17. Rowan
17
ROWAN
S he wants to lie. I can see it in her face. She swallows hard, her throat moving, and it takes everything in me not to start to fuck her again. I could be hard again in a matter of seconds for her, I know that.
And I know I felt her come.
To her credit, she doesn’t lie. She doesn’t say anything at all. She just looks up at me calmly, clearly waiting for me to slip out of her so she can go about her night. Instead, I stay where I am for a moment, savoring the feeling of her wet heat wrapped around my softening cock, the feeling of her wetness and mine mingling and soaking my flesh.
I’ve never been inside of a woman bare before, never fucked anyone without a condom. I’ve never come inside a woman without that barrier between us, never felt the exquisite pleasure of that heat sinking into my naked flesh as I fill her with my cum.
It felt so fucking good. Better than I ever imagined. I linger above her, feeling the sensation of myself inside of her, raw and primal and utterly connected with nothing else between us.
I don’t ever want it to fucking end.
I slide out, slowly, and I see the soft exhale of air between her lips. I look down at her swollen, pink pussy, my cock twitching at the sight, and I see my thick white cum pearling between her soft folds. I reach down, sliding my fingers against her flesh as I collect it on my fingertips and push it back inside of her, and Genevieve stiffens, her eyes narrowing as I feel her pussy clench around my fingers.
“Just making sure that we don’t waste a drop,” I murmur, thrusting my fingers slowly inside of her, pushing my cum inside of her as deeply as I can. “Wouldn’t want to have to do this too often, right?”
The look she gives me is murderous. My cock twitches, swelling, and I lean over her again, my gaze meeting hers as I angle my already hardening cock against her dripping entrance. “Actually,” I murmur, my gaze sweeping over her stubbornly set face, down to her plush lips. “I think my cock can do a better job of keeping it all in you better than I ever could, lass.”
There’s no argument she can make when I start to push myself inside of her again, a groan slipping from my lips at the feeling of her tight heat clenching around me for the second time tonight. Tonight is one of the nights when I get to have her, and fucking her again only gets us closer to the goal that we both want.
Her pregnant with my child.
The thought only makes me harder, something primal and feral clicking on in my brain at the thought of her carrying my child, at the thought of making her mine in that way. The fact that she’ll leave afterward doesn’t seem to register while I’m inside of her, thrusting into her tight depths again and again as white-hot pleasure ripples down my spine.
“Come for me again, lass,” I murmur as I sink into her, feeling sweat gather at the base of my neck. It’s taking everything in me not to lean in and kiss her, to touch her breasts, to slide my hands over every inch of her skin. It feels strange for us to only be connected at this one point, my cock gliding in and out of her as if that is somehow less intimate than my touch anywhere else on her body.
“I didn’t—” Her jaw clamps shut as I meet her gaze with a narrow, knowing look. She looks away from me, her lips pressed together, but I can feel her muscles tensing. I can feel her getting closer with each thrust, feel the twitch of her hips, the shudder running through her body. She might pretend she doesn’t care, that she’s detached, that she doesn’t want the pleasure. But she does. And I feel a rush of satisfaction knowing that I made her come despite her best efforts.
Leaning forward, I rest my hips against hers, changing the angle. My pelvis rubs against her clit with each stroke like this, and Genevieve’s eyes snap open, flicking accusingly to mine. “Rowan,” she hisses, but it comes out on a moan as I grind into her, rubbing against her swollen clit. I smirk as I thrust again, and the look she gives me could draw blood.
“I’m only doing what feels good for me, lass,” I murmur innocently. “Don’t you want me to get it over with? The sooner I come in your tight, perfect pussy, the sooner I fill it up, the sooner this can all be?—”
“Fuck you,” she hisses, and her head falls back, her lips pressing tightly together as I feel her start to shudder, her fingers clawing into the blankets. “Fuck?—”
Another orgasm ripples through her, her pussy tightening around my cock, and I can feel that I’m on the edge again, too. I thrust once more, sinking into the hilt as I feel her squeeze around me like wet velvet, and then that pleasure races down my spine, cum spilling from my throbbing cock as I fill her for the second time tonight.
As the orgasm ebbs, I don’t slide out right away. Instead, I reach down, shifting her so that I’m lying behind her, my cock still buried inside. Genevieve lets out a noise of protest, but I grip her hip firmly, holding her in place.
“Just so there’s a better chance?—”
“Sure.” Her voice is flat. “I already know your tricks, Rowan Gallagher.”
“And here we’ve only been married three days.” I look at her, resisting the urge to brush my lips below her ear, to push a piece of hair out of her face. I can feel myself softening inside of her, and I’m loath to let myself slip out. It feels too good, being buried inside of her.
“How long are you fertile?” I murmur, my voice low, and Genevieve sighs, her voice sleepy as she responds.
“Six days.”
My cock twitches. I close my eyes, anticipation surging through me.
The next six days are about to be the best of my entire fucking life, as far as I’m concerned.
—
For the next six days, I fuck her every single night. And every single one of those nights, she doesn’t waver in her commitment to the rules she’s set out. Missionary-style only, just my cock inside of her, no kissing or foreplay. I can’t go down on her, she doesn’t go down on me. I can’t touch her breasts or her clit or any other part of her that I’m dying to stroke or taste—the only way I can touch her is with my cock, buried inside of her as I fuck her like a man dying of thirst who’s only allowed drops of water at a time.
I manage to fuck her at least twice every one of those nights, and she comes every time, though she won’t admit it. She bites down every moan, every gasp of pleasure, and I find myself wishing I could wrench them free. Even at the height of my pleasure, I’m desperate for more—to hear her cry out, to feel her give herself over completely, to make her unravel. I want all of her, and she gives me almost nothing.
And it’s still so fucking good that I can’t remember what sex was like with anyone before her. All I want is her. For those six days, I spend as little time away from the penthouse as possible, fucking her every possible moment that I can get my hands on her. In the morning, in the afternoon, at night, until I should be sated, completely spent with desire. Until I should be satisfied that I’ve gotten what I wanted.
Instead, I only want her more.
There’s so much that I want to do to her—with her—and the strict rules that she’s set down for both me and for herself only make me even more desperate to have more of her.
In the hours in between when I’m inside of her, I try to distract myself with work, with the upcoming meeting that my father wants me to have with the other heads of the families, with anything other than my wife. But she creeps into my every thought, distracting me throughout the day, making me count down the hours and minutes until I have a reason to be back home, back in bed with her, inside of her once again. And, at the same time, I catch myself dreading the end of the sixth day, when I’ll have to wait until next month for us to try again.
Unless it works this month. Unless she gets pregnant, and then ? —
I’m supposed to want that. It’s in the contract, after all, in black and white. If Genevieve isn’t pregnant by the time my father passes away, my inheritance goes to someone else. Not just the leadership of the mafia and the responsibility of running it, which I don’t really want—but also all of the money, including my trust fund, which I do . And while the doctor’s estimate leaves us a solid four or five months, that’s not a guarantee. I shouldn’t want to draw this out.
In fact, I should be bored with her by now. That’s the way it’s gone with every other woman—and no other woman I’ve ever been with has insisted we do it the same way every night, with her on her back and nothing but the most bare-bones form of copulation involved. I should be sick to death of having Genevieve in my bed, ready to knock her up and be done with it—and yet I still feel as if I’m just as hungry for her as I was the night I met her. Like I’m a bottomless pit of need, and nothing that we do can satisfy me.
When I come home on the sixth day, I have every intention of sweeping her upstairs and keeping her there for as long as I can keep getting hard again. Instead, when I walk into the penthouse, I’m greeted by the sound of more than one feminine voice, and the sight of Dahlia perched on the couch in the living room, chattering away with Genevieve.
Frustration wells up in me, though on the surface I’m glad to see that she’s settling in. It’s been easier than I’d thought it would be, actually. She moved her things in without trouble, and she’s had her friends over a handful of times, especially since either Dahlia or Evelyn have been going to her doctor’s appointments with her. I offered to go, but Genevieve emphatically refused, saying it wasn’t part of the agreement.
I stand there in the entryway for a moment, just looking at her. I could get used to this, I think, and it startles me. But it’s true.
I don’t mind being married as much as I thought I would. I don’t mind being married to Genevieve . We still bicker and banter exactly as we did when we met, maybe even a little more, due to living with each other now. But there’s a rhythm to it that I find oddly soothing. A familiarity that seems to salve years of loneliness that I didn’t know I minded until now. I look at her, sitting across from Dahlia and moving her hands in the air as she talks, shaking her head and laughing, and I imagine the day when I come home and she’s not here any longer.
My throat tightens. It won’t even be here , I realize. By then, I will have had to leave this place behind, keeping it only if I want to for… some reason that would be more sentiment than need. I’ll have moved into the estate, taking my father’s place. Genevieve might live there with me for a little while, depending on the timing of her pregnancy and my inheritance. And then…
And then I’ll live in a mansion that feels like a mausoleum to me, with a child running around its halls shepherded by a nanny. Exactly the kind of cold, unfeeling life that I had growing up… and the kind of cold, unfeeling life I’ll have once Genevieve is gone.
I swallow hard, trying to push the aching emptiness that I suddenly feel aside. I’ve spent years carousing around Ireland on my own, with only myself and Rory, and an endless parade of women. My closest friend is a man who works for me. I’ve never had a real relationship, and I’m not in one now. It’s never bothered me before.
Unless…
There’s always the possibility, I think grimly as I look at my wife, that the endless women and expensive drinks, and raucous parties were there to fill that emptiness that I’m only just now acknowledging to myself. But that can’t be it.
If it is, then what the hell am I meant to do about it?
I shake my head, taking a deep breath, and toss my keys down. Genevieve looks over, and she smiles tightly as I walk in. Dahlia sees me too and gives me a small wave.
“I’ll head out,” she says. “I should probably get home, anyway. Alek wants to go out for dinner.”
Genevieve starts to protest, but stops when Dahlia says she has plans. She hugs her friend goodbye and waits until Dahlia is gone before looking at me. “Well?”
“You must want to avoid fucking me, if you were so desperate for your friend to stay.” I try for humor, but my voice is tighter than I mean for it to be. The days after today seem to stretch out in an endless march, day after day, where I’m not allowed to touch my wife. Where I’ll be reminded, constantly, that her goal is for me to never have to touch her again.
A part of me wants to walk out of the room, go to my office, and stay there until after Genevieve is asleep. We’ve fucked countless times over the last six days—if it’s going to happen this month, it probably already will. I could go ahead and resign myself to the upcoming weeks of celibacy and not give Genevieve the satisfaction of once again seeing the plain evidence of how fucking badly I want her.
Instead, I lean down, sweep her into my arms, and carry her upstairs.
We’re both naked in a matter of minutes. I spill her back onto the bed, careful of her leg, and lean over her as I spread them both apart. I’m already rock hard, my cock brushing against my abdomen, throbbing eagerly. Every time I’ve fucked her over the past six days hasn’t been enough. I’m not sure it’s ever going to be enough.
I press the head of my cock against her, feeling how wet she is. She’s always wet for me. No matter how silent she tries to be during sex, no matter that we’ve never kissed since the wedding or that she never touches me, she’s always dripping when the most intimate part of me touches the most intimate part of her.
She can lie to me and to herself all she wants, but her body can’t. She wants me. And I’m desperate to make her admit it, even just once.
Maybe that would do it, I think as I thrust into her, groaning with pleasure as her tight heat wraps around me. Maybe if she admitted it, I’d be satisfied. I’d be bored after that.
It can’t be that she’s the one woman I’ll never get bored of. It can’t be that I’m falling for her, slowly, and that I have been ever since I met her that first night at the party. That’s not possible.
I won’t let it be possible. I’ve spent my whole life not allowing myself to be broken by the lack of love in my life, not allowing myself to want it. If I let myself feel that for her, when she’s going to walk away…
I won’t do it.
I thrust into her, hard, angling against her so that she can’t help but come, squeezing my cock in a vise grip that sends me over the edge into my first orgasm. I fill her with my cum, sinking into her as deeply as I can, staying there as I slowly rock against her until I’m hard again. I fuck her like that until the sun sets outside of the window and darkness gathers in the room, coming twice more inside of her and making her come, too, before I slide out of her regretfully and go to see about food for us both.
When we’ve eaten, I take her straight back to bed. Genevieve doesn’t argue, only lets me inside of her again and again, until there’s no chance that I can recover for another round.
“I think four in a night is my limit,” I groan as I roll to one side, my spent cock lying limply against my thigh. “But we can test that theory next month.”
“Unless I’m pregnant,” she says primly, rolling to her other side. “Then we won’t need to.”
I draw in a slow breath, looking at the tumble of her hair over her shoulders, my fingers itching to reach out and touch her. I look at the clock, already ticked over past midnight. My gaze drifts back to Genevieve—my Cinderella, my princess in this fucked-up fairytale—and my hand drops back to the bed as I look up at the ceiling.
I’ve spent my entire adult life dreading the possible moment where a woman might call me up and tell me that there’s been an accident, that she’s pregnant with my child.
But I’ve never dreaded it as much as I do now—when it’s the one thing I’m supposed to want.