my imprisonment grows, so too does my desire for my husband.
I may be reluctant to admit it, but I cannot deny it any longer, either to him or to myself.
I am desperate for Rio’s touch. And for some reason, he also seems desperate for mine.
* * *
We have hadsex every night for the past two weeks. Amazing, toe-curling sex. I never knew it could be like this—the more you have it, the more you want it. Is it that way with everyone, or does it only feel like that because my body desires him so intensely?
The curtains remain wide open every night, and I’ve come to enjoy the experience of watching dawn creep in each morning. It is one of the few things I do love about my current situation, and I know I will likely sleep forever more with uncurtained windows—no matter what the future holds.
Seeing Rio sleep is one of the few times I feel like I’m seeing the real man beneath the rigid mask he wears in every waking moment. The constant hardness of his features softens slightly in sleep, his jaw is less set in granite, and I find myself gently tracing the contours of his face as I rest my cheek against his chest and listen to his slow and steady breathing.
The first time I touch his face, he instantly wakes and snatches my hand away so fast my heart skips a beat.
His gaze is hyperalert, wary, until he takes in the fact that it is only me trying to caress his jawline. After several seconds, he releases my wrist and settles back against the pillows, folding his arms behind his head.
“I don’t sleep in front of others,” he says bluntly.
