Chapter 17 ANI
The pressure hasn’t let up since yesterday.
One brush of his fingers against my pussy, the low rumble of his taunting voice in my ear, and I’ve been strung as tight as piano wire ever since.
It’s pathetic, really. I hate him. I hate the smug way he looks at me, like he already owns me… like I actually want him, too.
I’ve spent the day pacing, reading, walking laps around the terrace, and even attempting yoga to distract myself from the gnawing ache sitting just below my stomach.
It does nothing, because nothing works. Every time I close my eyes, my body betrays me, feeling his phantom breath against my ear as his filthy mouth whispers against it.
Little pet.
I should be repulsed. Instead, I’m restless, and my thighs are sore from clenching them for days on end.
Maybe I need therapy, not sex. Yeah, that’s it.
A good behavioral therapist and some antipsychotics.
Because clearly, I’ve lost my fucking mind if Nikolai King is the only thing on my mind when I consider slipping my hand between my thighs in the middle of the night.
Twisted.
Totally fucking deranged.
That’s what I am for wanting my sham of a husband to fuck me.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of being the one to cave.
He’s already so smug and sure of himself.
If I ever admitted how badly I wanted him—needed him—he’d never let me live it down.
So I do what any wife losing her mind and needing to come would do…
I keep my chin up, my mouth sharp, and my pussy barricaded behind barbed wire.
Nik appears from the hallway. Walking toward me at the kitchen island, he does up his crisp button-down, each pulling the fabric more taut across his broad shoulders.
He rolls each of the sleeves, accentuating his well-defined forearms. Jesus, Ani…
stop drooling. He pulls his watch from his pocket and slips it around his wrist.
“Where are you going?” I ask, my tone a lot sharper than intended.
“Work.” He glances over his shoulder.
“You mean what? Breaking kneecaps? Selling contraband? Hosting a bake sale?” I cross my arms and struggle to keep my composure as I realize I’m finally going to be alone.
His lips twitch at the corner, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he shares, “You’re coming with me.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You think I’m leaving you here alone? To take care of that little situation you’re pretending doesn’t exist? Not a fucking chance.”
“What am I, your shadow?” I sputter. “Your little puppy, following you around?”
“You said it, not me.” He smirks. “I left a dress on the bed for you. You have five minutes, and then we’re leaving, whether you’re ready or not.”
I want to hit him—almost as badly as I want to kiss him—but I settle for an exaggerated groan.
“Fine. Whatever.” After swiftly changing into the black cocktail dress he left out, I use my extra two minutes to apply eyeliner and sweep on mascara.
His eyes flick down my body when I return, heat darkening his gaze.
The car ride is silent and tense, the city glowing around us as the sun dips behind the buildings. My nerves tighten when he pulls up in front of a building bathed in neon lights. When I read the sign, my stomach drops: Kings Temptation.
“A strip club? Really?”
“I have a meeting,” he shares, as if that explains anything.
“A meeting? At a strip club?” I scoff. “And what am I supposed to do while you enjoy your lap dance? Dust myself in glitter and twirl on the pole?”
He cuts me a look that makes my cheeks flame and curbs my tongue as he pulls the car into the valet. I’m expecting something seedy and grimy, but when we step inside, I’m so taken aback that I nearly lose my balance.
It’s… beautiful.
From the velvet booths to polished marble floors to chandeliers dripping crystal light, everything feels opulent.
Even the air smells faintly of rich perfume and expensive alcohol.
The women on stage are not what I imagined from the way they are portrayed in movies.
These women are graceful and commanding.
“This is…” I hesitate, caught off guard. “Classy.”
Nik smirks with a small chuckle. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“No,” I admit before catching myself. “I expected it to smell like sweat and desperation. My mistake.”
He shakes his head, steering me toward the bar. Pulling out a stool, he firmly instructs, “Sit. Stay. And don’t get into trouble.”
“Arf, arf.” I respond, garnering a roll of his eyes before he walks to the back of the club, leaving me perched on a high stool with a cocktail menu in my hand and irritation simmering in my chest. I order a glass of Cristal and sip slowly, tapping my nails against the glass.
I listen to the music and watch the mesmerizing dancers for a few numbers before growing bored.
“Evening,” a deep, smooth voice whispers from behind me as I pull my phone from my purse.
“Is the entertainment not up to your standards?” I laugh as he takes the stool next to me.
His hair is slicked back and his smile is warm.
Based on his well-tailored, worsted-wool suit, I assume he comes from money.
He is handsome, in a clean-cut, Wall Street sort of way. “First time here?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, arching a brow.
“Only because I’d remember a face like yours,” he flirts with a harmless, boyish grin. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “Why not?” I finish my champagne and slide the empty flute away.
The stranger signals the bartender and orders a round. When they arrive, we clink glasses. He leans closer, and I get a hint of his faintly citrusy cologne. “So… you here alone?”
“No,” I answer softly. “But he’s busy at the moment.”
The man’s eyes flick over me in appreciation, and he woefully shakes his head. “Then he’s a fool. A woman as beautiful as you should never be left waiting. I would never leave you unattended.” I smile tightly and take another sip of my drink, keeping things light with the man beside me.
As much as he states it, Nik doesn’t actually own me. I’m not a possession, and there is no reason I can’t talk to another man. This is harmless. I’m just sitting at the bar and having a casual conversation with someone.
Okay, I’m having a casual conversation. This man is clearly hitting on me.
His hand brushes against my knee, and I think it’s an accident until he slides it further up my thigh. I freeze for a moment, then blurt, “Don’t.” I shift my weight, putting the faintest sliver of distance between us.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He grins, reaching over and gripping my thigh a little more forcefully. “Don’t be like that. I know your type. Just tell me how much.”
I swat his hand away and curtly snip, “You don’t know anything.
I said don’t.” But he doesn’t listen. He rises from his stool, boxing me between him and the bar—trapping me on my stool.
His hand slides over my hip, and I stiffen as anger and panic violently collide inside of me.
My heart slams against my ribcage, and my eyes dart wildly around the room, hoping someone, anyone, will see my discomfort and come help.
Across the room, past the booths and stage, Nik stands with a group of men mid-conversation.
His posture is relaxed, but his eyes—God, his eyes—they are icy and cold.
They don’t once leave me or the man touching me as his face hardens and his jaw clenches.
With a quick word of apology, he steps away from the group around him as the stranger tightens his grip, pulling me flush against him.
I’m so afraid I can barely breathe. But it isn’t the man with his hands on me who makes me tremble.
It’s the look on my husband’s face. He looks homicidal.
Nik crosses the club with long, purposeful strides, every inch of his body radiating the lethal intent of a heat-seeking missile.
He doesn’t weave through the crowd. It parts for him, giving the appearance he’s tearing through it.
My pulse spikes, and my stomach clenches and twists.
I’ve wondered for days what it would look like when I pushed Nik too far.
Now watching him storm toward me like a crazed man, I quickly regret my curiosity.
Not that it matters anymore. I’m about to find out just how unhinged my husband is and how far he will go to punish me for this.