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That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Take all of me. Suck harder.”
My gaze lifts to his face, and the look he’s giving me spurs me to go faster. Suck harder. His hips are lifting off the bed, pushing deeper into my mouth.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he says harshly.
It only takes a few more minutes, and he’s shooting his load down my throat. His grip is so tight on my hair that it brings tears to my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m making him feel good. Making him lose control, and I swallow every last drop.
“Jesus, Bella,” he moans when he finishes.
“I hope that relaxed you,” I tell him when I sit up.
“Consider me relaxed, babe,” he says. “You take good care of your husband.”
The doorbell rings, and I can't help but release an involuntary sigh. "That would be your mother," I inform him with a weariness I don't bother to hide.
Ever since the incident, she's been a perpetual presence here, apparently to tend to her injured son. Yet all she really does is march around the place, issuing commands to the staff as though running a military operation. There's something so clinical about her approach as if the warmth of motherhood has eluded her altogether, and she can't quite grasp why I'd dirty my hands with bandages and ointments. Despite my efforts, she scrutinizes my every move, a silent indictment of my place in this household.
"Don't sound so happy," Damien teases with a wry smile, pulling me from my thoughts.
"I'm not happy," I reply, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "All she does is dictate. This isn't her house."
In response, he enwraps me in a tight hug. "I know she can be tiring, but she's doing what she knows. Don't let it get to you," he whispers softly.
With a collective breath, we prepare ourselves and descend the stairs to greet the matriarch. To our mutual surprise, there stands Aurora next to his mother, her presence like a cold draft. She's made no secret of her disdain for me. Since the day Damien slipped a ring on my finger, she's been nothing but distant. A frosty satellite in our orbit.
We settle into the living room with the tension humming beneath the surface of our practiced civility. Damien's mother is perched at the edge of her seat like a queen in court, her eyes sharp and assessing as they land on him.
"How are you feeling, dear?" she inquires, her voice striking a careful balance between concern and formality.
Damien gives me a sidelong glance, a private joke shared in the arch of his brow. "I'm fine, Mom. Really," he reassures, shifting slightly to ease his discomfort. "Isabella's been magnificent, as always, but both of you are making much fuss about nothing."
His mother nods once, brisk and businesslike, and lets the subject drop as though it's an insignificant footnote. "Very well," she says, her eyes now focusing on the papers she brought with her. "Let us discuss the gala tomorrow night. It's crucial we present a united front, especially after recent... events."
I eye Damien as he addresses his mother and sister. "Tina has been handling all of the gala preparations in my absence," he assures everyone with a confident nod. "I trust her implicitly. Everything will be according to our standards, and it will be fine."
As if on cue, Aurora leans back with a derisive snort. "Speaking of standards," she says, her eyes skating over me with poorly disguised disdain. "I'd be surprised if Isabella can still fit into a dress for the gala. Hasn’t she put on a bit of...comfort weight, brother?"
The words hang heavy, and before I can muster my pride, Damien's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Enough, Aurora," he growls, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You know she's pregnant. If you disrespect my wife again, you will not appreciate the consequences."
I know I've picked up a little weight, but I'm barely showing. I have a small bump, but it just makes me look fat, like I'm out of shape, not pregnant. I’m surprised Damien didn’t put up a fuss about me going. He’s been very adamant about me staying home, but I guess this is one of those things that require his presence, and he’d rather take me than leave me home.
Aurora's face twists into a sneer. "You should be ashamed, Damien. Ashamed for marrying and having a baby with your brother’s widow. Jackson was right about you."
The air shifts, suddenly electric with accusation. Damien's eyes bore into Aurora with confusion. "What was Jackson right about?" he demands.
Aurora falters, her features softening as she glances down. "He said... he said you were losing your place, putting everyone else before the family. I didn't want to believe it, but now I see it," she murmurs. "I'm sorry. I just don't want anything to happen to you. I was always worried about both you and Jackson, and now with him gone..." She trails off, shaking her head.
Damien's voice is firm. "You should be apologizing to Isabella."
Aurora's lips purse. "Over my dead body," she sneers.
Before the bitterness can claw any deeper, I interject. "Damien, it's alright." I force a smile, keen to move past Aurora's spite. "Let's focus on the gala."
Finally, the heavy front door clicks shut behind Damien's mother and sister, their departure a sweet, if not brief, reprieve from the tension. I exhale for the first time in hours. No sooner has the wave of relief washed over me than Damien's phone interrupts the fleeting calm with its insistent jangle. He shoots me an apologetic look before stepping out to take the call. Alone, I pad to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of juice.
Charles, the butler, enters the kitchen, finding me alone in the echo of the day's events. His approach is quiet and respectful.
“Mrs. Blackhart,” he begins, his voice as poised as ever. “Might I have a moment to discuss the dinner menu for this evening? The chef requests confirmation of your preferences so he can begin the preparations.”
