12. Simone
SIMONE
H e’s not joking. I realize that as I stare at him, waiting for him to back down, to tell me to leave before his meeting. But as the seconds tick by, Tristan just taps his fingers against the desk, looking at me expectantly.
“I—no,” I blurt out, taking a step back. “I’m not doing that. You’re not going to humiliate me like that. And you’re not going to lay a hand on me?—”
Tristan glances at his computer. “Three minutes to decide, Simone, or I decide for you.” He smiles, and I truly can’t guess which he’d pick if it were up to him. “One or the other is going to happen, célie . Your mouth around my cock or my hand turning your pretty ass red. Choose.”
My pulse flutters in my throat. “I hate you,” I bite out, and I do . I mean it with every cell of my being. But at the same time, looking at Tristan from across the room, arrogant and domineering, I feel that lick of heat through my body again.
It felt so fucking good when he made me come on his fingers.
And on our wedding night, it was so hard to keep myself from giving in to the pleasure.
All of him feels so good when he touches me—his fingers, his mouth, his cock—and I can only imagine what he could do to me if I gave in to it.
The kinds of things he could show me. It’s a temptation, flickering through my veins like little tongues of fire.
His attitude arouses me as much as it makes me hate him. But I refuse to give in to it. I refuse to let this man put me on my knees, to willingly submit to him. And as for the other choice?—
The thought of him actually physically punishing me is frightening. No one has ever laid a hand on me before. But there’s a stirring of heat at the thought of that, too, one that confuses me, because I don’t know how that could possibly be arousing.
I wait too long, caught between desire and hatred, refusal and the knowledge that Tristan is going to push his decision on me one way or another. His computer chimes again, and Tristan clears his throat.
“Go to your room, Simone. I expect to see you at dinner. And don’t try to leave the house today. Security will have orders to stop you.”
My cheeks flame red, anger burning a path up my throat, but Tristan waves a dismissive hand at me. “Out, Simone. Now . I have a meeting.”
As angry as I am, I know better than to push my luck. I pivot on my heel, storming out of the room, and as I slam the door behind me, I swear I hear his chuckle—deep and amused—from within the office as I leave.
—
I don’t come down for dinner that night.
At six forty-five, I look at the clock, debating how far to push Tristan.
I tested his statement about leaving the estate—true to his word, I was told that Mr. O’Malley’s instructions were that I was not to be allowed to leave today.
No amount of cursing or reminding security who I am worked—none of the security now has any loyalty to my late father or to me.
They all belong to Tristan, just as he thinks I do.
But I don’t. Maybe legally, but not in any other way. And as the clock ticks toward seven, I decide to prove that point, even though I know I’m probably going to regret it.
Instead of going down to the dining room, I call for someone to bring dinner up to me, before changing into a pair of comfortable black shorts and a loose T-shirt, curling up in the armchair in my room with one of my favorite shows on the television.
When an hour passes and no dinner arrives, I feel sure that Tristan intercepted it somehow, and I consider going down to seek out something to eat myself.
But he’s undoubtedly still downstairs as well, and I don’t want to run into him.
After the chaos of the day, I’m not even that hungry. I find a chocolate bar in my nightstand that I stashed away, lock my door against any intrusion by my husband, and tell myself firmly that I won’t open it no matter how hard he bangs on it or what he threatens.
I’ll come out when I please, and I won’t let him frighten me. Or maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll forget about this afternoon and ignore me tonight like he did last night.
Deep down, though, I know he won’t forget. And just after ten p.m., as I come out of the ensuite bathroom after washing my face, I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.
A moment later, Tristan steps into my room wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a fitted black T-shirt, a smirk on his lips as he sees the shock on my face.
He twirls the keys he’s holding around his fingers. “I have a master key, Simone,” he says amusedly. “I own this estate now. Do you think that I don’t have a way to get into any room here that I please?”
“You—” I stare at him, anger boiling up instantly in response to his devil-may-care attitude. “You’re in my room. I don’t want you here. Get out.”
“No.” He shakes his head, pocketing the keys.
“You’re in my room, Simone. I own this mansion.
Every inch of it belongs to me, just as every inch of you does as well.
Which brings me to why I’m here.” His gaze drags over me, making me feel as if I’m naked in front of him despite the baggy T-shirt I’m wearing over my shorts.
“You misbehaved today, célie . I told you that there would be consequences. Go and bend over the bed.”
“No.” I tighten my jaw. “I’m not going to just bend over for…”
“You will. Or the consequences will be worse.” Tristan’s green eyes, previously amused, harden.
“I was given this estate, this responsibility, and you as a wife. I will not have it undermined by your behavior. You had a choice in the beginning, Simone, and you chose me. Now you’re choosing to fight me at every turn, and there are consequences for that, too.
” His eyes spark, dangerous and dark. “Go bend over the bed.”
I swallow hard. There’s something different about him in this moment, something cold and deadly that frightens me down to my core.
But not only that. As I think about obeying him, about crossing the room and bending over the bed and finding out what comes next, heat starts to blossom through my veins, warming me from the inside out, and I feel dampness between my thighs.
A part of me wants to submit to him. My gaze skims over him as the tension in the air thickens, taking in his chiseled, stubbled jaw, his inked skin, the tight T-shirt over corded muscles, all the way down to where I can see the outline of his cock, half-hard and thickening against the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants.
This is turning him on, too, I realize. He wants to dominate me.
And he likes that I’m not making it easy for him.
But I don’t know anything about how to respond to that. I’ve barely so much as flirted with a man before Tristan. I don’t understand what it is that my body wants, only that I hate him for making me want it.
“ Now , Simone,” he bites out, impatience coloring his tone, and I grit my teeth, staring at him.
“Make me,” I fire back, and a slow smile spreads across his lips.
“Gladly.”
In two strides, he's in front of me, and before I can react, his hands are on my waist, lifting me effortlessly and tossing me over his broad shoulder. I start to struggle instantly, kneeing at his stomach and hitting his back with my fists, but it’s like hitting a brick wall.
He doesn’t even bother to comment on my resistance.
“Put me down!” I spit out. He ignores me completely, depositing me in front of the bed firmly. He stands behind me, his hand between my shoulder blades.
"Bend over," he commands again, his voice low and dangerous.
I shake my head frantically. "No. I won't?—"
But before I can finish the sentence, his hand pushes me forward, down onto the mattress. I try to straighten up, but his hand holds me down, keeping me firmly in place.
"Tristan, stop—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat when I feel his fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts.
"You chose this, Simone," he says, his voice rough, his accent thickening as he speaks. I can hear the desire in it, how much this is affecting him, and it makes me furious at the same time that I feel that heat blooming through my core. "You could have chosen differently, but you didn't."
“What? Chosen to suck you off in your office?” I spit out, twisting under the pressure of his hand.
“You could have chosen to pleasure your husband instead of being punished by him,” he growls, his voice gravelly with lust. “Trust me, Simone. I’ll enjoy this nearly as much as I would have enjoyed your mouth around my cock.”
He pulls my shorts and my panties down to my knees in one swift motion, and I gasp, my face burning with humiliation as the cool air hits my exposed skin. I hear his low hum of approval, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, knowing he can see everything.
Including the glistening arousal between my thighs, letting him know that my body doesn’t hate this nearly as much as my mouth says I do.
I clench my teeth, refusing to say a word, refusing to beg. I’m my father’s daughter, I tell myself, my jaw tight as I wait to find out what he’ll do next. I was the Russo princess. The jewel of this household. This man stole me, and I’m not going to let him break me.
“So stubborn.” Tristan smooths his hand over the curve of one side of my ass, and it takes effort not to flinch.
The gentleness of the initial touch startles me—I expected a harsh strike, but his palm slides over my smooth skin, as if he’s acquainting himself with my curves.
“I can’t wait to fuck this tight pussy again, célie .
But from the way you’ve behaved, I don’t think you deserve it. ”
He pulls his hand back and I tense, knowing what's coming.
“You’re going to need to earn my cock, Simone,” he growls. “Between your lips, and then between your legs. You’ve been a bad girl. A naughty bride. And you need. To. Learn. Your. Place.”