8. Stefan
STEFAN
All I could think about was white lace. White lace, rosy pink nipples, those lush, supple curves begging to be touched.
Dominated. Owned. In that lingerie she’d looked like a fine dessert.
Gleaming behind glass, utterly tantalizing, and just out of reach.
In a flash, my mind had been flooded with visions of laying her down on the bed and spreading her open to eat and eat and eat.
The only thing holding me back had been my master self-control.
I was pretty sure Tori thought I hadn’t been paying attention—that I didn’t bother to look up when she came out of the bathroom. But I had. And I’d seen her. I’d seen everything.
My dick was still hard.
As I walked the streets in the cold, clear night air, I scolded myself to get it together before I reached my final destination.
It was no easy task, though—and I was pretty sure I’d have that image of Tori, standing there radiating sex and innocence, burned into my memory forever.
I’d been with plenty of drop-dead gorgeous women in my life, had scores of dirty sexy memories stored up—but for some reason, all I could think about was my new wife.
She was just so fucking irresistible with her guileless blue eyes and that ripe virgin body.
I wanted to put my mouth over every inch of her.
Wanted to bite and suck until she begged, until I left my mark.
Until she couldn’t go out in public without everyone seeing that she’d been branded. Claimed. Fucked into submission.
But it was an indulgence I was determined to deny myself.
It had been damn near impossible to walk away that afternoon when I’d caught her in the shower. I could see her again now, fingering herself under the steaming water with her head thrown back, squeezing her perfect tits together with the other hand.
I knew I’d left her confused and hurt when I had walked out the door. But that wasn’t my problem. She knew what she’d been getting into with this marriage.
Though I had to admit, her determination to go to college had been unexpected. Most women would have been more than happy to get a lifetime of expensive clothes, luxury vacations and priceless jewels in exchange for agreeing to the deal.
Apparently, Tori wanted more.
She had focus and drive. I respected that. Hell, I admired it.
But I had to focus on KZM right now. Too many people were counting on me. I didn’t have time for a real marriage. A real relationship. I wasn’t going to let Tori distract me.
I was so lost in thought that I was startled to realize I’d arrived.
Every time I came to Vienna, I made sure to visit this pub.
It had an otherworldly vibe I appreciated, the ceiling design like abstract origami and dim, recessed lighting that allowed its patrons relative privacy.
It was the kind of place where no one would pay attention to you, where everyone just seemed to fade away into the shadows.
It suited me perfectly.
Marco was waiting on a stool at the bar, the report I had requested poking out of his bag.
“Is this everything?” I asked, grabbing the thick file.
“Everything from the last month,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey in his hand.
I gestured to the bartender for a glass of the same as I flipped through the pages, not exactly sure what I was looking for.
I’d been searching for months now. Years.
“She’s not in Vienna,” I stated.
Marco shook his head. “Nor in Bratislava, Graz, or Budapest. She’s not in Brno, or Prague, or Krakow, or Katowice. And she’s definitely not in Dresden. I wish it was better news.”
The sheets of paper in my hand confirmed all he was saying, but in more detail.
“Fuck.” I tossed the file onto the bar, frustration building inside of me.
Marco took another sip of his drink. Mine arrived and I ran a hand through my hair before downing nearly the entire thing. I stared at the file on the bar, debating what to do next. Marco said nothing but I knew he was waiting for my orders. For the next step.
That’s when I realized my motives had changed. I had promised myself I’d never stop looking for her, but now I was more curious than anything. What had I said to Tori that very afternoon? About curiosity killing the cat?
Maybe it was time to take a break, focus on work. My father would never retire unless he thought my full attention would be on KZ Modeling, and right now it obviously wasn’t. Besides, work was something I could control. As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t control this investigation.
“Shall we keep looking?” Marco asked.
I finished my whiskey and shook my head.
“Put the project on hold for now.”
Marco’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing. He knew better than to question my orders. That’s why I put him in charge of things like this. Projects of a more personal disposition.
I gathered up the file. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to pick it back up again,” I said.
It was a dismissal. Marco gave a short nod and got up from the bar, leaving me alone. I gestured for another whiskey, my fingers tapping the bar.
But it wasn’t the report I was thinking about. It wasn’t work, either.
Sitting in a hotel room all by herself was my innocent, nubile bride. Probably fuming about her distant, asshole husband.
The things I wanted to do to her…
I savored my drink, not caring that I was getting buzzed. Usually I didn’t drink to excess, but tonight, well, tonight I was on my fucking honeymoon. Spending it alone in a bar, chasing ghosts and fantasizing about my hot, virgin wife. The wife I couldn’t touch.
I leaned back and allowed myself a moment to imagine what I might do to Tori if she wasn’t an innocent.
If she wasn’t so pure. So sweet. So inexperienced.
I thought about her face during the opera, how captivated she had been—how her hand had reached for mine.
I shouldn’t have taken it. Shouldn’t have encouraged her na?ve romantic fantasies.
She wanted what I could never give her: Connection. Intimacy. Trust. That much was clear from the questions she’d been asking me, all her attempts to get to know me better.
If she knew who I really was—and what she’d married into—she’d stop asking. She’d stop trying to find romance in this arrangement. Because that’s what it was. An arrangement. It wasn’t a real marriage and it definitely wasn’t a fucking romance. It was a contract.
Still, I couldn’t help the fantasies whirling through my mind.
I imagined stalking back into the hotel room, finding her still wearing that lace lingerie. Waiting for me to give her a lesson on what it means to please a man.
Her body was perfect—supple and athletic, with just the right amount of curves.
I’d start by ripping the lingerie off, leaving her naked and vulnerable while I stood there fully dressed, fully in command.
I’d force her onto her knees, and when she looked up at me with those big blue eyes I’d whip my cock out, shoving it so deep down her throat that she’d choke on it.
My wife would learn how to suck cock, and she’d love every second of it.
After I had my fill I’d push her up against the wall, my hand finding the smooth, soft skin between her legs. Her pussy would be wet for me. So fucking wet.
There’d be no resistance when I stroked her, her clit aching for my touch.
I’d pump my fingers into her until she arched against my hand, begging for release, but I wouldn’t let her come.
Instead I’d spin her around, shove her against the wall before unzipping and slamming into her.
It would be rough and fast and fucking hot as hell.
She’d be moaning and clenching that tight cunt around me with each thrust.
Fuck.
If I knew what was good for me, I’d put those fantasies away.
Permanently. I wouldn’t keep torturing myself with thoughts of her on her knees, her pouting little mouth wrapped around my cock.
Or her riding me, her virgin pussy squeezing me hard as she came, losing her mind over the first orgasm she’d ever had with a man inside her.
Or taking her from behind, her hands fisting the blankets as I gripped her hips and jackhammered her into moaning submission.
I knew that I needed to stop thinking about her—and if I knew what was good for me, I’d ignore her completely.
But if there was one thing I’d learned by now, it was that I didn’t give a damn what was good for me.