Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Lorenzo
I had asked the staff to provide Zara with anything she might need while I was in New Jersey, trying to negotiate an arms deal. A directive from my father, likely to punish me for ruining his arrangement by marrying Zara.
I thought maybe a couple of days for her to breathe and adjust to the penthouse would be helpful.
That was until I saw her on the camera, leaving the house dressed too damn sexy. I hadn’t even left New York before I had to turn around. The red dot pulsing on my phone screen like a heartbeat.
I’d tracked her phone the moment she left the penthouse. I’d been trying to give her space, trying to be the kind of husband who trusted his wife, who didn’t smother her with my need.
And this was what I got for it.
The location took me to a small sushi place in SoHo, the kind of spot with dim lighting and a cozy ambiance; candles flickered on every table, soft music played from hidden speakers.
I parked my car across the street, killed the engine, and sat there for a long moment, watching through the window as rage built inside me like a tidal wave.
Zara was sitting across from some guy with a cheap haircut and an ill-fitting blazer. Leaning in close, her hair falling over her shoulder in that way that made my hands itch to tangle in it.
A beast I’d been trying to keep caged since the day I met her unfurled in my chest. I’d been good. Patient. I’d given her space, given her freedom, told myself that ownership wasn’t love. That a marriage meant I had to respect boundaries.
But watching her sit with another man?
The beast broke free.
I was out of the car, across the street, and through the door before I knew I’d moved.
The hostess said something, but I didn’t hear her.
The world had tunneled down to one thing: the table where my wife sat with another man.
All I could see was her. The way her lips curved.
The way her eyes sparkled. The way she gave him something that belonged to me.
The second she saw me, her eyes went wide, the laughter dying in her throat. Her date started to turn, and I saw the confusion register, then the fear, then nothing at all because I had him by the collar of his cheap shirt and I was yanking him out of his seat.
“What the—”
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish. The impact sent a jolt up my arm, and I felt the satisfying give of bone and cartilage. He went down like a sack of bricks, hitting the floor with a thud that vibrated through my shoes and sent his chair clattering sideways.
“Lorenzo!” Zara’s voice cut through the red haze. Sharp. Angry. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
I didn’t answer.
I grabbed her hand, the one that wore my ring, and pulled her out of the booth. Her glass tipped over, red wine spreading across the white tablecloth like blood spreading from a wound. She stumbled, trying to plant her feet, but I was stronger.
“Let go of me!” She yelled, with no awareness of the audience building.
Good, because right now I didn’t care either.
I continued to drag her through the restaurant, past the stunned faces of diners, past the waiter who pressed himself against the wall to get out of my way. I shoved the bathroom door open with my shoulder, pulling her inside and locking it behind us.
She wrenched her arm free and spun on me, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “What the hell is wrong with you?! That was my friend, Lorenzo. We were just having dinner—”
“Friend.” The word came out like poison, burning my throat. “You were touching him. Laughing at his jokes. Looking at him like—”
“Like what? Like a normal person? Like someone who’s allowed to have a conversation without being stalked?”
“I wasn’t stalking you; I was trying to figure out where my wife was going, alone.”
“You’re delusional,” she scoffed.
She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, her cheeks flushed with anger.
The dress she wore, a deep green that made her eyes brighter, clung to every curve, and I watched the pulse at the base of her throat flutter.
God, she was beautiful when she was furious.
The way her eyes sparkled, the way her lips parted, the way her whole body trembled with righteous fury.
I wanted to devour her, just like this.
“You don’t get to do this,” she said, stepping back and hitting the counter with a soft thud. “You don’t get to follow me around like some obsessed psychopath.”
“Says who?” I moved toward her, slow, deliberate, each step a predator stalking prey. “You’re my wife, Zara.”
“A marriage purely of necessity. Remember? That was the deal. No strings, no feelings, no—”
“No one touches what is mine.”
The words fell out of me, low and dark, and I saw the effect they had on her.
The way her breath hitched. The way her pupils dilated just slightly.
The way her body responded before her mind could stop it.
My eyes soaked her in—how her nipples hardened under the thin fabric, her thighs pressing together almost imperceptibly.
She hated that.
I could see it in her eyes.
The war between what she wanted and what she thought she should want.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge, now replaced by breathlessness and uncertainty.
My hand wrapped around her throat, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to remind her exactly who was in control.
“You want to fight me?” My lips brushed her ear, and I felt her shiver. “Go ahead. I’m finding that I like it when you fight me.”
“Lorenzo,” she said breathlessly.
I could feel the rapid beat of her heart through the thin fabric of her dress. Could smell the perfume she’d put on. Not for me, but for him. And a feral anger roared to life in my chest, demanding I cover her in my scent, mark her as mine.
I pulled up the hem of her dress before she caught my hand.
“We can’t do that here,” she breathed, but it came out weak.
“Why not?”
She doesn’t answer, but her body does. Her thighs press together again, a subtle shift, and I catch the scent of her arousal—that sharp, sweet musk that drives me insane. My cock hardens instantly, pressing against the seam of my pants.
“No,” she whispered, but it’s a lie wrapped in silk.
“No?” I chuckled darkly, my breath hot against her neck. I slide my hand lower, over the neckline of her dress, feeling the heat of her skin. Her nipples are tight, visible through the thin fabric. “Your body says yes. Your pussy says please. Doesn’t it, Tesoro?”
My fingers find the damp spot on her panties. She’s soaked. I press a finger against the wet fabric, circling her clit through the lace, and she jerks, letting a small moan escape her lips.
“Fuck, Zara.” I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear. “You’re so wet for me. You hate me, but you love being owned, don’t you?”
“I hate you,” she confirms, but her hips rolled into my hand, seeking more pressure.
“I know.” I pull her panties aside and slide two fingers inside her, no warning, no gentleness. She cries out, head falling back, her slick heat clenches around me. She’s tight, hot, ready. “But you’re mine. Every time you pretend to resist, you’re just begging me to take you harder.”
I pump my fingers, watching her face contort—in a war between anger and pleasure.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” I growl, curling my fingers inside her, hitting that spot that makes her knees buckle. “Tell me.”
She didn’t answer, so withdraw my fingers, and she whimpered at the loss as I spun her around, bending her over the counter. Her palms slapping against the marble, her ass arched perfectly. I yank her panties down to her thighs, exposing her—pink, glistening, ready.
“Soaking wet for the man you claim to hate. Tell me, Zara…did you plan this? Did you go on that date hoping I’d find out? Hoping I’d come for you?”
“Fuck you.”
I pulled my hand back and smacked her ass hard enough to make her yelp, red welts from my hand beginning to form.
“Try again.”
She turned her head, glaring at me over her shoulder, and I saw it. The defiance, the fire, the thing that had drawn me to her in that bar. Her eyes were bright, almost teary, but there was no fear. Only anger, and underneath it, a desperate, aching need.
And underneath that, the truth.
I didn’t need her to say it. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her body arched back against me, hungry and desperate. Her hips pushed back, seeking friction.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I muttered against her ear.
I unzipped my pants; the sound was loud in the quiet bathroom, and I felt her shiver.
Felt her breath catch. Felt the way she braced herself against the counter, spreading her legs just slightly, inviting me in.
The air between us was electric, charged with days of tension and denial, and this twisted, obsessive love I couldn’t name.
I stroke my cock, already aching, and line it up. “This cunt was made for me. Only me.”
I thrust in, all the way, in one brutal motion.
She screams—a raw, guttural sound—and I feel her walls stretch around me, struggling to accommodate, then yielding.
I grip her hips, fucking her with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving her harder into the counter.
The impact echoed in the small room, mixing with her moans and my grunts.
There was no hesitation, no gentleness as I gripped her hip with one hand, my other hand wrapped around her throat, as I pushed into her from behind.
“Fuck, Lorenzo.” The sound she made was a broken, desperate moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.
“That’s right.” I thrust deep, burying myself inside her, feeling her walls clench around me, hot and tight and perfect. “Say my name. Let everyone out there hear who you belong to.”
She was so beautiful like this — her head back against my shoulder, eyes half-closed, her lips parted.
I watched her in the mirror—the flush on her cheeks, the way her breasts heaved, the way her body moved with me, taking every inch of me.
The sight of her, broken and wanting and mine, sent a jolt of pure possession through me.
“You think he could fuck you like this?” I drove into her harder, and she cried out, her nails scraping against the marble. “You think he could make you feel the way I do?”
“I don’t—ah—I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” I tightened my grip on her throat, just enough to make her gasp, to feel her swallow against my palm. “Tell me you didn’t know. Tell me you didn’t come here wearing this dress, sitting in that booth, knowing I’d find you, knowing I’d come for you.”
She didn’t answer.
But I saw it in the mirror. The way her eyes fluttered closed. The way her lips curved into a secret, guilty smile.
The realization hit me like a wave. She’d done this on purpose. She’d wanted me to come. She’d wanted to be taken, to be claimed, to be reminded exactly who she belonged to. She wanted to feel owned because, for the first time in her life, someone wanted to own her.
She hated that she wanted it.
And I loved that she couldn’t stop.
My hand slid from her throat to her breast, cupping it through the fabric of her dress, squeezing until she gasped. Her whole body arched into my touch. I could feel her heart racing, feel the shivers running through her, feel the way her breath came in short, ragged bursts.
“You feel that?” I thrust deeper, slower, savoring every inch of her. “That’s me, inside you. Every time you walk, you’ll feel me. You’ll remember who you belong to.”
“Lorenzo, please—”
“Please, what?”
“Please don’t—” she gasped as I seated myself deeper inside her. “Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t stop.”
I drove into her harder, faster, the sound of our bodies filling the small bathroom, the mirror fogging with our breath. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and I covered her mouth with my hand, muffling her cries.
“Shh,” I whispered. “You don’t want everyone out there to hear what a dirty girl you are, do you? Coming to dinner with another man just so your husband would fuck you in the bathroom?”
She whimpered against my palm, her hips bucking back against me, taking me deeper. I watched in the mirror. Watched the way her eyes were half-closed, the way her mouth was open against my hand, the way she was completely, utterly lost in the sensation.
I leaned forward, pressing my chest against her back, my lips against her ear.
“You’re going to come for me,” I said. “Now. On my cock. And then I’m going to fill you up.”
She shook her head, a desperate denial, but her body was already tightening around me, her walls clenching, her breath coming in short gasps.
“But—”
“Come for me, wife. Now.”
With my command, she shattered.
I thrust twice more, buried deep, and came inside her with a guttural groan, my fingers digging into her hips, my body pressing against hers, claiming every inch of her as my own.
I don’t let up. I keep fucking her through the orgasm, drawing it out, making her sob with overstimulation.
Only when she’s boneless, whimpering, do I finally allow myself release.
Her scream muffled against her arm, her entire body convulsing around my cock. I watch her lose control—gasping and shuddering—and it’s breathtaking.
I pulled out slowly, watching as my cum dripped down her thigh, glistening in the harsh light. She stayed bent over the sink, her forehead pressed against the cool marble, her body trembling with aftershocks. Her dress was hiked up, her panties still pushed aside, her skin flushed and dewy.
I reached past her and grabbed a towel from the stack, wiping my hands clean before pressing it between her thighs.
“You’re beautiful when you break,” I murmur, and press a kiss to her forehead.
“I still hate you,” she said, but her voice cracked, and the words sounded like a lie.
“No, you don’t.” I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Don’t tell me what I feel.” She said, mascara smudged down her cheeks.
I smiled. Then I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear one last time.
“Now you can go back to your date,” I said, my voice low and dark. “With my cum dripping out of you.”
I saw the shiver run through her, saw her thighs press together involuntarily.
“I own you, Zara.” I straightened, smoothing down my jacket, adjusting myself back into something resembling composure. “You’re mine.”
I leave her in the bathroom, wrecked and wet, and step into the cool night. My phone buzzes as I light a cigarette.
Zara
You’re an asshole.
Me
And you’re my wife. The car is outside. I’ll be waiting.
I smile, smoke curling around my lips.
She was mine.
And no matter how much she fought it, she knew it too.