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Does that mean the real me is still here, buried somewhere? Like a scented memory, I’ve tasted my old self here and there since Isabella has come into my life. But I have to be careful. With her heart. And mine.
I plan to sleep in the apartment tonight because I won’t go home to a wife smelling like another woman.
It might look callous and reek of bad taste to sink my dick into another woman’s pussy on my wedding night, but my wife needs to learn her place. Our marriage is a business arrangement, nothing more. When I get her pregnant, she’ll have my baby to focus on. She’ll learn to be happy as soon as she accepts her life with me.
The house has felt so congested the last couple of weeks. At every turn, Isabella was there. For a petite, curvy brunette, she has a presence that fills every inch of the place with her perfume. Or it finds me in the house with a cackle of her laughter. Those high heels of hers clicking on the center hallway’s porcelain tiles after she comes down the stairs, get my heart racing. Even though she doesn’t leave the house, she makes up herself with a cute outfit every morning. Even wearing just jeans and a light lacey top, she’s always in nice shoes with styled hair and makeup.
Yes, it’s her beauty that’s crowded the damn house. And the smiles when she doesn’t think I’m looking.
Meanwhile, I’m here in this sterile suite while Isabella is home. Alone.
Well, not alone. Patricia doesn’t live on the grounds anymore, but I keep a contingent of guards there at all times. Isabella is safe. Protected.
But still alone.
On our wedding night.
My fingers rest on my phone’s keyboard to type out a message to Calder to get the woman out of here. But there’s a knock on my door.
Fuck, that was fast.
With my hand on the piece in my suit jacket, I check the monitor near the door from the camera Balor installed for me. Calder’s long nose and scruffy jaw look dramatic in black and white.
I trust that ex-Marine with my life and my secrets. I considered putting him on Isabella’s detail, but somewhere inside that monster is a beating heart. I wouldn’t want him to watch her through the same eyes that see me do despicable things to women.
The screen reflects the shape of my face, and I see with my own eyes that I’m frowning. I’m never a smiling fool while waiting for a woman to fuck, but frowning?
I open the door to get it over with. Fuck me… Fire-engine red hair, milky skin, big tits popping out of a very low-cut dress. I would lose my shit if Isabella wore something like this.
But she’s my wife.
And I guess red, here,ismy whore. Even though I don’t pay her directly. I usually tip the women who are brave enough to get naked and on their knees for me, suck me off, and then let me sink my giant cock into them.
“Inside. Now,” I say gruffly, planning to be as brusque as possible to keep my heart frozen.
She glides inside, the carpet cushioning the clicking noise I’d otherwise hear. A sound I now associate with Isabella, and I thank fuck it’s silent.
“I’m glad we’re able to hook up.” She glances around, dropping a sparkling bag onto a side table between two chairs. “I plan to stay in town for a few months. I can make room in my schedule to sleep with youexclusively.”
That word sends ice through my veins.
I have a wife now. I can’t have a mistress. My club is for straightforward, onetime-only sex with ravenous strangers. A mistress is a commitment. Someone that I’d be willing to put whatever matters to me at risk.
No fucking way.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I roughly reply. “How about you just take off that dress?”
“I heard you like to tear clothes off women.”
“Did you bring an extra dress?” There’s a bite in my tone, thinking she’d let me rip her dress to shreds in an angle to stay the night with me.
Not. Happening.
“No, sir.”
Damn, my mind wanders to Isabella again. What the hell am I doing?
I know myself all too well. These are deep cuts of guilt because I haven’t had time to mentally arrange my brain to accept a wife and fuck a woman in my club on the side.
