Chapter 12
12
F ollowing Dr. Hargrove’s departure, I don’t leave my room to wander the manor grounds as I’d originally planned. I don’t bring the little bag of treats to the dogs or explore the hedge maze I spotted from the tower. Instead, I just lie in bed, my stomach twisted in knots and a feeling of revulsion taking root inside me as I consider the true purpose of the doctor’s visit and what it means for this sham of a marriage I’ve found myself trapped in.
My husband wants to fuck me.
He will fuck me, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. When I signed that marriage license, it was as good as a transfer of ownership from my father to Roman Volkov. Once he confirms I have a clean bill of health, he’ll claim what’s his– whether I like it or not.
I won’t like it. Despite my body’s betrayal the night he snuck in my bed and forced his hand between my legs, I know I won’t, because it’s him . I’m as terrified of Roman as I am attracted to the man, and while I may be required to perform my wifely duties for him, I won’t be deriving any enjoyment out of dancing with the devil.
The door to my room creaks open, and I glance over to see Clara coming in with a laundry hamper grasped in her hands. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees I’m still in here wallowing, then her lips turn down in a disapproving frown as she marches toward me.
“Get out of bed, it’s almost noon,” she scolds, stooping to pick up my silk pajama set from the floor at the foot of the bed. “You’re having lunch with Mr. Volkov today in the dining room, he’s expecting you in ten minutes.”
My throat tightens in panic, my fingers twisting the bedsheets in my grip. “Ten minutes from now ?” I rasp, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
Clara straightens, flicking me an annoyed glance. “Yes, you’ll be dining at noon ,” she replies impatiently. “Now go on, I can’t make your bed with you still in it.”
I’m not sure what crawled up Clara’s ass today, but she’s even more prickly than usual and I don’t have the energy right now to fight back. With a heavy sigh, I force myself up and out of bed, striding past her to the bathroom to freshen up before heading downstairs.
When I emerge, Clara’s lingering right outside the bathroom door with a hanger in her grasp. “Change into this,” she directs, thrusting the crimson-colored garment at me. “Red lips.”
“I threw away the red lipstick,” I mutter as I eye the dress dangling from the hanger, my nose wrinkling in distaste.
“Who do you think empties the wastebaskets?” she scoffs, shoving the hanger into my chest so I have no choice but to take it from her. “I put them back in your vanity.”
I grind my molars as she turns on a heel and walks away, fighting an internal battle with myself over whether to comply. Bucking the system didn’t work out too well for me the first night. If something as simple as putting on a dress and lipstick makes my life here a little easier, I’d probably be wise to choose my battles.
That doesn’t mean I don’t curse his name while changing my clothes and painting my lips.
I’m immediately on edge when I leave the safety of my bedroom, anxiety sinking its claws in deep and refusing to let go. With each step down the stairs, my heart thumps harder, my palms going clammy against the stone banister and a shiver racing up my spine.
We haven’t had lunch together at the manor before. Roman’s typically gone during the day, and I’ve taken to eating lunch alone in the parlor, watching the dogs run around the lawn through the large picture windows. The dining room is dark and windowless. Nothing about it is inviting, and as I make my way from the foyer down the hall, every step closer only ramps up the urge to turn and run.
I will run, just not yet . Not now .
Now, I’ll join my husband for lunch, dressed exactly how he likes. I’ll sit in the chair beside him and engage in polite conversation, and I won’t talk back or even give him grief about the unwelcomed doctor’s visit. I’ll do what I have to in the name of self-preservation until I can make a clean getaway.
Finding my resolve, I step into the dining room with my head held high, only for every ounce of confidence to drain out of me as soon as I lock eyes with the man seated at the head of the table. My husband’s penetrating green-eyed stare is harsh and unwavering, and I immediately know this isn’t going to be a quiet, uneventful meal like our last one together was, because the man sitting there isn’t the Roman from last night.
It’s the Roman from the tower. The angry, volatile fracture of his personality that makes my blood turn to ice in my veins with a single glance. I grind to a halt in the doorway, my breath catching and my heart stuttering in my chest.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement at my reaction. “Come here, pet,” he commands, leaning back in his chair and patting a palm against his thigh.
Though everything inside me is screaming to turn around and run, I drag in a deep breath, shore up what’s left of my bravado, and begin striding over to the far end of the table where he’s seated. I falter a step when the grandfather clock in the hall begins to chime, the ominous tone creating a fitting backdrop for my death march. Roman’s eyes drop to tour my form as I draw closer, mapping out every inch of me until I come to a stop beside his chair and his gaze pings up to meet mine.
I barely move. Barely breathe. I just stand there frozen, waiting for him to tell me what he wants.
He pats his thigh again, dipping his chin in command.
I cringe internally, physically unable to force myself to move. This is all too familiar, far too reminiscent of that first dinner here in this room. I remain frozen, rooted to the spot I’m standing in, paralyzed by the mental whiplash.
Roman reaches out to snatch my wrist with an impatient grunt and yanks me down onto his lap. All the air leaves my lungs on impact, my muscles going rigid, but he ignores my obvious discomfort as he effortlessly repositions me to his liking, shifting my body around like his personal ragdoll until I’m sitting sideways and he can see my face. He stares into my eyes intently, reaching up to thumb my lower lip as his own part to speak.
“You didn’t cooperate with the doctor today,” he muses, his gaze dropping to track the sweeping movement of his digit against my lip.
“I submitted to the pregnancy and blood tests,” I say quietly, my lips brushing the pad of his thumb with every hushed word. “I allowed him to place the implant. I just wasn’t comfortable with the… other examination.”
“That’s fine,” Roman murmurs.
My brows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, you can submit to the exam when you’re ready,” he says blandly, still watching my mouth as he pushes his thumb inside. “In the meantime, you’ve got other holes I can use.”
I immediately recoil, spitting out his thumb as I flinch back, but Roman doesn’t seem deterred by my blatant disgust for him. He just sighs in annoyance, tipping his head. “On your knees, pet.”
I gape at him in disbelief. He can’t possibly expect me to service him here and now, can he?
I get my answer when he abruptly takes me by the shoulders and shoves me from his lap to my knees. I wince as they hit the cold marble floor, a brief shot of pain vibrating through my shins.
“You’re going to show me what a good girl you can be, aren’t you?” he asks, lifting a hand from my shoulder to my caress my cheek with the backs of his knuckles.
I want to scream, spit at him, tell him I won’t do it… but all I do is glare up at the demon seated before me, my hatred simmering beneath my skin like a living, breathing entity.
The mirth in my eyes only seems to excite him. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips as he leans his face down closer to my own, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I see that fire in your eyes, darling,” he growls, the low, husky vibration of his voice rattling through me like a warning. “I see how much you want to fight me right now, but you’re not going to, are you?”
He slides his thumb up my chin, slipping it past my lips and pressing the pad of it down against my tongue, forcing my mouth open. “No, you’re going to be a good little pet and suck my cock because you want to please me. You want to make it good for me.” He retracts his thumb from my mouth, trailing saliva over the curve of my chin and down the column of my neck. “You want me to come down that pretty little throat of yours so you can swallow every drop, don’t you?”
No.
“If that’s what you want,” I whisper, and a little piece inside of me cracks.
I can’t say no to him, though– not if I value my own wellbeing. If I resist, Roman will only force me into compliance. He’ll make this worse than it has to be. He’ll make it hurt.
Not to mention the fact that if I have any hope of escaping this hellhole, then I need to lead him to believe I’ve accepted my role as his wife. A blowjob is a small price to pay for my freedom, in the grand scheme of things. There’s no white knight on his way here to save me from the big bad wolf. I’ll just have to save myself.
Roman nods his approval, stroking a hand over my hair as he gazes down at me reverently, those piercing green eyes glinting in satisfaction. “Good girl.”
Something inside me lights up at his praise, my stomach immediately curling in on itself at the realization. I hate that my body and mind can’t get on the same page. I’m not sure who I despise more right now– my husband, or myself.
I startle at the familiar sound of Clara’s Mary Janes clipping against the floor and try to push up from my knees, but Roman’s hand on my shoulder keeps me firmly anchored in place as she crosses the room to deliver the plates of food. Mortification burns through me as she stoops to lower both plates onto the table in front of Roman, averting her eyes to avoid looking at me crouched between his knees.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Volkov?” she asks politely.
Embarrassment and anger wage a war inside me as I kneel at Roman’s feet, staring up at the housemaid. Her refusal to acknowledge my existence right now makes her complicit in this whole thing– I think I might hate her the most.
“No, that’ll be all, Clara,” he replies in a clipped tone, his fingers idly toying with the strands of my hair. “Please close the doors on your way out.”
“Of course, Mr. Volkov.” She spins around and hurries away while I hold my breath until I hear the thud of the double doors being pulled closed behind her.
Roman gazes down at me with a faint smile, sweeping the sides of his suit coat back as he reclines in his chair, spreading his knees wider. “Go on,” he urges, nodding down at the sizable bulge pressing against his slacks.
My cheeks burn with humiliation, my breath still coming out in staccato pants. I once again have the urge to scream, to spit, to throw something– but I swallow all of that back, tucking my rage away in a little box in my mind as my shaky hands reach for his belt.
My wrist brushes against his cock as my fingers land on the buckle, and I swear I feel it jump with excitement. As I work to unfasten his belt, I bump it again, his breath hitching.
I glance up at Roman to find his expression twisted, almost as if he’s in pain. Like he’s aching for me to touch him right now.
Perhaps I do have some power here on my knees, after all.
I unbutton his slacks and drag down the zipper, my eyes dropping to take in the outline of his thick length straining against the fabric of his black boxer briefs. Shifting the hem of his shirt up to reach for the waistband, my gaze snags on his sculpted lower abs and the thin trail of dark hair starting at his belly button and disappearing beneath the elastic, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. Liquid heat starts to swirl inside me, rushing to my core as I slowly ease his boxers down and free his erection.
It's long and thick, standing at attention as I reach out to wrap a hand around his girth. I’ve only seen and touched one dick before in real life, but that experience did nothing to prepare me for this one. Wesley was half the size of my husband. Roman’s cock is hot and hard in my palm as I stroke him from base to tip, mesmerized by the sight of it. When I glance up at his face, I find him watching me with rapt fasciation.
I bat my lashes demurely, licking my lips again. “I haven’t done this before,” I admit.
He likes that. Delight flickers in his eyes as he reaches down to cup my chin in a hand, tilting my head up. “I’m sure you’ll be a natural,” he remarks, his voice strained as I continue pumping him in my fist. “This mouth of yours has to be good for something other than talking back.”
I bite back my surge of indignation in response to his insult as he shifts his hand to the back of my head, guiding me down over his lap. I angle his tip toward my lips, taking it between them and swirling my tongue over the velvety crown.
A shuddering breath leaves him, so I do it again, the repeated movement of my tongue eliciting a similar response. He likes that, too. I’m mentally cataloging every reaction, determined to get something out of this debasement. If I learn what he likes, I can make this end quickly. Maybe I can find some way to use it against him.
Roman rapidly grows impatient, sinking his hand into my hair and forcing me down over his shaft. I sputter and choke as he makes me take every inch of him, until the smooth head of his cock bumps the back of my throat and my lips kiss the base. Then he yanks me back off by my hair, and I barely have time to suck in a greedy gulp of oxygen before he’s shoving my head down again, thrusting his hips up.
“Fuck,” he curses, his grip on my hair tightening as he chokes me with his massive cock. “Your mouth is even better than I imagined, pet.”
He relinquishes his hold on my hair, but I keep bobbing up and down over his lap at the same rhythm he set, my eyes watering and my mascara tracking paths down my cheeks. It’s getting harder to ignore the needy pulse thrumming between my own legs, and it’s all I can do to squeeze my thighs together tightly in an effort to alleviate it as I continue sucking his cock, slurping and choking around his girth.
Roman sweeps my hair away from my face with his fingertips, holding it back as he gazes down at me. “I wish you could see how pretty you look right now, sucking your master’s cock like a good little slut,” he murmurs. “My perfect pet.”
A fresh surge of heat rushes to my core, the spark igniting to a flame at his degradation and praise. I drink it in like oxygen, flattening my tongue against the underside of his cock and dragging it up, flicking the tip just beneath the head.
He really likes that. His whole body jolts, his knuckles whitening against the armrest of the chair. I press my thighs together tighter, a little moan vibrating in my throat, and he groans again, snapping his hips up and thrusting in deeper.
Shit. I don’t know why this act is having such a physical effect on me, but I need it to stop. I refuse to derive any enjoyment out of being forced to my knees.
Putting together everything he’s reacted strongly to thus far, I give him all I’ve got as I go for the grand finale. I lick and suck and slurp until he slaps a hand down against the table above me, the plates and silverware rattling atop the wooden surface. He curses as he punches his hips up, hot ropes of cum spurting from his throbbing cock. He holds my head down over his lap, emptying himself down my throat. It’s hot and thick, salty and bitter. I’m simultaneously victorious and repulsed.
As soon as he finishes, he yanks me off by my hair, bringing his other hand up to pinch my cheeks together.
“Swallow.”
My throat bobs in compliance and he loosens his grip, stroking my hair back.
“Good girl.”
I melt, my muscles slackening and a whoosh of air leaving my lungs. The ghost of a smile tugs at Roman’s lips as he clocks my reaction, gazing down at me in twisted satisfaction.
My legs are a little wobbly when he helps me to my feet. It feels like my body’s on fire, needy and wanting and unfulfilled. I shiver as his fingers trail up my inner thigh, getting close to the apex, but not nearly close enough.
“I’m tempted to reward you, but that’d undermine the lesson, wouldn’t it?” he muses, curling his hand in to brush his knuckles against my clit. A tiny whimper of need escapes my throat and my cheeks flush with shame, his lips curling back from his teeth in a feral grin. I’m still in a daze as he shifts me to the side of his chair and directs me to my own seat, swatting my ass with an open palm.
“Sit and eat,” he commands.
I step over and drop down into the chair, staring numbly at the food on the plate when he places it in front of me. Chicken and vegetables. I was hungry before, but food is the last thing on my mind now. The ache between my thighs is unrelenting and my head feels like it could float away.
“Unless you’d like this to be your lunchtime routine from now on, you’ll allow Dr. Hargrove to complete his examination,” Roman says blandly, picking up his silverware and cutting into the meat on his plate. He stabs a piece with his fork, pausing to glance over at me as he brings it to his lips. “Or don’t. I have no problem feeding you my cock at every meal.”
I stare back at him dumbfoundedly, lost for words. I shouldn’t be surprised that this was merely a punishment for going against his demands. For a second, I almost forgot that I married a monster.
He pops the piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. “Eat,” he repeats, pointing the tip of his knife in my direction.
My cheeks burn as I pick up my own silverware, silently complying.
And when Dr. Hargrove returns the next morning, I undress from the waist down, spread my legs, and allow him to take the swab.