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At the market on the square where I do the weekly shopping for Corinne, I overhear my husband’s name as I’m filling a basket with oranges. I turn my head in the direction of the voice. Three women sit on a bench under a plane tree with their backs turned to me.
A woman with blond, shoulder-length hair says, “Oh, he can drip all over my floor any time he wants. He’s such a hot dish, not to mention that dangerous vibe he’s got going. I bet he’s a stallion in bed.”
I clench my fingers around the handle of the basket in my hand, feeling like throwing an orange at the back of her head. Preferably a rotten one.
“Pff,” a woman with short black hair says. “That doesn’t change who he is or where he comes from. Under the sexy veneer, he’s still a criminal and nothing but filthy scum.”
My hackles rise. There are layers to him she doesn’t understand, not that I’m defending him.
The third woman, a petite brunette, says, “He’s the kind of trouble we don’t need in this town.”
The blonde crosses her legs. “I’d still like to test-drive him. All that testosterone makes me sweaty.”
“You’re despicable,” the brunette replies with a chuckle.
The woman with the black hair clicks her tongue. “Unfortunately for you, you’re married.”
“So?” the blonde says. “I said test-drive, not buy.”
Urgh. I can’t listen to more.
Turning away from the conversation, I pay for the oranges and hurry to the cheese vendor on the opposite side of the square. I’m no longer in earshot of the women’s conversation, but their words refuse to let me go. It’s the truth, yet I hate both their interest and their judgment. The fact that I couldn’t confront them for fear of exposing myself only makes me feel worse.
For the rest of the day, I keep busy by cleaning the house from top to bottom. A few times, I almost give in and send a text message from Angelo’s phone to ask how the kids are doing, but my pride prevents me. Sooner or later, my husband will visit to collect his due.
A strange kind of anxiety takes hold of me as I wait for Angelo to arrive, but he only pulls up in front of the house two evenings later. I part the blinds in front of the window in the lounge and peer through the glass. The path lights illuminate the garden. He gets out of the car, wearing a dark bespoke suit and a white shirt like when he dived into the river. The clothes fit him well. The tailored cut makes him look both powerful and at ease in his own skin. When he makes his way down the path with long, easy strides, I drop the blinds and undress. By the time his key is scraping in the lock, I’m naked and kneeling with my legs spread.
He pushes the door open and pauses as his gaze lands on me. For the two seconds he stands motionless, cold air enters from outside. Goosebumps run over my skin, and my nipples contract. An internal battle wages inside me. I want to remain detached, but after the puppy incident, it’s difficult.
I admire what he did. If not for him, that poor puppy would’ve drowned. If I’m honest, I’ll admit it’s more than admiration that threatens to stir up the feelings I suppress. It’s also jealousy. It’s remembering how that woman looked at him when he returned her puppy. More than anything, it’s the satisfaction at how he rejected her. It’s the female in me who wants my husband to be faithful. Our marriage is in no way normal. I have no right to crave the traditional values that comes with holy matrimony. The bond of our marriage is nothing but a weapon in Angelo’s hands. It’s just another tool he can use to tie me to him. Then why do I want him to honor his vow? Because I’m every bit as possessive as he is. It’s not easy to admit. Forcing nothingness into my heart becomes near impossible when I’m acknowledging these feelings.
I lower my head before he sees the turmoil he creates inside me. The click of the door announces he’s closed it. The cold that disappears confirms it. His steps fall with a slow beat on the floor. His polished dress shoes enter my line of vision. He stops between my legs. Too close. He brushes a hand over my head and grips my ponytail. With a gentle tug, he lifts my face. My eyes are on the level of his crotch. The bulge in his pants tells me he wants me, but when he opens his mouth, his confused tone says otherwise.
“Look at me, Sabella.”
I lift my gaze to his. His handsome features are set in hard lines. The turbulent emotions warring in my chest are reflected in the dark, bitter brown of his eyes.
Twisting my ponytail around his fist, he says, “I want this war to be over.”
I can only assume he means the animosity between us. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have started it.”
His voice is clipped. “I had no choice.” Reeling me in with my hair twisted around his hand, he unzips himself with the other. “I had to steal your father’s book.”
My mouth opens on a silent gasp. That wasn’t what I imagined. Obviously, for him, our war goes back all the way to the beginning. Before I have time to gather my thoughts, he’s freed his cock. He takes advantage of my parted lips to shove inside, aiming straight for the back of my throat.
I gag.
He pulls halfway out and slides back in over my tongue. “It was the only way to ensure our wedding would continue as planned.” Filling me with his hardness, he pushes so deep I don’t have a choice but to swallow around him. “The only way to make you mine.”
I’m choking, too driven by my primal need for survival to digest the information he just shared.
“You were always the only objective that mattered.” He pulls out and lets me breathe. “I wish there was another way, but there wasn’t.”
I drag in a ragged breath, trying to get my head around the meaning of his words, but he’s already pumping through my lips and using his grip on my hair to control my movements and make me meet his thrusts.
Tears leak from my eyes. Saliva runs down my chin. The sounds I make are needy, and despite the armor I pulled up around my heart, my folds swell and turn slick with arousal. The ache between my legs is overwhelming, robbing me of any other thoughts, but I’m fighting, fighting not to let this turn me on and fighting through the fog of lust to understand his declaration.
“For you,” he says, fucking my mouth harder. “I did it all for you.”
