9. Chapter 9
9
Bella
S tarbursts of pleasure flood my brain.
Better than any high I’ve ever chased. I stopped counting my orgasms somewhere after the sixth one when my body became nothing but nerve endings under his command.
I think it’s over—his earlier release, that shudder I felt, means we’re done, right?
But he doesn’t stop, his fingers sliding inside me, deep and relentless, his growl slicing through my haze: “Again, Bella. Come.” I’m shaking, stunned, because fuck, I didn’t know my body could do this—climax after climax, each one shattering what I thought was possible, and he’s still driving me, like he owns every pulse.
“Fuuuuck…” I close my eyes as I come so hard onto his fingers. Shamelessly. Completely.
The world explodes into fragments of sensation—bright lights behind my eyelids, my body clenching and pulsing like it’s trying to pull him deeper inside me. My throat is raw from screaming his name, and I don’t even remember doing it.
Screw self-control because it has gone down the drain. Along with my dignity. And possibly my sanity.
When I can breathe again, when the room stops spinning, I open my eyes to find him watching me with that infuriating intensity. Like he’s cataloging every reaction, filing it away for future use. His fingers are still inside me, still moving slowly, drawing out aftershocks that have me twitching and gasping.
“Stop,” I whisper, not because I want him to, but because I don’t think I can survive another second of this.
His mouth curves into something too predatory to be called a smile. “Are you sure?”
He curls his fingers, hitting that spot again, and my back arches off the bed involuntarily. My wrists strain against his tie—midnight blue silk now damp with sweat where it binds my hands above my head.
“Please,” I gasp.
“Please, what?” His eyes never leave mine as he withdraws his fingers, so slowly I feel every ridge of his knuckles as they exit my body. “Please stop? Or please don’t?”
I can’t answer. Can’t form words. Can only stare at him as he brings those fingers to his mouth and tastes them. Tastes me .
My whole body flushes hot with embarrassment and renewed desire.
“I think I know the answer,” he murmurs, finally reaching for the tie around my wrists.
As he loosens the knot, his eyebrows knit together. I follow his gaze to see angry red marks where I pulled against the restraint. For a split second, something like concern flashes across his face. It’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it, replaced by his usual mask of control.
“Next time,” he says, his thumb brushing gently over the marks, “we’ll use proper cuffs.”
Next time. Like there’s no question.
Like I haven’t just had the most mind-blowing, terrifying, exhilarating sexual experience of my life with a man I technically married today but barely know. A man who spanked me so hard I’ll probably have hand-shaped bruises on my ass for a week.
“Is this payback?” I ask, finding my voice at last. “For slapping you at the church? Or running out to get tacos? Or maybe for breaking into your house in the first place?”
He doesn’t answer; just releases my wrists completely and stands. I can’t help but stare at his body as he moves toward the bathroom. He’s so tall, so broad—impossibly sculpted like some kind of warrior god, all hard planes and savage angles. Tattoos crawl across his skin, telling stories I can’t read in a language I don’t understand.
And his cock. Jesus Christ. Even now, after what he just did to me, I can’t believe I took all of that inside me. Can’t believe I begged for it. Can’t believe I’m already wondering when I’ll get it again.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The shower turns on in the bathroom. I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Everything aches in the best possible way. I’m sticky with sweat and other things, my hair a wild tangle around my face, my lips swollen from his kisses. I must look completely wrecked.
I am completely wrecked.
I’ve had sex before. I’m not some blushing virgin. But this… this was something else entirely. This was being taken apart piece by piece and put back together wrong. Or maybe right for the first time.
I gingerly touch the inside of my thigh, where it’s already bruising from the grip of his hands. I should be horrified. I should be planning my escape.
Instead, I’m wondering how soon he’ll come back to bed.
The shower shuts off, and a moment later, he emerges, water still beading on his skin, a towel slung low around his hips. He tosses a warm, damp washcloth onto the bed beside me.
“Clean up,” he says. “Unless you want me to do it for you.”
There’s a challenge in his voice. Part of me wants to say yes, just to see what he’d do. But I have to draw the line somewhere. Have to maintain some semblance of control.
“I can manage,” I say, taking the cloth. “Thanks.”
He watches as I wipe between my legs, his eyes darkening again. I should feel self-conscious, but after what we just did, modesty seems pointless.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks abruptly.
The question catches me off guard. “Yes,” I answer. “Since I was 14.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Fourteen?”
“Not for that,” I clarify quickly. “For awful periods. I had endometriosis. The pill was the only thing that helped.”
He nods once, accepting this without further comment. I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain myself to him. It’s none of his business.
Except that it kind of is now, considering what we just did. Considering what he just did inside me.
“You should have told me before,” he says, turning away to pull clean boxer briefs from a drawer.
“When, exactly?” I throw back. “Between ‘I do’ and you bending me over the bed? Or maybe in the middle of you spanking me for—what was it again? Insubordination?”
His lips twitch. “You liked it.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but what’s the point? He felt how wet I got when his hand came down on my ass. Heard the noises I made.
“That’s not the point,” I mutter.
“No,” he agrees, dropping the towel without warning to pull on the boxers. “The point is that I need to know these things. For practical reasons.”
“Practical,” I repeat. “Right. Because all of this is just a business transaction.”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “A transaction with benefits.”
The casual dismissal stings more than it should. I don’t even like him, so why does his cold assessment make me feel… cheap?
“Got it,” I say, pulling the sheet higher over my body. “A mutually beneficial arrangement. I get my family home secured; you get… whatever it is you needed a wife for. And convenient access to a warm body. Very modern.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t offer any explanation for why he needed this marriage, and I’m not about to ask. Not now, when I’m naked and still trembling from what he just did to me.
He moves to the bed, sitting on the edge, his eyes sliding over me like he’s assessing property.
“Don’t act offended. We both know what this is.”
“Sex,” I say flatly. “Just sex.”
“Exactly.” His hand lands on my thigh, heavy and proprietary. Not affectionate, just possessive. “Though I’ll admit, better than I anticipated.”
My body responds to his touch instantly, skin prickling with awareness despite my irritation.
Traitor.
“Glad to exceed expectations,” I say dryly, even as my legs part slightly of their own accord.
“You’re mine for the next year,” he says matter-of-factly. “My wife. My property. We might as well enjoy the physical aspects of the arrangement.”
I should be outraged. I should slap him again. I should give him a lecture on women’s rights and bodily autonomy and all the things I genuinely believe in.
Instead, I feel that treacherous heat building between my legs again.
“You can’t own a person,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“No?” His fingers trace idle patterns on my inner thigh, moving higher with each circle. “Then why does your body respond to me like it belongs to me? Why did you just come harder on my fingers than you ever have in your life?”
I want to deny it, but we both know it would be a lie.
“You have a high opinion of yourself,” I say instead.
His hand stills. “Am I wrong?”
I look away. “No,” I admit softly. “You’re not wrong.”
The confession costs me, but he doesn’t gloat. Just nods like he’s received confirmation of something he already knew.
“I’ve had sex before,” I tell him, not sure why I’m volunteering this information. “It wasn’t… like this.”
“Of course it wasn’t.” There’s no arrogance in his tone, just simple certainty. “They weren’t me.”
I laugh despite myself. “God, your ego is the size of Russia.”
He turns away without warning, his back to me now as he moves to stand by the window. The sudden cold where his body heat had been seconds ago feels deliberate, calculated. Like flipping a switch.
Suddenly, another question entirely comes to mind.
“Are you… safe?” I ask, the words awkward on my tongue. “I mean, you didn’t use anything, and I just realized I don’t know if you’re—”
Great timing, Bella. Maybe check for deadly STDs BEFORE the guy comes inside you? Just a thought.
“Clean?” he finishes, eyebrow arched. “Or fucking other women?”
I flush but hold his gaze. “Both, actually.”
“I’m clean,” he says flatly. “I get tested regularly. And no, I don’t fuck all of the other women.”
The emphasis on “all” isn’t lost on me.
“If you need proof,” he continues, reaching for his phone on the nightstand, “I can have my medical records sent to you in the morning.”
“No, that’s—” I stop, suddenly realizing I’m out of things to say. What do you say to a man who just gave you multiple orgasms and then offered to email you his STD test results?
“Actually, yes. I would like to see those records. And I’ll get you mine, too. Fair’s fair.”
He nods once, then stands, tapping something on his phone. He doesn’t return to bed.
“You can sleep as long as you need,” he says, not looking at me as he pulls on a pair of pants. “Start work in the afternoon.”
Just like that, he’s gone. No goodnight. No explanation. Just the soft click of the door and me, alone with the aftermath of whatever hurricane just tore through my body.
I pull his pillow to my chest, inhaling his scent like some lovesick teenager. Then I catch myself and throw it across the room.
What the hell am I doing? This man isn’t my husband—he’s my jailer with benefits. The fact that he’s spectacular in bed just makes the cage more comfortable.