8. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 8
B y the time the Malones finally said their goodbyes and the leftover food and dirty dishes were all squared away, I wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot, soul-cleansing shower and go directly to bed.
Ideally alone.
I hated that I couldn’t go back to the sanctuary of my own apartment.
I hated that I was trapped, living in what felt like a memorial to Ford’s ex-girlfriend.
Before I could make my retreat, though, Ford followed me into the bedroom, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“Oh really?” I snarked.
“Do tell.”
I didn’t even try to hide my irritation.
Who could blame me?
He was the reason I’d gotten into this whole wedding mess in the first place.
Specifically because he hadn’t wanted his parents pushing him with Claudia.
And now this?
“You think I’m still in love with Claudia,” he said.
“Why would I think that?” I asked, all sarcasm.
“Because you didn’t stop your parents from talking about her all night? Or—oh—maybe because you can’t bear to part with anything she touched in this apartment?”
“That’s not what—” Ford started.
“It’s no big deal,” I cut him off, “any girl would be flattered. In fact, what kind of wife wouldn’t be thrilled to live in an apartment where she’s constantly reminded of her husband’s ex? I love it.”
“This is how you want to be?” he said.
“Come on, then. Let me give you the proper tour.”
Grabbing me by the arm, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall.
In the living room, both of us huffing, I was steered over to the bookcase.
“This vase?” Ford spat, pointing to a beautiful, reddish brown piece of pottery with an intricate pattern carved into it.
“We got that in Sri Lanka. We spent the day at Polonnaruwa and a group of women were selling things outside the entrance. She said she wanted something to remember the day by, since I first told her I loved her in front of the Parakrama Samudra.”
My stomach was in knots so tight that I felt sick, but I didn’t walk away.
Instead, I let him turn me around and push me to the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room.
Ford flung open the doors, revealing shelves of neatly stacked porcelain dishes with a delicate red pattern visible at the edges.
“That china my mom was talking about? I still have it, right here in the sideboard. Claudia chose the pattern because my grandmother used to have the same one and she wanted to build on tradition together.”
My eyes were stinging, but I refused to let my tears spill over.
Ford was hurting me on purpose, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Next up was the den, where I had to look at the obscenely huge, vaguely erotic painting that I hated so much.
“This painting?” Ford growled.
“The one you hate? It’s by an artist Claudia and I once met at a gallery opening that neither of us wanted to be at. We’d fought all day beforehand and the first time we’d spoken in four hours was to agree that we both loved it. It became a symbol of communication for us.”
As we went from room to room, Ford telling me the stories of all his precious fucking belongings, the tension built between us.
Ford’s eyes seemed to burn into mine and the way he was looking at me, I couldn’t tell if he wanted to throttle me or rip my clothes off.
I honestly couldn’t decide which one I wanted either.
Finally, we made it into his office.
Both of us stared at the antique desk that stood against the wall.
“This desk?” Ford slapped his hand on it.
The sound made me jump, but I wasn’t scared.
I was turned on.
The anger I felt had begun to morph into lust and I could tell by the way Ford’s eyes kept raking up and down my body that he was feeling the same way.
“Tell me,” I said.
“You want to know about this desk?” he asked, advancing on me.
I nodded and he grabbed me by the hips to shove me toward it, pressing my ass up against the edge.
With one simple lift, Ford could have me sitting on top of it.
“We bought it in Paris,” Ford said, his face close to mine, his voice low in my ear.
His fingers tightened against my hips and I pressed against him.
He was hard.
I was wet.
I wanted him, and he wanted me.
“How nice for you two,” I said, glaring.
“At a famous flea market,” he continued.
As he did, he began unbuttoning my shirt.
“The seller swore that Hemingway had once written on it.”
My shirt was hanging open now, exposing my lace bra.
Ford reached out and gave the front clasp a little flick, and my breasts spilled out.
Breathing hard, he reached out and cupped them, his thumbs dragging over my nipples more roughly than they ever had before.
I arched into his touch.
I wanted more.
“Tell me,” I ordered.
I spread my legs and his hands dropped to unbutton my pants and yank them off, my thong going with them in one fast, rough movement.
In half a second, I was naked and Ford was hoisting me onto the desk.
He was grinding against me, cock straining behind the zipper of his jeans.
Groaning, I opened my legs wider, wrapping my legs around him.
“Tell me,” I repeated, my voice throaty.
“You want me to tell you that we didn’t believe for a second that Hemingway had written on it?” he asked, slapping one hand on the desk behind me, the other undoing his jeans, his hard cock springing free.
“Yes,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight.
“But since we’d been drinking Death in the Afternoons all day, the whole thing felt fated, so we spent an exorbitant amount of money on it?”
“Yes,” I moaned as he traced the slit of my wet pussy with his tip.
I was so hungry for him, I leaned back on my hands, opening my legs even wider.
He must have liked what he saw.
“Fuck, Em,” he said, gripping his cock as he panted.
“Fuck me,” I agreed, tilting my hips to guide him.
“ Yes ,” he said, and with a smooth, fast thrust, he was inside.
I gasped as he filled me up, so big and so deep.
Gripping the edge of the desk, I bit my lip as he began fucking me, whispering low in my ear as he picked up his pace.
“You think the shit in my apartment is important to me because I’m still into her?” he asked, punctuating his words with slow, hard thrusts.
“Yes,” I moaned, throwing my head back, his mouth coming down to suck my throat.
I felt near to tears again, overwhelmed with emotion and all the sensations that went along with having hot, angry sex with my husband.
“Then what do you think it means that I’m fucking my wife on a desk that I bought with her?”
That was the problem.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Was it some kind of filthy erotic game for him?
Tearing me down just to fuck me afterward in all my humiliation and rage?
I was simultaneously so hot and angry and turned on that I couldn’t think straight.
All I could focus on was Ford’s cock, pumping in and out as he rode me hard on top of the desk he’d bought with Claudia in Paris.
“Ford,” I cried out.
“That’s right,” he said, driving himself even deeper.
“I’m your husband. I’m your fucking husband and I’m fucking your tight, sweet little pussy on this desk.”
It creaked beneath us, each thrust knocking it against the wall.
I never thought I’d be into hate sex, but I loved how it made me feel.
How heightened it all was.
How powerful I felt, that I could drive Ford to this point, where he was practically out of control with desire for me.
Because that’s how I felt with him.
Out of control.
He gripped my hips and fucked me even harder, watching my breasts bounce with every thrust.
I was completely naked and he was still fully dressed.
He ducked his head to take my nipple in his mouth and I moaned as he nipped me with his teeth.
That combination of pleasure and pain was everything I wanted and only Ford knew how to give it to me.
I knew I’d never ever find a man that could satisfy me the way that he did.
I still didn’t know what he was trying to do, what he thought he was accomplishing with all of this.
Was it just a hot love triangle in his mind?
Making me jealous while remembering what it had been like with Claudia, secretly comparing me to her while he fucked me?
Or was he trying to show me how trivial all these objects were to him?
Was he tainting his memories of her on purpose?
I didn’t have any answers.
All I had was the sweet ache between my legs, the delicious feel of Ford’s perfect cock, his breath against my ear, bringing me closer and closer to climaxing.
I wrapped my legs higher around his waist, leaning back, letting him go even deeper.
“More,” I murmured.
“Give me more.”
He let out a grunt and I could sense that he was close.
Hot little sparks were firing off inside my pussy, and I knew when I came—and soon—it would be explosive.
The pleasure was barreling toward me, building in my lower belly, making my toes curl as my legs tightened around Ford.
As if he could sense I was about to come, he started fucking me faster.
My head was banging against the wall now, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t care that this was the desk he’d bought with Claudia.
I didn’t even care if he had done exactly the same thing with her on it that he was doing with me.
Right now, all I cared about was chasing my release.
I needed it.
“Come for me, Emzee. I want to feel that pussy clench around my cock,” Ford said.
It was enough to push me over the edge.
I gasped, coming hard and fast around his cock, doing exactly as he requested.
As my body contracted in tight bursts, he let out a hoarse cry and spilled his seed into me, the two of us moaning as we slumped back onto the desk.
As we caught our breath, I realized that even though Ford might never give me any solid answers about Claudia, he’d still given me a fantastic orgasm.
Considering the terms of our relationship, that would have to be enough.