27
27
BITTER HONEYMOON
I had taken an inordinate amount of time to dress for dinner, alternately sipping from my glass of champagne and swiping subdued tufts of powder onto my eyelids. Mood music was playing softly in the background—some kind of haunting opera-like music that only added to the foreigness of the moment.
I added another unnecessary layer of thick mascara, even going so far as to outline my lips, really enhancing my features as I’d been taught to do. This was the kind of look I knew Ranger preferred on me when we went out. It felt like a mask. Whore face. I blinked at the mental admission.
For that’s what I was essentially doing—whoring myself out to save my sorry hide. And to protect my brother’s unknown future. A noble whore then. Or a selfish, scared girl, who was still playing in the wrong league. I needed a coach, someone to steer me through the ins and outs of the pros and help me avoid the pitfalls.
I was still numb, reeling from my husband’s admission to his best man. I was to be his breeder. In exchange he was to be my protector. A business arrangement he knew I’d never agree to, so he tricked me into it. And he’d still been trying to play me all day. Now it was time for me to play my part. I took another glug of bubbly and refilled the glass from the bottle I’d pilfered from the sub-zero fridge downstairs.
And here I thought my titles would stop at gifted, elite cadet, and Mrs. Nealson. Nope. Pregnant teenager was next up on the roster. If my husband had his way. A freaking PT?
No way. Not on my watch. Not ever. I’d squirreled the pink circular disk away in my suitcase and tumbled over to dig it out now. A hysterical giggle floated up my throat with the champagne bubbles. I actually was a drug smuggler. I popped the Sunday pill, feeling unholy on so many levels.
After swallowing it down with some stolen champagne, I inhaled deeply through my nose. What did I expect? A lifetime of hearts and flowers from Ranger ? I plucked a particularly delectable blood-red rose and crushed it between my fingers. I must’ve been out of my mind. At least now I was dealing in reality. That was the only way to stay sane in this world. No more dreams of brave rescues by dashing cadets for me. That way when he went off on a “mission” like today, or decided to discard me like yesterday’s leftovers, after he’d knocked me up, I’d be expecting it. Unsurprised and already accepting that thorns would be the only thing to survive, after the last wilting petal of our budding romance had drooped over dead.
The cloying smell of these symbols of love was choking me. I moved to the window to feel the balmy air on my face, deep breathing it in. He was already down there in the courtyard. Waiting for me with a short glass of whisky in his hand, and a shorter amount of patience. He was, like me, taking in the breathtaking view of the ocean surrounded by mountains surrounded by darkening skies the color of lust.
I just realized I’d felt more hunted than courted. And my husband was a man who shot where he aimed. And I was his target tonight. He glanced at his watch, passed ready to get this show on the road. My husband was an impatient man. Determined always to get what he wanted. He and Mikey shared that particular genetic quirk. Instead of bending to the will of life, as I had, he was going to be unyielding, life melding around his own forged mold.
His methods were working for him.
I leisurely dried my hair, brushing it until it shone like the shimmering night sea. I was almost ready. A sneer lifted my painted lips when I reached for my preselected garment. My husband was also a die-hard control freak. The silky dress hanging from the back of the bathroom door was created to look like lingerie. I slipped it over my head, where it softly clung to my curves in the manner he always liked. My dark hair and newly acquired tan set off the white perfectly. I drew in a breath. I’d never been with anyone else, so I guess it was only fitting I wear white on my honeymoon night.
Could. Not. Think. About. Him.
The mood music suddenly went mute. I’d better go then. I’d already rattled the lion’s cage enough today. The silver sling back heels waiting for me in the closet seemed silly dining al fresco, at a private home overlooking the beach. So I barefooted it down tiled hallway to the open doors leading to the veranda. White gauzy curtains billowed out in the wind, revealing the last slivers of purple sky being colored over by night. I stepped outside onto the landing leading to the pool-lit courtyard. There I paused dramatically at the foot of the stairs, allowing Ranger his moment to take in his latest acquisition.
Our eyes met. His were unreadable as usual, but it could’ve just been the distance or dusky twilight. He smiled encouragingly, and I proceeded down the stairs.
Someone—probably Esmeralda—had thoughtfully placed paper bags with heart-shaped cutouts on each step and onward, leading the way to our secluded table in the gazebo. They were romantically aglow with flameless votives and held down with sand against the sea breeze. Music was playing again. Only this time, the mood music was overtly sexual. Some kind of music a player would have on his playlist to use for that “special third date.”
My throat felt tight. I honestly didn’t know how I was going to choke down dinner. It would have to be a liquid diet tonight.
I’d made my way wordlessly to the table, set beautifully with white linens and turquoise chargers with darling silver starfish ringing our aqua napkins. A glowing glass hurricane filled with shells provided flattering light, and an exotic flame-colored flower blossomed between the two chairs. The amount of staging that went into this did not escape my notice.
Ranger wordlessly held my chair out for me, and I slipped into my seat while he slipped a kiss—a nip really—onto my exposed shoulder.
“You look particularly ravishing tonight,” he said, in a low tone that bordered on husky.
“Thank you.” I didn’t look at him; I couldn’t. My chest felt too tight. I remembered a note, slipped to me in class, saying the same thing. It seemed like yesterday; it seemed like a lifetime ago.
This lackluster response prompted a long sigh from deep within his chest. He passed behind my chair and lightly rubbed at my tense shoulders. “You know, Connelly . . .”
I noticed he reverted back to my original surname. The teasing banter sprinkled with Mrs. Nealson or Wifey or Shorty was long gone. It’d been a long afternoon of strained silence.
“. . . I expected a fair amount of nerves from you on your honeymoon night, but this is ridiculous. This martyr-like attitude is starting to piss me off, frankly.”
So we would begin with a lover’s quarrel. It was a fitting way for us to start this madness.
He managed to stalk the three steps over to his chair, where he sank down, wrenching the artfully-folded napkin from its starfish ring. He snapped it in the air and threw it onto his lap. “Oye!” A loud, piercing whistle. I wondered if sharp, quick whistles was another of the “twenty-four cores.” “Estamos listos,” he declared.
We are not ready, I mentally corrected.
An unobtrusive waiter bustled out with bowls of chilled gazpacho. A fresh bread basket was placed on the table next to the shell-shaped pats of butter. A festive pop, with a corresponding mustached smile, and the well-meaning waiter ceremoniously poured bubbly for me (number three). Ranger waved it off and waggled his squat glass at him. An accommodating nod and a hustle procured the right brand of liquor. After which, the harried waiter offered up “buen probecho” with good humor, but it didn’t go with the mood at the table. A bad pairing, like peaking duck and chocolate milk.
And voila . . . we were left alone.
The stares my husband was shooting me across the table were colder than our soup, which was delicious despite my lack of appetite. After a few angry slurps he dropped his spoon with a clatter. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I took another sip of soup. Even this was silent. After a solo, drawn out stare down, I finally peered back at him forlornly. I set my own spoon down, in the correct manner in which I’d been taught, and dabbed at my lips with my napkin.
He cursed and raked his hands through his hair. I just stared impassively at him, noticing how exceptionally handsome—devilishly so—he looked in his black linen shirt. He barked a laugh at the moon—a full one, of course. I wondered what favors he had to call up from the underworld to conjure that one.
“So this is it?” he demanded. “This is the way in which you choose to spend our honeymoon?”
I blinked a couple of times and took another glug of champagne. Obliterated was the way I wanted to spend my honeymoon.
The earnest waiter coming back with our fresh grouper saved me from having to answer. A couple of quiet bites into the buttery fish, and Ranger decided to bait me again.
“Well, you’re not getting out of it, so you may as well buck it up.” Half his face formed into a smirk. “Pardon the pun.”
I tried not to but I blanched at the mental image of an angry Ranger coming at me that way. Then I choked on the small bite of bread I’d recently been nibbling on. Oh man . I feared I’d gone too far. He could very well make this a very unpleasant experience for me. A flashback to the whipping I’d endured at the hands of a mad man had me lifting my champagne glass again.
I thought back to those terrible times with Ranger and his barely pent-up rage, and my hand trembled. Have I been chipping at an unstable wall the monster was encased in for the last couple of days ?
A full-on smirk wiped away half his handsomeness. He’d finally gotten a reaction out of me. Funny how we’d found our way back to old patterns. Maybe we were more comfortable with each other this way?
After a few more nibbles and drawn-out silences, our hapless waiter marched out with a covered dish and set it upon a pop-up stand. This was to be the climatic show for the newlyweds. The cherries jubilee was ignited with a proud grin and a dramatic flourish. My throat felt full. This was a dessert I’d mentioned I’d always wanted to try. The first wisp of confusion unsettled me. Ranger had been trying, I’d give him that. To be charming. To make it special for me. Two weeks ago, and I might’ve been over that full moon. But I’d heard his dismissive words and sneering attitude towards our holy matrimony. This was his “brother-from-another-mother” he’d been talking to. So treacherous, so belittling, so heart-breaking to hear.
I’d actually been falling for that handsome brute, wearing a platinum band on his fourth finger—placed there by me. I glanced at my own diamond stunner and thought of the chain of events that took place to put it there.
Surreal, that’s what this is.
I thought of our first encounter: that sixth-grade playground, when he’d hurled a football at my chest. Had he planned to continue his father’s quest for a gifted Nealson even then? And the next time I saw him at Norma’s Diner. I could never have imagined my future self, telling that shy waitress: You see that guy over there? No, not the one with the baseball cap that takes your breath away. The other one. Yeah, the one who looks like Superman without the cape. The one who’s glaring at you like you intentionally ran over his foot in the parking lot. Well, he’s the one you’re going to be spending your honeymoon with, at the ex-president of Mexico’s house, in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. In a couple of years.
I gazed out at the dark expanse of ocean, tumbling and crashing onto the deserted beach. My thoughts wandered again to where Baseball Cap could possibly be. Out floating on some boat with some babe probably. Not sitting across from me.
Ranger intercepted my thoughts with an aggravated throat noise. “Aren’t you at least going to try the dessert? Pedro went to a lot of trouble tonight . . . it’d be rude.”
I complied immediately, taking one single bite before placing my spoon upside down on the plate. It tasted like love. The cherries popping in my mouth, the sweet creamy texture of the ice cream melting together with the heated sweet. Pedro—Pete. I winced. The sweet taste in my mouth turned sour, so I swallowed it down with some more champagne. I noticed Ranger hadn’t touched his wine, preferring his hard liquor tonight.
“Oye, Pedro,” he called. “Terminado.”
Take the rest of the night and morning off, I mentally translated his Spanish. So this was it. The finale . . . the climax was here. (Pardon my pun.) I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle my giggle. The buzz in my head turned up. I scooched my chair back rudely.
His eyes lit to mine. “How much of that have you had?”
I counted off on my fingers, then paused dramatically, closing one eye like I’d given up. “Not enough to make me talk,” I answered, thinking myself quite clever.
Pedro scurrying back to remove our plates saved me from having a hole burned in my face from my husband’s glare.
“Ahora mismo,” Ranger ordered, and poor Pedro salió-ed off the romantic gazebo, fled down the candlelit path, and then banged out the door a couple of minutes later, with his earnest wife in tow. The throttle of his engine could be heard moments later, winding back down the mountain.
We were alone at last.
Ranger stared at me with those intense eyes, until I shifted in my seat and averted my gaze to the ocean I couldn’t quite see. I hated that I still couldn’t look him in the eye for more than a second or two at a time. He abruptly stood up and came around, offering his hand to me. Panic and dread darted in and out of my chest. I gulped. Honest to God. I couldn’t pry my butt off that chair—it’s like it was super-glued on.
His lips formed a hard line before he pulled me up by the arm. I instantly felt myself even cleverer for not wearing heels tonight because I didn’t stumble . . . until he let go. Then I fell back into my chair. He made the same aggravated throat noise from earlier and yanked me back up again. “Are you drunk?”
I giggled and mumbled out my rendition of “candy’s dandy, but liquor’s quicker.” But I think I mangled it. Ranger looked the opposite of amused. He had me by the arm, but he may as well have had me by the ear—the tone was the same. We were moving past the pool and headed for the stairs, when I thought myself clever enough to hatch a plan.
“Heeey!” I slurred all over him. “Why don’ we go skinny dippin’? I’ve never swam in a pool at night. I tried not to look at that garish statue of Poseidon and the traumatized mermaid, mocking me.
“I think you’ve done quite enough swimming for today,” he replied.
“Says who?”
“Says your husband.”
“So, does that mean you get to boss me around doubley?” Well, that didn’t sound quite right.
He just kept marching me up the stairs. All of a sudden, the roles were reversed—I was the talker and he was the mute.
“Heeey!” I protested this marshalling me to my execution. I was gonna walk by myself, doggonit. “Lemme go!”
Ranger surprised me by complying, and I stumbled backwards. He blew an exaggerated sigh. “I can’t believe you’re drunk again tonight.”
“Well, seein’s believin’,” I chirped his earlier words, with a lot of wild gestures that served no purpose but to make me look like a wounded seagull.
He shook his head. “Come on.” The propelling forward commenced again.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I protested again. “I’m really thirsty. Can I please have a drink of water?” This sounded like a ploy my five-year-old self would have employed to avoid bedtime.
It worked then and it worked now, because I found myself in the dark kitchen among the dirty dishes, war-battled survivors in our disastrous dinner. He didn’t bother turning on the light, instead marching me straight to the same refrigerator I’d nicked the champagne from. He plucked out a bottle, and I proceeded to slowly sip on some minty water while trying to make idle chitchat with a mute man. It’s like all the words I’d withheld for the last forty-eight hours were all scrambling to get out at the same time.
“You have ten seconds to drink,” he informed me.
“One.” I took a gulp. “Two.” I took another gulp. He didn’t let me get to three before snatching it out of my hand and hurling it in the sink, where it exploded. “Hey!—Whadjado that for?”
Needless to say, he didn’t answer me. He did shackle my wrist though and began hauling me out of the dark kitchen and up the stairs, and down the hall, snapping off lights as we went, until we were standing in front of the master suite. That’s where I decided to put the brakes on.
“No! Ranger, wait!”
“I’m done waiting, Kathryn Nealson,” he replied meaningfully.
Huh? Who’s that? That scared me even more, the not knowing who I was, where I was, and how I got there feeling. I began plowing at the tile with my feet.
Ranger let out a weary sigh. “If this is your way of getting me to carry you over the threshold, all you had to do was ask.” That said, he hoisted me up and threw me over his shoulder, Ranger style.
“No! Stop! Put me down!” I shrieked, beating on his back in panicked frustration. Like usual, it didn’t seem to make a dent.
He hauled me in, kicking the door behind us. He even went so far as to lock it before depositing me onto the bed, where I immediately sprang back up like a cat. He caught me around my knees, knocking me back down and pinning me there with his arm. I continued my struggle to get up and even tried slipping under his arm. He solved that by crawling up on me and pinning my arms down. He leaned his face over my heaving one. His expression was one of irritation mixed with humor. He peered into my eyes for a long moment. “It’s time, Katie-Kat . . . past time some might say.”
This statement sobered me up some. I swallowed and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. The fight drained out of me, resignation taking its place. “Can I just please go to the bathroom first?”
This final request produced a growl and a sigh, but I read the capitulation in his eyes. “If you’re not out in two minutes, I’m knocking down the door.”
I swallowed the lump that formed at these words. It wasn’t fear. It was the memory of Pete threatening the same thing—only he’d given me ten and had been a lot less put out with me. I nodded at him. He lifted himself off me and moved to the balcony, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. This simple, banal movement sent roller coaster riding butterflies swirling around my stomach.
I scrambled to the bathroom, locking the door, despite the warning. I really did have to go—I’d had about four-ish glasses of champagne in the last couple of hours. After I relieved myself, I washed myself down there with a washcloth. For what reason? I wasn’t sure. I had a mad urge to shower again, but knew he’d be infuriated. And I knew I didn’t want to face a furious Ranger in the bedroom. I hurriedly brushed my teeth, forgoing the flossing in the interest of saving time.
I really was already out of time, but he hadn’t kicked in the door, so I thought I’d push my luck and wash the makeup off my face. Turned out . . . I didn’t want to spend my honeymoon looking like a whore, after all. So I washed my face and finished rubbing the last traces of it off with a white towel, leaving dirty streaks. At least I felt better. I looked better too—a little younger, more innocent maybe. I wondered if I could still use that adjective in relation to me in the morning.
I drew in a breath and braved creaking open the door to face him, reclining in bed shirtless and presumably pantless. I couldn’t even think about that other garment missing, or else I’d never make my feet move.
“Come here,” he urged, in a low voice that had me feeling strange things along that lower stomach region, hip bone to hip bone.
I swallowed and advanced forward, walking as if in a trance to find the end of the bed. He beckoned me closer. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite . . . unless you want me to.”
This brought a sliver of a smile to my lips, which brought the dimple-starter-kit to his face, which brought a wave of intense feelings flowing into my chest. I must’ve been taking too long, because he suddenly growled and dove for me. I yelped like a bear was after me but needn’t have worried; he was just after a bear hug.
I found myself enveloped by familiar, strong arms that felt distinctly unfamiliar while holding me in bed naked. He pulled me back into his chest, so that I was facing outward toward the balcony. The strap of my dress had slipped off during the raucous, so he started there by kissing my shoulder. He pulled the hair off my neck and kissed there too, a lingering kiss I felt zing all the way . . . down there.
As Ranger worked his magic, I began to relax in his arms. The alcohol buzz lent an almost dream like state to the whole experience. The other strap went down, aided and abetted by his hand. A knot of apprehension followed the pleasurable sensation of sliding silk, because my lingerie dress had slipped past the point of no return.
I was gazing out the open doors, staring at the dark night brightened by the light of a brilliant moon. This, while he kissed and nipped at my neck and caressed his hands up and down my arms, creating alternate spasms of pleasure and shivers. It was a smart play by him, this not facing him yet. He was a smooth operator, this husband of mine. Not only that, but he was well versed in the female body. He already had me at the point I didn’t want him to stop, not that I would admit that to him.
His warm hands slid into the indentions at my sides then back up to cup my breasts. A low moan escaped my throat before I could shut it down. He brushed his thumbs across my nipples, in the same manner he did earlier, and I sucked in balmy air the same way. More swirling sensations were going on in my belly, and heading south. At this point, he took the time to turn me around to face him. We stared at each other for a brief moment. I recognized that look in his eye: desire. I’d seen it a hundred times, if I’m being honest. But was there room for something more? I couldn’t tell because he closed them against me, before bringing his lips to mine. The kiss started by gentle movements back and forth against my lips, then more urgently in a passionate kiss that had my breath quickening to match his.
He laid me out on the bed, returning his gaze to mine. I closed the shutters to my soul, and felt his thumb trace my lips before moving along my jaw line. Impatient, and not knowing how or what to ask for, I brushed my hand over the coarseness of his hair. He leaned down and kissed me again. Mmmmmm . I murmured approvingly. That had been exactly what I’d wanted. And the feeling of his hairy chest on my naked breasts while we kissed was something that stirred up a lot of feelings all around. Soon, my breasts weren’t alone in their nakedness, because he divested me of my dress, slipping it down my thighs, knees, and calves before depositing it onto the floor.
He hovered over me now, taking my reactions in. And, of course, I could feel his own reaction, like an arrow pointing to a single goal. My face caught fire, and I closed my eyes against him again. Slowly, he ran his hand across the curve of my breast down the plains of my stomach and over the curve of my hip, where he grasped my butt, hitching me to him. I trembled beneath him, a bundle of nerves, the good kind and the bad. He caressed my face, and I flicked open my eyes to find a lazy smile upon his mouth. He slowly lowered his face and kissed me sweetly before parting my lips in the kind of kiss that elicited impatient throaty noises from my treacherous body.
I even lifted my arms to grasp him around his broad back, pulling him closer and urging him on. I felt the smile on his lips as we kissed, and him lower himself onto me. I sighed with pleasure, my body heating up faster than my face now. I could feel his own need, pushing against me— a constant reminder of where we were heading. He was being patient for once. And for once it didn’t scare me. It felt good.
He moved his mouth to my throat and blazed a trail to my breast, where he drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked before lightly nipping. A strangled cry escaped my throat, while I tried to turn off my mind that this was the same guy who had tricked me and laughed about it behind my back. The one who had hated me, the one who had set out to ruin my life, the one who was using me for his own selfish gain.
He moved his mouth back to mine, parting my lips to plunder and explore while he ground into me. And, oh my gosh, did I feel it! Another embarrassing moan escaped me. Why couldn’t I just be quiet like the statue I’d planned to be? Why is he making it so good for me, if all he wanted was to shoot his sperm up my uterus?
His clever mouth roved to my stomach, kissing around, until I was writhing beneath him. He sucked on a spot below my hipbone that elicited a pleasure so stabbing that I gasped and grabbed a handful of his hair. I swear I felt as swollen as him down there . I was positively aching for it—past the point of aching. Had he planned this whole honeymoon to coincide with the time in my cycle when I’d most likely get pregnant?
I felt like the melting ice from the champagne bucket just got dumped over me. A stabbing pain in my heart overshot the good times going on south of the border. I stiffened like a corpse.
If Ranger made note of my sudden lack of response to his hard work, I couldn’t tell. It didn’t deter him, that’s for sure. He was heavy and hot, his lusty need for me so tangible it was like a third identity. He continued with his onslaught, placing a breathy kiss on my other lips before peeling off my white lace G-string. Now the only thing between us was my gold cross. He took a moment to stare at my body. Goosebumps began to erupt. I felt cold and exposed, wanting to move under the covers to hide my shame.
How could I be so easily be manipulated? I was nothing more to him than a vessel to fill up with his seed.
He began caressing and warming me, despite my will not to thaw. I was physically lifted and rearranged, a comforter thrown over me, and I was comforted. He crawled in on top of me and began kissing me again, pinning me beneath his heated, hard body. It’s kind of hard to keep a hard heart against someone who was intimately kissing you, but I was trying. I was beginning to want again, what the core of me was yearning for. He was masterful, but I wasn’t going to let him know he had me. No more sighs and gasps, no more urging, no more moans of pleasure would be forthcoming.
I wondered why he didn’t he simply arrange a mixing of our body fluids in the lab? Oh right. He wanted to own me, use me, and destroy me like he had from the very beginning. This must all be part of the revenge portion of his plan—the evening of the score.
After more masterful tuning, he slid his hand down and slowly dipped a finger into me—not in a jutting way, more like up and under, finding a pad of pleasure I never knew existed. My breath hitched in my throat, my hips involuntarily arching up to meet his hand. I’m not gonna lie—he found me soaking wet. This elicited a self-satisfied smile to his mouth.
The urge to move against his finger was overpowering, but I resisted. He knew this and pressed his advantage, pressing up on the pad and in a little farther until I squirmed with pleasure. I felt my face flush and my body reheat. Still, I remained mute and unmoving as possible. He withdrew his finger a little as though punishment for my powers of resistance. My pelvis pushed against him, again, quite involuntarily by me.
He continued his teasing, moving his finger and stopping until I urged him on with my hips. He was leaning over me, searching my face for reaction. I closed my eyes against him. He brushed a thumb over my lips before pressing it into my mouth slightly. I had an urge to bite the padded finger, but I was lost, uncertain, confused.
“Tell me you want me,” he growled, “and I’ll give you what you want.”
More games? My eyes flashed open to find him smirking at me. The same thumb he’d pressed into my mouth he lazily swirled around my nipple, shooting more thrilling sensations to my nether regions. My eyes closed against his will. I would never admit this to him. I could barely admit this to myself. I hated my traitor body.
He pressed his lips to mine. “Tell me,” he breathed, parting my legs with his knee.
I shook my head even as I was urging him to continue. He obliged by working his finger inside again, working his magic. “No,” I panted. Another denial.
“Just say it,” he ordered, arranging himself so that his throbbing member was butting against me. “And I’ll give you what you want.” He slowly began urging the tip in.
I sucked in a breath, my stomach swirling. My hips arched, as if of their own volition. “No,” I panted, my breaths heavy and hot on his arm. “I don’t.” And to prove myself, I tried backing away, but he held me in place, pinning my arms above my head to stare into my eyes. Reading me . It was a lie, and we both knew it, but it seemed to piss him off in a way nothing else had tonight. He gripped my head and forced me to look at him. Defiance flashed from my eyes, along with a few bitter tears.
Why is he making me say it? I hated his games. “I hate you!” spilled from my lips in a rush.
Fury darkened his face—the monster unleashed. “Fine.” His hitherto gentle fingers bit into my shoulder. “Maybe I should try something different, since these methods don’t seem to be working.”
I shook my head, fear clawing at my throat.
He fastened his mouth to mine and shoved into me. I felt a sharp stab of pain but didn’t redouble my efforts to get free, taking my licks like the martyr he accused me of being. His face was as hard and determined as another part of his anatomy as he thrust again. And I was determined not to cry out from the unexpected shaft entering so rudely, the foreign fullness coming all at once. After that first full thrust, a deep satisfied groan pushed from his lungs, followed by a rush of pleasure infusing his face with color. “You want it like this instead?” he ripped out between thrusts.
A plea for mercy yelped out of me, but it was it was too late. I had pushed him too far. Isn’t this what I wanted? Brutal reality. Not the contrived seduction scene he’d mastered back in elite training.
I was as angry at him as he was at me. He was showing no tenderness now, taking his anger out on me. A little shocked cry escaped me, but he didn’t stop or lessen the force of his thrusts, punishing me for my defiance. I clawed at his back, digging my fingernails into the hot, taut skin. Like spurring on a bucking bronco, my scratching only incited him further. He pushed rougher and deeper into me, so that I finally cried out, my hurt and frustration coming out as a choked sob.
Why had I done this? He’d been playing nice. I’d been longing for it. Why couldn’t I just go with it? Because I hated to be made a fool of. I thought again of my Connelly pride—it had, once again, led to my downfall.
I wanted him to want me for me, not for my giftedness. For a wife, not an incubator for his biologically enhanced progeny. I wanted hearts and flowers. I decided, too late, I wouldn’t settle for less.
“I hate you,” I choked out, willing myself to believe it.
“You’re mine,” he guttered, while branding me from the inside. He finally gave a last great thrust that had me crying out again, even as he cried out in release. I felt his seed shoot inside me before he came to a shuttering halt. He stopped, let out a low groan, and slumped over me, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered in my ear, as if the moment couldn’t be more sacrilegious.
After a few more moments of feeling his heart pound into my breast, he came around. He slipped out of me, rolled off and sat up, running his hand through his hair. As if by tacit understanding of a shared disaster, neither one of us looked at the other. I pulled the covers over my nakedness, clutching them to me as though I’d awakened from a nightmare. There was no one to turn to for comfort. And now I had to sleep in the same bed as the monster, who got up wordlessly and padded to the bathroom.
I was grateful for the moment to get my bearings. It was partly my fault; I’d unleashed the beast. I could have just as easily given him what he wanted, saved myself some pain. But I didn’t want him to feel self-satisfied in the knowledge that he’d given me pleasure—my punishment back to him for marrying me for ulterior motives.
Tit for tat.
A small voice pointed out that he’d never claimed he loved me, that I knew going in that this was an arrangement of sorts. But he didn’t make it feel like an arrangement. That’s what hurt so bad when I’d heard his disparaging words. I felt so betrayed. A sob escaped my throat. My God! Could it be I’d fallen in love with two cadets who cared enough about me to want to help, but neither one in the big L ?
My heart hurt worse than that throbbing other part of my anatomy. I hadn’t cried yet, but that was about to change. Miserable tears flowed down my cheeks. I scooted over to the farthest edge of the bed, facing the wall.
I could hear him getting ready for bed, the distant flush of the toilet, water running, teeth brushing, followed by more intimate sounds I was sure I’d become familiar with, since we were moving into family quarters upon our return. In many ways, I was well-suited to living with a man—not a lot of surprises after being the solitary female in a house full of boys.
The door cracked open. I knew he was staring at me, but I was just a forlorn lump in the bed. He let out a long sigh and trudged over to crawl into bed. He didn’t leave me alone, as I clearly wished, reaching out for my frozen form and sliding me over to cradle me into his chest.
He had nothing to say to me; I had nothing to say to him. Bad behavior was had on both sides. A rhythmic hand stroked along my watery eye, over my face and shoulder, down my arm and back again, until I melted into him. I let out a long, shuttering sigh, and fell asleep in the strong arms of my husband.