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“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growls between clenched teeth, wrapping my legs around his hips as he starts to thrust. “So fucking tight—”
He pushes himself into me, hard and deep, all the way to the base, as the sudden pleasure tears the air from my lungs. “You’ll come even if I don’t touch your clit, won’t you?” he murmurs, bending to whisper it in my ear, hips grinding against me. “You want that cock so fucking bad.”
I look away from him, hating that he’s right. The pressure of him inside of me, the fullness, the friction, is nearly enough to tip me over the edge even without the extra stimulation. He feels incredible, just as he always does, and I bite my lip against a moan—but it slips out anyway as he thrusts again, my legs tightening around his hips as if to pull him deeper. I know he feels it when he laughs, dark and low in his throat, and he rolls his hips slowly against me again, letting me feel every inch of him.
“Tell me the truth, Amalie,” he murmurs into my ear as he thrusts again. “Was I really your first? I’ve already married you, you can be honest.”
I want to slap him. I want to push him off of me. I want to tangle my arms and legs around him and keep him inside of me until he makes me come. I’ve never known that it was possible to feel so many conflicting, awful feelings about one person, and I glare up at him, my body trembling on the verge of orgasm as I spit the words into his face.
“You were the first,” I hiss. “You’re the only one. Andgod, right now, I wish that weren’t true.”
David’s hand fists in my hair, his mouth crashing against mine in the first kiss he’s given me since the chaste one at the altar, his thrusts turning hard and relentless again. I feel the moment that I spill over the edge, his tongue tangling with mine as he growls something against my lips that almost sounds like my name. I feel him swell and harden inside of me, the hot rush of his cum prolonging my orgasm as I cry out against his lips. The force of the pleasure brings tears to my eyes, and I shudder and arch underneath him, my fingers clawing against his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. I don’t care if I do—I almost hope I hurt him. I wantsomethingto hurt him. I want him to know how this feels.
He pulls out of me, breathing hard, and turns away. I watch dizzily as he strides to the bathroom, not looking back as he shuts the door hard behind him, and I see the light turn on from the other side as I hear him start the shower.
I shove away the urge to wonder what I did wrong as I crawl up the bed, sliding under the covers. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’vedoneanything—I think there’s something that David wants that I haven’t—or can’t—give him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever know what that is.
I’m not entirely sure I care.
The bed is frigid, and I shiver under the thick comforter, listening to the spray of the shower from the bathroom and hoping that I can warm up quickly. This mansion feels like a tomb, and I wonder if it will be better in the morning, in the light of day.
I wonder if anything will.
16
AMALIE
Nothing feels better in the light of day. I wake up in bed alone and sore, the blankets tugged up on David’s side, with no sign of him—not so much as a note to tell me where he is or what he might want me to do. I sit up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, and immediately realize that the mansion feels just as cold as it did last night.
It’s summer, and this house feels as frigid as a tomb.
The only solution that I can see for it is a hot shower, and I slide out of bed, wincing at the soreness in my hips and the stickiness on my thighs as I walk across the room. The bathroom is as unfinished as the rest of the house—there’s a space that looks as if it’s meant for a jacuzzi tub that’s empty, the tiles pulled up around it, and there’s one sink in the dual counter. The shower stall is the one part that looks as if it’s been completed—it’s large, big enough forseveralpeople with a granite bench on one side of it and dark mosaic tiling, niches shaped into the walls for things like shampoo and soap.
The shower itself is blissful. I wash all the product out of my hair from the day before, nearly moaning as I rub my fingers across my scalp and soothe the soreness from the pins holding it in place—and David’s hand roughly grabbing it last night. A shiver runs through me atthatmemory, and I shake my head, trying to dislodge it.
I have to stop wanting him.He’s always going to use it against me, and it’s always going to make things harder.Surely it can’t be like this forever,I tell myself as I scrub the remaining traces of him away with honey-scented soap, trying to bolster myself with that thought. It’s lust, which has to wear off eventually. He’ll grow bored with me, and I’ll get tired of him. Then we’ll slowly put more and more space between each other until we become one of those married couples that simply exist in each others’ orbit, instead of being—what we are now.
I just have to wait it out. I try to take some comfort in that thought as I towel off and get dressed, wrapping my damp hair up in a loose bun atop my head, and opting for leggings and a long tank top with a cardigan for the morning. Normally, I wouldn’t need a sweater this time of year, but the chill in the house is pervasive, and I shiver as I head downstairs the two flights to the main floor. My stomach is growling from hunger and twisting with nausea all at once, and I hope that there’ll be something I can eat that won’t make me throw up.
To my dismay, I find David at the kitchen table. Like most of the house so far, I see signs of renovation in progress, and I sink down at the edge of the table, looking at him apprehensively.
“Good morning.” He sets his phone down, appraising me with a single look. “Cold?”
“It’s chilly in here.” I push the sleeves up a little, and the hair on my forearms prickles. “Something to do with the house being so old?”
David nods. “Stone is good insulation, but with all the damp especially, it keeps the chill in as well as it keeps the heat from going out. It’s not outfitted with central heating yet, and with so many workers in and out, I haven’t bothered keeping the fireplaces going. I also haven’t been home in a while,” he says pointedly, and I feel my cheeks heat with the reminder of Ibiza.
“How does breakfast work here?” I ask, and instantly regret it when I see him smirk.
“Go to the kitchen and see what you can find. I’m sorry I don’t have a staff just yet to wait on you hand and foot, but I’ll see what I can do about—”
I’m up and out of my chair, storming out before he can finish his sentence.How dare he, I fume as I stalk in the direction that Ihopeis the kitchen, anger suffusing every part of me until I feel certain steam is going to come out of my ears. Iknowhe must have grown up with a household staff, too, that it’s perfectly normal in families like ours, but ofcourse,he would turn it around into something to make me feel bad about myself.
I nearly trip over a stack of boards going into the kitchen, and curse aloud. “Fuck!” I hiss into the echoing, empty air, heading for the refrigerator. That, at least, looks shiny and new, as does the stove—but I don’t have the slightest idea how to use the latter. That is, I know how to turn it on, but I don’t know how to actuallycookanything.
I don’t want to admit that to David, so I poke through the refrigerator instead, hoping to find something I won’t have to prepare. I find yogurt that’s not out of date—strawberry and vanilla, and hunt for a spoon. I hate strawberries, but everything else looks as if it needs to be cooked.
Spoon in hand, I lean back against the counter, eating it in small bites. I have no desire to go back into the dining room with him, and I hope he won’t come and find me.
