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“I’m fine,” she says with confidence.
Those two words hit so much more than just this moment. My wife isn’t scared anymore. She’s concerned about her and me, but that fearful little girl who spit fire in my office is no longer there. It’s like she can control her fire now.
“What do you want, Serenity?” I ask. “Tell me.”
She pulls me close and cups my face, licking her bottom lip before she says, “Come in me. Fill me up with your cum. I want it dripping out of me. I need your mark on me.”
That’s enough to have me coming. I reach down and rub her clit in fast strokes so she’s coming with me. Her pussy milks my cock for all I’ve got until I collapse onto her.
Quickly, I lift myself up, not wanting to crush her, and slide down her body until my head is resting on her hip. We’re both panting as we come down from the high. Serenity runs her hand through my hair, and I look up at her. She smiles.
“I don’t think I’m pregnant yet,” she whispers.
My brows furrow.
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m getting my period. I don’t know exactly what day it is, but I always get this feeling a week before I get it.”
“What feeling?” I ask, pulling myself up next to her.
“Well, it’s a mix of horny, sensitivity… down there, and a sense of irritation for no reason.” She points at me. “But don’t get any ideas. That is not why I yelled at you. I consider that completely justified and unrelated to my hormonal status.”
I smile.
I understand. It would almost be strange if she was too calm. She’s never been one to hold back, and I don’t imagine that was one of those moments where her body took over.
I look over at the calendar on the other side of the room. A little cat in a Santa hat looks at me as if judging me for not knowing her body better. Fuck, I knew that she was a virgin, how did I miss her cycle completely? After all, a baby was the deal, and her cycle is an important part.
Serenity curls into my body as I make a mental list of things to get for her when Christmas comes.
Chapter 15
Serenity
ChristmasDay
We've been here for a few days. Dante says that Rico is sweeping the place to ensure there isn’t anyone or anything dangerous around. Dante said we could go back in a couple days.
Twice in these few days, Dante left, and I couldn’t help the ache in me when he wasn’t around. He’s been such a comfort to me, holding me every night after making me come several times. We got to know each other, and now I know him more than anyone else in my life.
I now know his favorite movie, where he was born, that he is a cat person and likes to play poker in his time off.
This morning, Dante told me to stay in the bedroom because he had a surprise for me. He gave me that cocky grin of his, kissed me, and shut the door. I had no idea what it could be. I highly doubt it will be a card saying, “Congrats! Crazy mobsters don’t want to shoot at you anymore. You can leave.”
That would be nice.
However, with that thought comes the wonder of when this is over. I’m not pregnant, as I just got my period, but I will be, eventually, and then I’ll give birth. Then what? I may feel this attraction to him as the man who has given me more respect and safety than anyone I’ve ever met. But he doesn’t love me. And who's to say I love him? Maybe this is all Stockholm syndrome. But I haven’t felt trapped for days now. Not by him, anyway. I haven’t been in the cage; instead, I’ve been sleeping with my husband.
I start pacing the room, trying to organize my thoughts and figure out how I truly feel when Dante opens the door.
“Come on, Bambola. The surprise is ready for you.”
I approach him and take his hand as he leads me down the hall to the living room. First, I’m greeted by the smell of cinnamon and pine. Then I see green and red lights to my right. I turn and see right in the middle, against the wall, is a giant Christmas tree with twinkling lights wrapped around it. And at the bottom of the tree are boxes of presents, all neatly wrapped with gold and silver bows.
“What’s this?”
I lean against the wall as Dante walks to the other side, hands in his pockets, explaining the scene before me.
