50. Brady
Brady
She is not here to make peace.
My wife is wearing a no-nonsense business dress, no-nonsense flat shoes, and her grimmest expression. Striding purposefully out of the elevator, she carries her laptop bag like a briefcase. She looks like a pissed-off lawyer.
“C-Cora,” I stammer. Like I’ve forgotten how to say her name. “How are you?”
She doesn’t respond. She just brushes past me toward the breakfast table.
In the center of the table, her Claddagh ring rests on a square of red fabric.
I’d found the scraps she’d discarded when she’d cut up her long dress, and I’d taken a small piece for myself.
I’ve been keeping her ring on it ever since she left.
A bright red punishment in the middle of the room.
Something to remind me of my fucking failure.
Cora acts like she doesn’t see it. She sets her laptop bag on the table and zips it open.
“We need to talk about our marriage,” she says brusquely, pulling out a legal folder. My heart goes cold.
“Okay,” I say numbly.
I’ll do whatever she asks. I’ll give her whatever she wants. Even if it’s a divorce. That would be the most difficult, most painful thing of all. But I’ll do it for her.
That doesn’t mean I won’t try to save us first.
“I’m sorry, Cora.” My voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have locked you up like that. It was wrong of me. I promised to keep you involved, and then I treated you like—” an animal.
I can’t bring myself to say it. I know it was wrong, just like I know it was wrong to try to have her brother killed.
And I’ve hated myself for it. In both instances, I was keeping her safe—I won’t apologize for that—but I took away her choice when I locked her away.
And that’s what was so fucking despicable.
Cora stares at me blankly. I gulp down my pride and force myself to continue.
“I treated you like you were less than human. I’ve been treating you like you’re less than me. But you’re better than me, Cora. You wanted to be my equal, but you’re my better. And if you—” I shake my head. “No matter what happens, I vow to treat you the way you deserve.”
My eyes feel hot. I’m afraid to blink.
My wife isn’t blinking either, but she isn’t staring me down the way she has in the past. I wish she were. Instead, she’s completely impassive. Like nothing I’ve said matters.
I make one last desperate attempt.
“And I’m sorry I was planning to kill Connor.” It doesn’t come out sincerely, and she raises an eyebrow at my lie. “Okay, I’m not sorry I wanted to kill a potential enemy. But I am sorry that it would’ve meant killing your brother. I know how much he means to you.”
She blinks then. But it’s not a concession. She’s as expressionless as she was before. My apologies mean nothing. At this point, I hope she takes out her switchblade and goes for my throat. Stab. Then slash.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t. She returns her attention to the legal folder in her hand.
“You’ll need to sign this.” She lays a stack of papers on the table and clicks open a pen. When I don’t move, she walks toward me, holding out the pen by its tip.
She’s making sure we don’t touch.
I take it from her, careful not to place my fingers anywhere near hers.
As soon as I have the pen, she takes several steps away.
Like she can’t stand to be near me. I approach the papers the way a man walks to his scaffold.
My brain refuses to focus. It takes me several tries to read the paperwork’s header.
In the Circuit Court of Cook County, Illinois; County Department, Domestic Relations Division; In RE the Marriage of Cora O’Sullivan, Petitioner, and Brady O’Sullivan, Respondent; Petition for Dissolution of Marriage
I try to swallow, but my throat feels too thick. My vision blurs as I process the words Irreconcilable differences. I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. I will not let her see me cry. I will not let her know that I am weak.
That she is my one weakness.
She’s already completed the signature for Cora O’Sullivan, Petitioner. All that’s left is for me to sign above Brady O’Sullivan, Respondent.
I click the pen, clear my throat, and go to sign. Shit. I clicked the pen closed. Now I look like even more of an idiot as I smear my hand across my eyes again. I click the pen open and scribble my signature on the divorce papers.
Across the room, Cora smiles in relief. Like this is the happiest moment of her life. Meanwhile, my heart is in pieces. The protein shakes churn in my stomach. I want to vomit this awful feeling out of my body.
She approaches me cautiously and tugs the papers toward her. My wife checks my signature.
My ex-wife.
She nods to herself and slides the papers into her folder. Then she pulls out another sheet of hateful paper and lays it on the table in front of me.
I take a deep breath. I ready my pen to give her however much alimony she wants. Again, my brain refuses to process the information I’m reading.
Application for Marriage License; Partner A - Partner Type: Bride; Name - First: Cora, Middle: Muloney, Last: O’Sullivan
“What?” It’s the only word I can think of. I’m too miserable to allow anything as cruel as hope into my heart.
But when I look up at Cora, she’s beaming at me. That perfect, beautiful smile of hers.
“It’s the only way to guarantee that our marriage is valid,” she says.
“The first time around wasn’t quite legal, given that I was still technically Samantha Greene.
Even O’Sullivan intelligence has its oversights, apparently.
But now my name change is official, and it’s the three names I want for the rest of my life. ”
Feeling dizzy, I reread the bride’s name on the marriage license.
First: Cora, Middle: Muloney, Last: O’Sullivan
“I thought you hated being a Muloney,” I say, stunned. “I thought you hated being an O’Sullivan.”
“I did once. I don’t anymore.” She says it simply, but my head’s still spinning.
“And the trick with the…?” I gesture to the divorce papers. Because it was a trick.
Cora acknowledges this with a grimace. She reaches for the red square in the middle of the table. Picks up the Claddagh ring I gave her. Slips it back onto her finger.
“I had to make sure you would really let me go.”
My heart bursts out of my chest with everything I feel for this woman. I have no more words. I don’t need any. I cross the room in two steps, then she’s in my arms, laughing as I spin her around the room.
God, I’ve missed that laugh. I lower her so we’re eye level, her toes inches above the ground, her arms wrapped around my shoulders. Then I crush my mouth to hers, kissing her so deeply we both go breathless.
I carry her to the nearest surface. The kitchen peninsula.
When I set her on it, she spreads her knees so I can stand between them.
As I glide my hands up her bare legs, she grabs a fistful of my shirt to pull me even closer.
I kiss her hungrily while she unbuttons my shirt, working her way down my chest with her deft fingers.
When she pulls my shirt open, she gasps.
There’s a speck of dried blood on my undershirt.
Right over my heart. I tell her it’s fine as she starts tugging off my shirts.
Her medical training’s kicking in, despite the fact I keep telling her it’s fine.
I must’ve accidentally scrubbed it in the shower.
When I finally peel off both my shirts, she grabs my bare waist. I love the feel of her grip, even if it’s to hold me still as she inspects the small wound.
It’s not bleeding anymore. Even she can tell there’s no cause for concern.
My wife’s mouth drops open. Not in horror, but surprise.
Gently she places her fingertips beneath the addition to my tattoo.
My anonymous visit to a West Side parlor was the only time I’ve left the penthouse in weeks.
But I was desperate. I needed a reminder of her on my body.
I added a fourth leaf to the clover. It’s slightly larger than the other three, and it’s not quite touching, because it’s not a full leaf. It’s rounder and bolder. An uppercase C. And inside, smaller and lowercase, the letters o, r, a.
Cora looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
“You are my luck,” I tell her.
She pulls me close to kiss me again, running her hands along the muscles of my back. I’ve lost weight. But she still admires my strength with her touch. Caressing my abs, my arms, my shoulders.
I feel powerful again.
I grip her hips to pull her closer to the edge of the counter.
This spot where I first fucked my wife. I slide my hands up her skirt to pull down her panties.
My fingers find only smooth thighs, soft hips, curvy waist. When I break our kiss to look at her, there’s a devilish glint in her ice-blue eyes.
I sink to my knees in worship.
She helps me lift her skirt so it’s around her waist, her pussy bare before me. Glistening and ready. I spread her thighs a little wider, and she braces herself on the counter as I trail kisses up the inside of her thigh.
When I reach her pussy, I give her clit the lightest kiss possible. She spasms. I chuckle as I pull away, then kiss up the inside of her other thigh. When I reach her pussy again, I look up at her.
There’s glazed lust in her eyes, her pouty lips parted with need. The sight is so beautiful my cock strains against my jeans. As I lower my face to her pussy, I watch her mouth open wider with a shaky inhale. So beautiful. My tongue finds her entrance, and I lick her deep inside.
That’s when she moans.
I fuck her with my tongue until she’s gasping.
Saying my name over and over. Then I lick all the way up her gorgeous slit.
When I flick her clit with my tongue, she comes undone.
I suck on her clit as she writhes and screams my name.
I keep her thighs spread wide with my grip, feeling her muscles spasm against my strength.
I guide her through her orgasm, never letting up until she slumps back, limp with pleasure.
When she’s done, I blow lightly on her clit. She spasms again. Laughing weakly, she begs me to stop, so I stand up to unbuckle my belt. Seeing her there lying on the counter, her legs spread for me, her pussy shining with the orgasm I gave her. She is perfect.
I let out a slow breath, releasing all the pent-up worry I’ve been harboring. Not just about her safety, but about her, Cora. Her happiness. Her wants. Her needs. The fact she’s now tied her happiness to me, to us, makes me grateful in a way I never thought possible.
I smooth my hands up her waist, reaching beneath her back to unclasp her bra. She tosses it on the floor. I run my hands down the length of her beautiful body as I move to stand between her knees again.
Spread before me like this, she’s undoubtedly mine. I take my time to savor the image despite my painfully hard cock.
As I return to unbuckling my belt, I’m struck with an idea. I shove my jeans and boxer briefs to the floor. My cock springs free, throbbing so badly with my need for my wife. But instead of fucking her just yet, I lift my pants from the floor to pull my belt out of its loops.
I keep my movements slow as Cora watches me. She bites her lip, and her breathing speeds up. But she keeps her thighs open, her pussy exposed to me.
Trusting me.
Trust I’ve earned.
There is nothing fucking sexier.
Carefully I wrap my belt around my hand, the buckle in my palm so the leather tip hangs loose. With my wife’s eyes on me, I dangle the few inches of leather between her legs.
Still biting her lip, she nods.
I flick my wrist so the belt slaps lightly against her pussy.
She gasps and jerks a little, her tits jiggling.
But she keeps her legs spread. I flick the belt again, this time making sure it slaps against her clit.
And this time, she moans. Fuck, it’s the best sound in the world.
I keep going. I increase my speed ever so slightly.
Though the slaps never get very forceful, Cora’s clearly building to another crescendo.
I position myself between her legs as I flick my belt again and again.
When she arches her back, when she screams my name, that’s when I shove my cock inside her.
I rub her clit with my thumb as her pussy walls clench around me.
And fuck, I’m not long for this world. Sweating with effort, I manage to contain myself as I ride my wife through her orgasm.
When she comes down, I keep my cock inside her. Right where I belong. Slowly I unwrap the belt from my hand. It’s enough of a distraction that I’m back down from the brink.
By the time I toss my belt to the floor, I’m ready to give her the best fuck of her life.
I hook my arms around her legs and pull her so her ass is at the edge of the counter. Gripping her thighs apart, I keep her spread wide.
She’s mine. All mine. Cora Muloney O’Sullivan.
When I drive into her, she screams. Her tits bounce wildly as I slam into her over and over again. It’s been too fucking long since I’ve been inside my wife, and it feels like her pussy has gotten even tighter.
I look down between us, and it’s a glorious sight.
My thick cock stretching her open. I angle my hips so I’m thrusting up into her, and I press low on her stomach to feel myself moving inside her.
It’s intoxicating. The sensation of us together like this.
She half-moans, half-screams. It must be the perfect angle for her G-spot, because her pussy starts clenching again.
I can’t hold back this time. I dig my grip into my wife’s thighs, pulling her onto my cock as much as I’m thrusting into her, blasting her full of my come as she screams. The sheer force of my orgasm obliterates us both, and I’m pretty sure I pass out for a second.
Somehow I manage to catch myself before I collapse on top of Cora. I brace my weight on the counter, one hand to either side of her head. A little shaky, I lower my face to hers so I can kiss her without crushing her.
But before our lips touch, she wraps her arms around me and pulls me down on top of her. She makes it obvious she wants me as close as possible.
I relent.
With our bodies pressed together, we share a deep, slow kiss. God, I’ve missed her so fucking much. I pull back to scan every inch of her face. To sear this moment into my memory.
“Welcome home, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”