Chapter 17 #2
“Yeah?” he murmurs, “how do you plan to thank me?”
My pulse kicks, but I hold his gaze steady. Then I smile—slow, syrupy, the kind that always makes men lean in before they fall.
“Maybe I could wrap my mouth around my husband's big fat dick right when the orchestra hits its crescendo. Or… maybe I’d just pat him on the back and offer a sweet O’Callaghan smile.”
The grin he gives me in return isn’t kind. It’s carnal. “That dirty-talking mouth of yours… it belongs to Mrs. Viacava.”
“You think that would make my mouth any less lethal?”
I hold his gaze just long enough to make sure he knows I want him thinking about me sucking him off before I wave a very small white flag.
“Anyway… Thanks for acting like a real husband and picking something I’ll actually enjoy. It’s been a long time since I’ve—” Stopping myself from opening up, I turn my face toward the window as the car rolls to a smooth stop in front of Lincoln Center.
Outside, there are bright lights. Dangerous crowds and waiting flashbulbs.
The car door opens, and the sounds of the city rush inside. Photographers hang out behind velvet ropes, lenses lifted, waiting for a shot worth publishing. And shots of this union are worth big bucks.
Kingston takes the lead and steps out first, a wall of tailored black and restrained power.
Checking out the surroundings, he bends and offers his hand to me because he always has to control how I enter the public beside him.
Playing my part, I set my hand in his and ignore the rush I get from being next to a handsome man like him while the crowd shouts for his attention.
His hand moves to the small of my back, the pressure firm and unmistakably possessive. A silent warning to anyone watching that I belong to him, even if false vows are the only thing binding us.
His body presses tight to mine, the protective weight of his presence unsubtle and deeply intimate.
Flashbulbs spark like tiny explosions around us as we walk toward the entrance.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Smile, wife. Not for them—for me.”
I gaze up at him and find myself willingly obeying because I can’t help myself.
Inside the grand lobby, the hush of prestige replaces the mayhem of the street. An older man in a tux steps forward the second we enter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Viacava,” he says. “We’re honored to have you join us this evening. Please follow me.”
Kingston nods once, the barest motion of acknowledgment, then guides me forward, still keeping that steady hand at the base of my spine.
We’re led up a private staircase, down a long corridor, and into a private balcony that’s wide and grand, with sweeping views of the stage below.
Between two plush armchairs sits a small table and a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.
For a moment, I forget how to be cool. Or even angry at my situation because this is somewhere I used to dream about and being here now knocks the breath from my lungs.
I giggle, absolutely giddy despite myself.
“I always dreamed I’d be here one day.” I walk to the railing, fingertips brushing the polished edge.
“I just never imagined it’d be in heels instead of with a violin in my hands.
My da hated hearing me practice. He threatened to break my violin one day, but my ma let me play when he wasn’t around. ”
I glance back at Kingston, expecting the usual cocky smirk on his gorgeous face. Instead, he offers me the rarest of smiles.
Not the cold, strategic curl of his lips I’ve come to expect from him. Rather it’s a genuine curl of his lips that tells me he’s not performing.
“Glad I could make your dreams come true,” he says.
Before I can reply, the house lights dim and the crowd takes a collective breath in anticipation.
Goosebumps shower my scalp when the first aching notes of Mahler’s Fifth rise from the pit like smoke, haunting, beautiful, and impossibly powerful in the hush of the room.
I close my eyes and for a moment I absorb the emotions, letting myself belong.
After a few minutes, I back up and sink into the velvet armchair beside him, hands resting in my lap. The lights cast everything in warm gold and shadow, cloaking us in the illusion of privacy as if we’re alone in a cathedral built for music and secrets.
Below, the conductor raises his baton, and the orchestra plays as one.
Strings pull the silence apart, one beautiful note at a time, and something in my chest loosens. Pure joy eclipses the war I’ve been thrown into and I forget about the hate in my heart.
Music wraps around me, dark and chaotic. Horns clash with violins, cellos weep beneath violas. It’s war and grief and devotion. A haunting mash-up of all the emotions bubbling in my chest.
Although Kingston doesn’t move, his gaze is heavy and focused on me, adding another layer to this moment in a way the music never could.
I sit still as long as I can, trying to pretend the music fills the burning ache he started within me weeks ago. That I’m immune to the fire dancing under my skin.
But his heat radiates beside me and a fire spreads through my veins.
Taking a deep breath, almost in a trance woven by bowstrings and desire, I rise from my chair and kneel in the space between his knees.
My dress puddles around me in silken waves and my fingers reach for his belt buckle.
Kingston doesn’t push me away when I ease the zipper down, every motion drawn out as the music surges through my chest, amplifying my heartbeat.
When I glance up, his gaze pins me in place, those dark eyes full of secrets. However, there’s one thing he can’t hide, and that’s the hitch to his breath when I open his dress pants and tug down his boxers to access his full, thick dick.
Biting my lower lip, I keep eye contact, loving how his features are shadowed and tight with restraint, like a man too proud to admit he needs more.
The notes rise again, crashing into the hall like thunder. I let hunger build in my core and split the cracks that duty and vows have carved.
My fingers wrap around his throbbing dick, and then I spit on the tip to make the friction slippery.
Kingston draws in a sharp breath but stays in control. And that’s exactly what I want to destroy.
I lower my face and swipe leaking precum with my tongue before engulfing his dick halfway, careful not to choke on the length.
As I take it in my throat, inch by inch, my stomach reflexes heave the deeper it goes, and all I can think about is the ring on my finger and how this man is mine… for a while.
No one else shares his home or carries the title of Kingston Viacava’s wife.
It’s both a privilege and a curse.
However, right now, I have power in this dynamic, and I fucking relish how his hands clench the arms of his chair.
His jaw locks tight and his hips lift, burying his dick deeper into my throat until I’m gagging and tears spill from the corners of my eyes.
When hot spurts of cum burst into my mouth, warm and violent, I take every last drop. Releasing him as I swallow, I hold his gaze the entire time and wipe the corners of my mouth.
He leans forward, hooks his hands under my arms, and drags me onto his lap.
His mouth crashes over mine, devouring the taste of his own release, tongue and teeth and need twisting into something filthy and possessive.
I kiss him back just as hard as the crowd erupts in applause below and the curtain falls.
However, wrapped in triumph and silk, I start to think I’m the one losing because the influence I just had over him, for one breathless moment, doesn’t compare to the dangerous fact he has far more power over me than I’d ever be willing to admit.