9. Blythe
I’m at the sink, washing champagne flutes that I found in the cupboard—dusty—when Mr Blackstone walks in, pushes up my skirt, and grabs my bottom.
He brings his face down to mine and grazes his lips over my cheek as he kneads the soft flesh and breathes me in. “Lean over.”
That command isn’t even necessary. Only two weeks married, and I respond to him on total instinct. I’m a Pavlov dog, but his gravelly voice is my bell, his slow thrust into me is my meal, and it’s my pussy that salivates. I’m already flooded, and I’ve pushed back into his hand. I’m eager to obey, bending at the waist.
This is my normal now, and it’s delicious. Mr Blackstone doesn’t return home to rail me at lunchtime every workday, but I’m so happy when he does.
My new life is everything I dreamed of.
True, I haven’t heard much from Ainsley. She texts and says she’s fine, but nearly always puts me off to tomorrow if I suggest a chat. She’s mentioned friends, and I don’t think she knows about my marrying her father, so I suppose she’s just busy. I certainly see plenty of photos on social media, and she sends me gorgeous extra images of the sights she’s seeing and the food she’s eating.
I’m not even slightly jealous, because I have her dad’s attention, and he’s everything I want. Nothing makes me feel more desired than the way he doesn’t wait.
I go to put the glass I’m cleaning aside, because I want to focus on the delicious sensations between my legs. Plus, usually as I come I shake. I lose control of myself.
“Don’t let me inconvenience you,” Mr Blackstone says, voice husky. “Keep on washing the glasses.” His belt buckle clinks. “But don’t drop them.”
Ohhhh. I bring the glass under the spray from the tap once more.
This is a new thrill: the challenge of doing something else while being utterly distracted by being railed mercilessly by my husband.
He’s using me as his toy. He’s using me as his toy.
He strokes his hand over my naked bottom, and there’s the rhythmic sound as he jerks himself a few times, looking at my bare pussy.
I know my husband now. I’ve seen him take that magnificent cock in hand often enough that I recognise the sound.
“My good little free use housewife. Always so wet,” he mutters, as though it’s a puzzle.
I bite my lip instead of pointing out I’m soaked for him because he is hotter than a grill turned up to maximum in the Sahara Desert.
He thrusts into me impatiently, and the sudden intrusion of his very substantial length and girth hurts. Then it’s just delicious stretch and my clit humming.
I keep washing the glasses, warm water flowing over my hands and the sunlight from the window making rainbows over my arms. The focus required to continue with the task wars with the instinct to give in to pure enjoyment of how he’s ramming into my pussy.
He’s fucking me fast and hard, and I’m moaning as he hits some magical place, when a sound like a fire alarm emits from his phone.
He swears colourfully, and still inside me, still thrusting, pulls the phone from his pocket and answers.
“Yes.”
I squeal and lose control of the glass I’m holding, and it shatters against the one ceramic side of the sink. My pulse leaps with fear—Mr Blackstone said not to break the glass and probably they’re really expensive. What if he stops and tells me off? The idea of his disapproval is jagged in my blood.
“Yes,” he repeats into the phone.
He reaches around me and removes the remnant of the broken glass from my hand, before he thrusts again.
I’m paralysed, but he keeps fucking me.
“What?”
Thrust.
I try to stay quiet, I really do.
Thrust.
A whine escapes my closed lips. Released from their duties, my hands ball into fists on the edge of the countertop. I don’t know how he’s still so hard, or why this is such a turn-on. My climax is just out of reach, nearly there.
Thrust.
So close. Only one more would…
“I’ll be there immediately.”
A click from his phone, and I expect another thrust. I wait for him to ram ferociously into me, taking his cruel pleasure, leaving promptly afterwards, his seed dripping down my thigh.
He pulls out.
“What…?” I turn to see him tucking his still rock-solid, and as ever massive, cock into his trousers. It’s like trying to smuggle a six-foot python. Even as he does up his belt, it’s obvious.
I tell myself I can’t be upset that work is his priority. I am not upset. I’m not. He’s already given up working for two weekends in a row to take me to Lochside.
It’s just that I live for these moments when he appears out of nowhere and fucks me as though he was thinking of me—and me alone—all morning.
The aborted orgasm has all sorts of emotions souring my throat. Irrational tears fill my ears. I’ve failed. I broke the glass. He hasn’t come. I haven’t provided the relief he needs—that’s my job to give him—whenever he uses me.
Yeah, I’m a bit frustrated for myself too, of course, but does that alarm mean Duncan is in danger?
Mr Blackstone. Gah. My husband. I don’t even know what to call him or how to ask if he’ll return home to me or why last week there was blood on his shirt cuff.
This has put me in my place. I’m not a part of his business, or his real life. My stomach sinks. I’m just a convenient free use wife.
I straighten, push my skirt down, and turn. I don’t say anything, but I don’t meet his eyes either.
Strong fingers pinch my chin and force me to look up into his face. There’s a beat of silence. His gaze is serious, cold even.
“Buy two replacement glasses for the broken one.”
“But—”
“And a whole new set. Whatever style you like.”
“Okay,” I reply meekly. I don’t want new glasses. What’s broken in this relationship is my heart. Stupid girl went and fell in love, and I’ll never be that to him. No love was the agreement.
He nods abruptly. Apart from the bulge, you’d never know that thirty seconds ago he was fucking me over the sink.
What did that siren from his phone mean? He’s halfway out the door when a single needy word falls from my lips.
“Duncan!”
He pins me with a questioning look over his shoulder, one big hand on the door frame.
It’s the first time I’ve called him by that name, and it shimmers between us. His russet hair has flopped over his forehead, and the dark red and streaks of silver make him appear both hopelessly mortal as well as god-like and powerful. How both are possible, I don’t know, but my husband is hot in ways I can’t explain.
“Is everything okay?”
His brows pinch together in confusion, as if to say, what do you care? “Fine for me.”
I breathe out a shaky sigh of relief.
“London Mafia Syndicate business. The kingpin of Angel is having some trouble with Italian mobsters I’ve got contacts with.”
“Oh.” That still sounds dangerous.
“Finish yourself off, Blythe. I’ll be checking.”
Then he is gone, striding away before I can ask for clarification about what I’m supposed to finish. Cleaning the glasses?
He didn’t really mean my orgasm, did he?
And my heart throbs uncomfortably. The Italian mafia. He’s not in danger, is he? What if I never see him again?
I’ve never told him I love him.
I guess it’s a good thing I said nothing, because hours later when I’m in bed, he returns home. I’m not asleep, and I don’t pretend to be. And I tell him with my enthusiasm for taking his cock as hard and fast, then after that session, sweet as slow, that I love him.
But obviously, he doesn’t understand. Because I’m just his convenient free use housewife, and I promised not to expect love.
It was in the advert. A fake marriage.
So I don’t say the words that repeat in my head: I love you.