3. Tristan #3
“I’ll see you in twenty-four hours, Miss Russo.” I give her a polite incline of my head and back out of the library, leaving her there fuming.
—
Back at the hotel, I know I should focus on business. I took a separate car from my father, so I at least wasn’t forced to listen to more of his opinions on my marriage, but I know there’s plenty I could be doing to further the business interests of this takeover.
But, as I thought earlier when I stood across from Simone in that library, nothing is getting done until I’ve given myself some relief from the effect she has on me.
I stride into my hotel room, undoing my suit jacket as I pour myself a glass of whiskey, straight, from the minibar. I toss it back in one burning gulp, shrugging off my jacket as I pour a second, and reach down for the buckle of my belt.
Fuck . I’m still half-hard, and all it takes is a single thought of her to bring my cock back to full attention, rock-hard and throbbing.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, kicking off my shoes and leaning back against the soft mounds of pillows as I reach down and free my aching length, wrapping my hand around it with a hiss as flesh meets flesh.
I take another sip of the whiskey, relishing it as I start to stroke my cock, the image of Simone firmly planted in my mind’s eye—her spitfire eyes, her defiant tilt of her chin, her elegant bearing.
I can’t wait to bring her to her knees, to have her begging for me, pleading for the pleasure that only I can give her.
I groan at the image of her, hair messy and lips swollen, kneeling at my feet, and pre-cum pearls at the tip of my cock as I stroke all the way down to the base and squeeze.
This feels like a luxury, lying here and sipping expensive whiskey while I stroke myself to the thought of my future wife, but it’s a pale shadow of what I really want.
Two weeks . I groan, both from the pleasure of my hand running along my length and the idea that I’ll have to wait so long to bury it in her.
I want her now , and I’ve never been a patient man.
“Fuck,” I breathe aloud, running my hand back up and over my sensitive head, circling my fingers around it as I imagine it’s her mouth.
I’m leaking enough pre-cum now to make it slick and wet, and I fuck the tight circle of her fingers, closing my eyes as I picture her lips stretched around me, straining to take me in.
I’m under no delusions that my cock is anything but large, and I can’t wait to find out just how tight of a fit Simone is.
She’s going to feel fucking incredible. Anticipation heats my blood, tightens my aching balls, and I wrap my hand around my shaft again, hips rising in lazy strokes as I fuck my fist, getting closer to my cli—max. Soon, I won’t need to pleasure myself. I’ll have her, warm, willing, defiant…
My jaw tightens. In the back of my head, I know some part of me should feel badly about this, that I shouldn’t be so turned on by a woman who so clearly hates me, who is marrying me out of a fear for her life—if she agrees to it.
A woman who is clearly being coerced. But my cock doesn’t care.
It throbs at the thought of her under me, submitting to me, of me turning her biting words into begging pleas.
I feel heat building at the base of my spine, feel the exquisite sensation of my release building up, and I toss back the last of the whiskey and grab for a tissue just as the first spurt of cum erupts from my cockhead.
I wrap my fist around my throbbing tip, groaning and still stroking as it erupts into the tissue, my mind fixated on the image of coating Simone’s tongue with my cum instead—her lips, her cheeks, her breasts…
I moan as the last spurt erupts, my cock softening in the wake of the orgasm, and I breathe out hard, muscles relaxing. I needed that. I can think more clearly now, with another drink and the pile of work that I’m supposed to address tonight.
But even so, as I order room service and go to sit at the desk, combing through stacks of papers detailing Giovanni Russo’s business dealings, the image of Simone stays with me.
Not the fantasy of her on her knees, mouth open for my cum, but the image of her in the library earlier, defiant and refusing, suggesting she might choose death over marrying me.
I doubt it. But there’s always a chance.
—
I wake up in the morning hard as a rock, forced to jerk off in the shower to another toe-curling orgasm before I can think straight.
Simone has gotten under my skin, that’s for certain, but I have every intention of doing the same to her.
She thinks she can resist me, that she won’t be affected by me, but I know better.
I let out a harsh breath as I get out to dry off, knowing what my father would say if he could hear my thoughts.
He’d say that I shouldn't be thinking about her like this.
She's going to be my wife out of necessity, not desire.
She's going to hate me, at least at first, and I should be prepared for that.
I should be thinking about how to manage a hostile spouse, how to ensure that her resentment doesn't interfere with my plans.
How to stay in control, above all. Of her, and everything else.
Instead, I'm thinking about what she'll look like in my bed.
What sounds she'll make when I touch her.
Whether that defiance will extend to the bedroom, and how much I'll enjoy breaking it down.
The thoughts are inappropriate, given the circumstances.
She's being forced into this marriage, coerced by the threat of death.
She has no real choice in the matter, and I should feel guilty about that.
I should be disgusted with myself for being aroused by her unwillingness.
But I'm not.
If anything, her resistance only makes me want her more.
There's something primal about it, something that appeals to the part of me that's always enjoyed a challenge.
I've never had to work for a woman's attention before, never had to convince someone to want me.
The idea of slowly wearing down Simone's defenses, of making her crave my touch despite herself, is intoxicating.
I’ll see her this evening, I hope. If she chooses me instead of death.
It’s difficult to concentrate on work. I meet with my father in the business suite downstairs partway through the day, careful to steer the conversation away from Simone. I don’t want him to lecture me again on not becoming obsessed with her.
I have no intention of being obsessed with my wife. What I want is to master her—and her desire—just as I’m going to master everything her father built. That’s not obsession. It’s possession.
And she will be mine.
I order room service for lunch, then change just before we’re meant to leave into a tailored dark grey suit, one that I know looks good on me.
I opt for no tie, leaving the top two buttons undone, showing off the hint of chest hair and the ink that swirls across my skin.
I want to make it as difficult as possible for Simone to ignore me.
I want her to think about what it means when she says yes , how she’ll be in my bed, that I’m the one who will be fucking her.
I want her fantasizing about me, the way I fantasized about her. Whether she wants to or not.
Halfway to the Russo estate, we pass by a jeweler—a large, terracotta building with an elegant sign out front. “Pull over,” I tell the driver, on impulse, and he does so without question, sharply turning the wheel and angling into the parking lot.
I sit there for a moment, looking at the building.
There’s no engagement ring required for this transaction.
If Simone chooses me over death, all we have to do is sign the papers.
Wedding bands will be needed for the ceremony, of course, but I don’t need to bring her a diamond. I know what my father would say.
That the idea is weakness. That it’s ridiculous, trying to soften her up with expensive jewelry. That it’s unnecessary, a waste. She should be grateful I’m marrying her. She shouldn’t need a superficial gesture to sweeten the deal.
Either despite what I know my father would say, or maybe because of it, I find myself getting out of the car, the Miami heat beating down on me despite the fact that it’s technically ‘fall’, and walk to the entrance of the jeweler’s.
If there’s one thing I’m going to miss about Boston, it’s the seasons. There’s not a leaf changing color in sight here, and the heat feels as oppressive as summertime.
The moment I walk in, the saleslady standing nearest the door takes one look at my suit and hurries to my side.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“It’s a bit spontaneous,” I tell her. “But money is no object. I’m looking for an engagement ring.”
Just like that, I’m whisked back to a private showroom, made comfortable at a table with a glass of sparkling water, and told that she’ll return with some options.
I know this is going to make me late, but honestly, I can’t quite bring myself to care.
I’m as necessary to this deal as Simone is, more so, perhaps, and they can wait on me.
I’m not looking to make an enemy of Konstantin Abramov, but I’m not going to be cowed by him, either. I’ll arrive when I’m ready, and with an engagement ring for my bride.
The woman returns after a few minutes with a velvet display studded with rings. “We have other options as well,” she says, setting it down in front of me. “But this is what I thought I would offer you to start—a variety of what we have here.”
I quickly discount anything in yellow gold, too old-fashioned, and rose gold, too girlish for a woman like Simone.
Some of the rings are overly garish, but my gaze settles on one, a large emerald cut—maybe five carats—in an Art Deco setting made of sleek platinum.
It’s elegant and stands out from the rest, and it looks perfectly suited to Simone, in my opinion.
“This one.” I point to it, reaching into my jacket for my wallet. “I’ll need it wrapped up quickly. I’m running late.”
The saleswoman moves with surprising speed.
Within ten minutes, the ring is packaged, paid for, and I’m on my way to the Russo mansion.
The security guards wave us through the gates, and the driver parks in the circular driveway, the car idling as I take a moment to compose myself before I get out of the car.
This is it—the moment where I’ll find out if she’s going to be mine. And truthfully, I don’t know how I can let Konstantin kill her if she says no. How can I accept a no from her lips when the only word that I can imagine her saying is yes ?
I want her. But I have no intention of letting her see what she does to me.
That would give her the upper hand. And when it comes to Simone Russo, I know one thing for certain.
I always intend to be the one in control.