Chapter 16 Petyr
PETYR
I get home later than planned. I’m half-expecting Sima to be awake, swinging halfway out the window on a rope of sheets.
But when I step into my room, the lights are off, and the only sound is the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing.
She’s curled up in my bed. Wearing one of my T-shirts.
My mouth goes dry.
The shirt hangs off one shoulder, the bunched hem barely covering the tops of her thighs. Her dark hair is fanned out across my pillow, and her legs—long, smooth, toned—are completely bare.
I don’t know what kind of idiot instinct kept me from claiming her earlier, but right now, every part of me wants to peel that shirt off her body and show her exactly what she’s agreed to.
But I don’t.
I walk closer instead, careful not to wake her. Her lashes flutter just once, like she senses me, but she doesn’t quite open her eyes. Just shifts slightly and tugs the shirt lower in her sleep.
As if modesty even exists between us anymore. I can still hear the way she moaned under my hand, how her hips moved in perfect rhythm, chasing the pressure like it was all she ever wanted.
And the way she looked afterwards, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. Shocked, breathing hard, and so damn innocent.
She said it was the first time someone had ever touched her like that.
That little revelation has been stuck like a splinter in my mind ever since she said it. It turns me on like nothing else—the idea that I’m the only one who’s ever had her like that, the only one she’s let in.
But it also makes something in me twist. Because she may be innocent, but I’m not. I’m using her. For an heir, for leverage, for revenge.
I drag a hand through my hair and back away before I do something I’ll regret.
I could sleep on the couch. I should sleep on the couch.
Instead, I head into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip down under the fluorescent lights. The water’s scalding hot, but it does nothing to calm the ache in my body.
I close my eyes.
I see her.
In my bed, hair fanned out, lips parted, breathless and begging.
I brace a hand against the shower wall, water pounding down my back, and let the fantasy tighten around me. I picture her exactly how I want her: on her knees in front of me, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, looking up at me like I’m the only thing she sees.
The water steams around me, but my skin burns hotter.
In my mind, I grab her hair, tilt her chin up, and say something filthy. Something that makes her blush. Her tongue slips out to wet her lips. I imagine her moan, soft and sweet, as I push into her mouth. Her fingers dig into my thighs. Fuck, she’d look perfect like that. So fucking perfect.
My grip tightens. I stroke harder, faster.
Then she’s bent over my desk, legs spread, dripping for me. Her ass bounces with every thrust, her voice breaking as she begs me not to stop. I slam into her again and again, watching her fall apart for me.
My free hand grips the tile. I’m breathing heavily now. My body is on fire. Every muscle pulled taut.
I picture the exact moment she shatters around me. Head thrown back, thighs shaking, moaning my name.
And I fucking lose it.
I come with a low, guttural curse, body lurching as I spill hard against my palm and the tile below. The release is sharp, a hot, desperate thing pulled from the base of my spine.
I sag forward, forehead pressed to the wall.
And I don’t feel relieved. The immediate pressure is gone, but the hunger’s still there, worse than before.
I rinse off, wrap a towel around my waist, and stand in front of the mirror for a long time.
She’s in my bed. My wife. Mine.
And the longer I wait, the harder it’s going to be to keep my hands to myself.
Once I’m back in the bedroom, I stand still for a while, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness again. Sima has barely moved, still half-naked from where my shirt has ridden up, sheets kicked to kingdom come.
I slide into bed, careful not to disturb her.
I keep to my side. Leave a wide gap between us.
It’s strange, having someone here. In my bed, with me. Not just for the purpose of sleeping together—as in, have sex—but literally sleeping together. Letting people into my space like this, without an agenda? That’s different.
I’ve never done that. I don’t bring women here. Hell, I don’t even bring them to my place in the city. I certainly would never bring them to this house, with all the history tied to it. With the other people living inside it and the harrowing thing they’re facing.
I don’t like strings. Expectations. Letting myself grow soft. But here I am, literally sleeping with the enemy.
And the part that keeps circling in my head is how easily Sima slipped under my skin. It all felt so fucking natural.
What would she do if she knew the truth? That I recognized her from the start? That, even now, I’m weighing how to best put her to use? Not just to get an heir, but to bring her own family on their fucking knees?
I wonder if she’d scream. If she’d run. If I’d wake up to a knife at my throat.
If I’d wake up at all.
As if on cue, she shifts in her sleep, rolling closer. Her thigh brushes mine. Warm, bare. Her breath puffs softly against my shoulder. Her scent sinks into me, citrus and vanilla and my own woodsy body lotion.
Blyat’.
Looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight after all.