22. Tristan #2
"You're being ridiculous," she snaps, but the quaver in her voice tells me everything I need to know.
“Spread your legs, Simone.”
She glares at me mulishly. I don’t waver. “Spread your legs. If I have to do it for you, I will spank you before this is over.”
I can see the stubbornness and desire warring on her face. Slowly, her knees move apart, her face still burning as I pull her tank top over her head, leaving her entirely naked and perched on the edge of my desk.
“I should keep you like this,” I murmur. “Displayed for me while I’m in here working, except I’d never get anything done. I’d be hard all fucking day for you.”
Her eyes snap to mine, as if something I said resonated with her. I feel her knees move an inch further apart, see something soften in her body as I reach down, my finger grazing between her legs.
Just as I thought, she’s fucking dripping for me.
“I watched you, Simone. I saw how you touched yourself here." I slide my fingers up through her folds, to her swollen clit, mimicking her own touch earlier. “I saw what you wanted.”
"This is insane," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away. This is progress , I can’t help but think. This is Simone admitting that she wants me, even if she’s not saying it with words.
"This is necessary. You're mine, whether you wanted to be or not. Your pleasure is mine. Your body is mine. And I'll be damned if I let some security guard get off watching what belongs to me."
Something flickers in her eyes at my words, something that looks almost like satisfaction. She likes it when I claim her, when I make it clear that she's mine. She’d never say it aloud, but she wants to be desired. To be needed.
And fuck if I’m not starting to need her in more ways than just to get off.
I reach down, sliding two fingers into her as I keep working her clit.
I feel her clench around me instantly, feel her flutter, and a moan spills from her lips, making my cock throb.
“Good girl,” I groan, the words coming out without my meaning for them to, and I see her pulse quicken in her throat.
This was supposed to be a punishment. I was going to draw it out, make her beg for her orgasm, possibly even deny it to her.
Remind her that she comes at my pleasure, not hers.
But right now, her pleasure feels like mine.
Right now, I don’t want to fight her, don’t want to hurt her, don’t want to deny her.
I don’t want anything but to see my wife come apart for me, to hear my name on her lips again as she comes on my fingers.
I'm supposed to be showing her who's in control here.
Instead, I'm getting lost in the way she feels, the scent of her arousal, the beauty of her face flushed and taut with pleasure.
I thrust my fingers deeper, mimicking the way she touched herself still, stroking her clit faster as Simone lets out another helpless moan.
I want to make her feel good. I want to make her need me . I want her to realize that we don’t have to fight each other, don’t have to hurt each other. That this could be so fucking good if we could get past how it all began, and look forward to what it could be.
She’s close. I can feel it, and the driving need to make her come spurs me on, makes me forget to mimic the video the way I planned, to remind her that only I can touch her this way. All I want is to see her pleasure, to hear it, to know that it’s because of me.
I know this is dangerous—this level of need, this rush of feeling—it's exactly what I’ve avoided all my life.
But watching her fall apart under my hands, feeling her body respond to me, realizing she’s stopped fighting me and is giving in to what I can do to her—it’s too much. I can’t fight it, either.
I love touching her. I love the way she responds to me, the way her pleasure has always been mine, long before she’s been willing to give in to it. I love the power I have over her body, but more than that, I love the power she has over mine.
The realization scares the hell out of me.
I feel her start to come on my fingers, feel her tremble the instant before the explosion hits her, see her back arch and her lips part as a helpless moan spills from them. I feel her buck against my hand, feel wetness flood over my fingers, and I’ve never been so hard in my entire life.
She feels like fucking heaven. Watching her come is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I stare at her as she comes apart, gasping, writhing, and then—before she can fully come down from her orgasm—I'm lifting her, turning her around, bending her over the desk.
I need to regain control, need to remind both of us who's in charge here. I need to put some distance between us, to prove to myself that this is just physical, just sex, just two people taking what they need from each other.
That she’s nothing more than a means to an end, as she once accused me of making her. That I’m just seeking my own pleasure now, the way I just gave her hers.
I flick open my belt and yank down my zipper, freeing my cock with one quick motion as I line myself up and thrust into her. A groan comes from between my clenched teeth as I sink into her wet, velvet heat, the sensation of her against my bare cock almost painful with how exquisite it is.
Nothing has ever felt so good. I could fuck her for hours, and at the same time, I want to come in her right this second, fill her up until she’s dripping with me.
She drives me insane, makes me want to never leave her and get the fuck away from her all at once, makes me crave her and fear what she does to me at the same time.
I draw out to the tip and then slam into her again, fucking her hard and fast, trying to reestablish control. But it’s shattered, my mind swimming with how much I need her, how I’d never fucking recover if I never got to be inside her again.
I’m obsessed with my wife. Addicted to the feeling of being in her. That’s what it is—that’s all it is, and while that’s a problem in and of itself, I cling to it, because the alternative is something so much more than I ever planned to allow myself.
I can’t last long. I feel her clench and flutter around me, hear her moans as she starts to come on my cock, and it drives me past the point of no return.
I clutch her shoulder with one hand, thrusting hard into her as I stiffen and throb, and a groan of pleasure tears past my lips as I fill her with spurt after spurt of my cum.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I’m breathing hard and so is she, my cock still pulsing with the aftershocks of my climax, and I let out a hiss of breath as I slide free of her. I glance down, seeing my cum pearling at her entrance, and my cock twitches all over again.
Simone straightens, slowly, her thighs pressed together as she reaches for her clothes.
“Is that all?” She looks at me, her chin tipped up, and I can’t begin to figure out what she’s thinking. She doesn’t look angry, but her voice has that haughty note in it that I recognize so well, a sound that seems to have Pavloved me into getting half-hard instantly.
I’m tempted to bend her back over the desk and remind her all over again of who she belongs to. But instead, I reach up, gripping her chin between two fingers as I meet her gaze, a slow smirk on my lips.
“Not even close,” I promise her, just before I let her go.
—
I work until late, going over documents for business deals, answering texts from Konstantin and my father, trying not to spiral over the situation with Sal.
At one point, I pull up the video of Simone again, stroking myself to a quick and messy orgasm as I watch her make herself come again, my arousal barely ebbed even after I come.
When I finally make my way upstairs, the house is quiet, everyone asleep.
I pause outside Simone's door, listening for any sound from within. But there's nothing. She's probably asleep, exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the day.
We still have separate bedrooms. The thought bothers me more than it should. After everything that's happened between us, after the way she responded to me tonight, the physical distance feels wrong.
But it’s for the best. I wanted to keep her in my bed when we were first married, but now all I can think is that putting some space between us is likely the right thing to do. I’m feeling things for her that I shouldn’t, things that could complicate our marriage far beyond what it already is.
Mafia marriages aren’t about love. I’ve never wanted or expected to love a woman, least of all my wife. But the feeling I had today when I thought something might have happened to Simone, the way I felt when I pushed her toward her orgasm on my desk…
I’m starting to feel something for her, and I’m afraid to put a name to it. Afraid to do anything other than shove it down into a deep, dark place where it can wither and die, because I wouldn’t begin to know how to nurture it.
I sleep fitfully, dreams of Simone keeping me from sleeping too soundly and causing me to wake up rock-hard and aching for her again. I reach down to give myself the release that I need, but I don’t want that.
I want my wife.
I throw the covers back, stalking out of my bedroom and down the hall to hers, shirtless and in only my sleep pants, slung low on my hips and tented with my erection. I barge into her room without knocking, pausing when I see her bed unmade and empty.
The light is on under the bathroom door. I stride toward it, fully intending to interrupt her no matter what she’s doing, only to hear the sound of someone very obviously being sick.
My arousal deflates in an instant, replaced by worry. “Simone?” I call out, only to hear the sound of more retching.
I shove the bathroom door open, stepping inside to see her bent over the toilet, her hair caught back in one hand. She looks up with alarm, embarrassment coloring her features, but I only notice that for a second before I see something else.
There’s something on the counter. Something that I recognize the instant I see it, my stomach dropping to my toes.
A white plastic stick with a small window, two pink lines clear and bright in the center of it.
My wife is pregnant.