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I wake up in a cocoon of warmth. A solid weight anchors me to the bed. I blink my eyes open. My husband is spooning me from behind, his arms locked around my waist. The soft fanning of his breath is warm on my neck. The feeling is oddly pleasant. I’m safe and content.
I lie still, taking a moment to process the sentiments. It’s still new for me, waking up in the arms of a man. From the light that filters around the edges of the curtains, it’s morning.
He spent the night.
The fact both shocks and surprises me. I don’t know why I didn’t expect him to stay over. It just seemed unlikely. I assumed he’d go home to his own bed. It’s a strange notion, considering that we’re married, but then again, our marriage isn’t normal by average standards.
He stirs. The way in which his even breathing turns quiet tells me he’s awake. I close my eyes, pretending to be sleeping because I want to savor this comfortable warmth for a short while longer. He presses closer and tightens his arms. The heat turns into a different kind when his cock grows hard against the crack of my ass.
A perverse curiosity compels me to lie perfectly still. I don’t know him well enough to predict his actions. Will he wake me and demand sex? Or will he get up and sneak out without saying good morning?
Angelo doesn’t do either. He doesn’t shake me awake with verbal demands or slip out of bed. He simply grabs the elastic of my pajama bottoms and pushes the pants down my hips, exposing my ass. My breath catches in my throat when the smooth head of his cock nudges my opening. Before I have time to brace myself, he slides all the way in. I’m wet in a second, easing his way.
As if he’s worried I’ll flee, he keeps me in place on my side with an arm locked around my waist and a hand wrapped around my neck. We’re still spooning each other with my back pressed against his chest and my ass in his groin. I’m immobile in his hold when he starts to move. The pumping of his hips is lazy. He’s exploring this new position at leisure, taking his time to work up his pleasure.
When he changes the angle of his hips, I utter a gasp. Like this, I feel him deeper. He cashes in on that sound, hitting the same spot inside me repeatedly as he scrapes his teeth over the arch of my neck. My inner muscles spasm when he bites down gently, locking his teeth on my shoulder. I’m clenching around his cock, my own pleasure building as he tightens his fingers around my neck and allows me just enough air to breathe.
His possessive and dominant grasp sparks more heat inside me. Surrendering has never felt sweeter. Righter. Instinctively, I understand the game. The quieter I lie, the harder he gets. His cock grows thicker inside me. Wanting more, I stay still. I let him use me, allowing him to manipulate my body as his lust dictates by giving him control, and it’s never been hotter.
He rewards me by loosening his arm around my waist and sliding his hand between my legs. His fingers on my clit are my undoing. When he rolls the nub before delivering a wicked pinch, I come with a cry. My inner muscles lock down on his cock as shocks of pleasure tighten my body. In a reflexive reaction, I turn my head, seeking out his face like a flower turns toward the sun. He presses his lips on mine in a deep, lingering kiss before pulling away.
“Say it,” he coaxes, his voice seductively low in my ear.
I can’t deny him. Not now. So, I give him the sounds he wants, but not the words. “Mr. Russo.”
He picks up his pace. One more thrust, and he grunts out his release with his lips pressed against my neck. The moment is intense but also strangely languid. What we shared feels like more than sex. It’s more intimate than fucking. He doesn’t pull out or remove his hand from between my legs. We stay like that for a moment, linked together, catching our breaths while he keeps his hold on my sex and my neck until long after the game is over.
I understand it now, this game of dominance and submission. He likes to chase. I like the catch. He conquers, but somehow, I win.
The soft kiss he plants on my shoulder alerts me of his intention before he untangles himself from me and pulls out. I feel empty when he lets go. The heat is gone, replaced by an awkward silence as he pulls my pajama bottoms back in place.
The bed dips. He arranges the comforter over me, making sure my shoulder is covered. I’m still staring at the wall when I feel his presence fade. The click of the bathroom door confirms his absence in the room. Why does that hurt so much? He’s only doing what everyone does in the morning—getting up and having a shower. Why does the perfectly normal act leave me so cold in the aftermath of what just happened?
The water in the shower comes on. I listen until it turns off again. I only summon the willpower to move when the door opens and a whiff of shower gel drifts into the room.
Sitting up, I clutch the covers to my chest. He exits the bathroom in a billow of steam, wearing a towel around his waist. His broad chest and deeply cut muscles exude masculinity and the sweet promise of protection that comes with his male strength. Drops of water roll over the black ink on his chest. I follow the trickle that runs to his navel with my gaze, fixing my attention on the letters eternalized below his waistline. It’s not his powerful physique or the darkness emanating from him that reminds me of his true nature. It’s the single word those letters spell.
Resilience.
It’s a harsh wakeup call. My husband isn’t a gentle or romantic man with whom I can share candlelight dinners and lighthearted banter. He’s a powerful criminal who doesn’t let anything or anyone stand in the way of his ambition, least of all a wife he hates. I don’t know why I lowered my defenses last night. I only know I felt something when Angelo asked for my advice. The fact that my opinion mattered to him softened me in a dangerous way.
He heads for the dressing room without looking at me. When he disappears inside, I get out of bed and rush across the floor.
The bathroom is still humid from his shower, the mirror fogged up with vapor. I lock the door and lean on the wood, acutely aware of his cum dripping down my thighs.
Hurrying to the cupboard, I yank open the drawer and feel underneath. Relief rushes through me when I find the packet of birth control pills where I left it. I pop today’s pill from its casing and cup my hand under the tap to swallow it with a sip of water.
Once it’s in my stomach, I feel calmer. More rational. I can examine the strange mixture of disappointment and hurt that squeezes my chest. I shouldn’t see more into the sex. My husband is a man. He’s only sating a physical need. I shouldn’t let that affect me. It will be irresponsible to need more from him when he’s not capable of giving it. Yet I can’t help the hollow feeling that settles in the pit of my stomach.
In a way, my banishment is a blessing in disguise. At least I have my own space, a space where his presence is temporary. I can sneak to the village and earn a little money. There may come a day that I’ll need that money, a day when I open the drawer and find my birth control pills gone. That’s the true reason I rejected his offer to employ a cook and a housekeeper. If permanent staff live in the house, I’ll have to give up my secret excursions. Then, I’ll be completely cut off from the outside world. I’ll have no options of saving myself.
No, it’s best I stay here alone. I may not have a real marriage or a partner who loves me, but I don’t need someone else to make me happy. I can do that all on my own. I have a duty to myself to try. When I look at it like that, being stowed away in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere counts in my favor. The freedom that gives me makes the feat considerably easier.
The new resolve lifts my spirits somewhat. I’m not naïve enough to think my husband’s actions will never touch or hurt me. I simply accept that there will be times I’ll have to internalize the pain. That’s why it’s vital that I build a new life for myself here. I can’t be strong if I’m permanently unhappy. I can only survive if I’m in a healthy mental state of mind.
When I step out of the bedroom, showered and dressed, smells of coffee and toast greet me. I’m surprised to find Angelo in the kitchen in front of the stove, scrambling eggs. He’s dressed in a fitted button-down shirt and formal slacks. The table is set for two with a rack of toast and a carafe of coffee in the center.
