Chapter 17
TIERNEY
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay today?” I ask when Connor hugs me.
He gives me a squeeze and pulls away.
“Stop worrying, Tier. I can’t take a piss without those two knowing about it.”
He points to the plain clothed security waiting at his apartment door.
“All I’m doing is meeting with admissions advisors about transferring my credits and then taking a tour of the university. That’s it.”
“Fine.” I fold my arms across my chest and follow him out. “Just be careful.”
We all get in the elevator and sink to the forty-second floor, where I get out alone and offer my brother a two-finger salute as the doors slide shut.
Apparently, I’m allowed to move around the condo on my own because the Viacava security has cameras on every floor and in every service area.
Watched freedom is still a cage.
Bronx left first thing this morning wearing a tailored suit and a cologne that made my pulse race. He didn’t touch me before he went. Didn’t try to kiss me. Didn’t even say anything to annoy me.
Just a quiet, “See you later, wife.”
And somehow that restraint rattled me more than his presence ever did.
I’m wearing sweats over my gym gear and my hair scraped back. The version of me I’m used to that throws punches instead of drinking champagne at charity events.
When I swipe my access card and step into the gym, I sigh heavily, more out of appreciation for the setup.
It’s clean and private with no one else around. High-end equipment dots the space, and wall mirrors reflect the soft lighting.
I need this time to kick the shit out of the bags and burn off the tension.
Because last night, I was far too close to Bronx… so close I almost kissed him.
Me… Kissing him.
My jaw tightens as I wrap my hands. The tape pulls snug around my knuckles, grounding me.
I shouldn’t almost kiss that man. But the way he looked at me and pointed out how happy I looked… the way he noticed it… That wasn’t a guy with a strategy. It was a husband noticing the insignificant details.
I square up to the heavy bag and drive my fist into it hard enough to make the chains rattle.
Pain is simple, whereas my attraction to Bronx isn’t.
Another punch comes harder.
As the days have passed, I’m finding it harder to pull away from him. Harder to resist the temptation of his lips, and the worst part is that I’ve forgotten all about Damien.
Like the moments we shared didn’t matter and whatever we had was a flicker compared to the fire burning in my gut now.
I slam my fist into the bag again, breath coming faster.
If I don’t beat this out of my system now, I might lose control when I need to keep myself in check.
The bag swings once I’m done with it. I unwrap my hands and move to the free weights, loading more than I should onto the bar.
If I’m going to distract myself, I’ll do it properly.
The metal bites into my palms as I bench press, arms trembling on the last rep.
Sweat slides down my temple and disappears into my hairline. My shoulders shake and I grit my teeth, offering one final, shaky push.
After a brutal circuit, I cross to the pull-up bar, jump, and grip it with both hands, letting my body hang, muscles elongate and stretch.
Just as I engage to pull myself up, another body moves into my space.
Bronx jumps up and grips the bar on either side of my hands, his face before mine.
“I’m trying to work out, Bronx,” I say, already feeling my pulse change.
He grins. “Me too.”
He’s in fitted sportswear, a black top clinging to his chest, the armholes loose and wide, revealing his inked muscles.
“Why are you back so soon?” I ask.
“There’s a storm coming,” he replies, his gaze locked on mine. “I didn’t want to get stuck in traffic and leave my wife alone for too long.”
“That wouldn’t have been a problem.”
I pull myself up and he matches my rhythm.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
The movement brings us closer at the top, foreheads almost level. His breath caresses my face, minty and warm, and his pupils flare.
The muscles in my shoulders burn, but I refuse to show weakness.
At the top of the next pull, our noses almost collide and, for a racing heartbeat, it feels less like exercise and more like he’s teasing me.
I think about dragging my tongue across his lips, then lower, release the bar and head for the treadmill.
“When’s the storm hitting?” I ask, setting the incline and speed to a decent walking pace.
“It’s already here,” he says.
It’s hard to tell what the weather is like outside when the windows have a dark tint and the ambient lighting holds the gym in a relaxed glow.
While I walk, he sets up the weights at his rig and lifts heavy.
He curls heavy dumbbells, his forearms flexing, veins popping, and ink shifting with the movement.
I look away.
Then glance back.
His jaw tightens as he lifts, his focus locked on his form. I tell myself to stop watching and mutter a curse when his shirt rides up a fraction as he changes the movement and reaches overhead.
As I’m gawking, he glances at me. A flick of his eyes and a faint smirk twitch when he catches me.
He racks the weights and wipes his face with a towel, his gaze still locked on mine.
The lights flicker and a roll of thunder booms.
“That’s me done,” I say.
The treadmill comes to a stop, and I hop off, then do a few stretches to release the stiffness in my muscles.
I don’t look back as I head to the female changing rooms and strip. Even though my body feels good after working out, my veins are thrumming and the throb in my core is pulsating.
All I wanted was some time to be me, and my infuriating husband had to show up and parade around like the full-blown Bronx Viacava experience.
I grab a towel and move to the shower, turning on the hot water and waiting for it to heat. The lights flicker again, and a distant rumble of thunder follows.
Ignoring the storm, I step under the jets and stand there while the water pummels my hard-worked shoulders.
The lights blink once. Twice. Then cuts out.
Darkness swallows the room. The water runs cold a second later, and I gasp at the shock, stumbling back a step.
“Fuck!” I yelp, not able to see a damn thing.
“Tierney.” Bronx’s voice cuts through the darkness.
The shower room door opens, and faint emergency lighting bleeds in.
“You okay?” he asks. “The storm must have cut the power.”
I hate that my first instinct is relief that he’s here.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I hiss at him, teeth chattering.
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Don’t bother. I’m fine.”
Of course he doesn’t listen. I can hear his sneakers on the tile.
“You screamed. Thought you might be scared of the dark.”
“You’d scream if your shower water was freezing.”
Another crack of thunder rolls outside, and the whisper-soft emergency lighting flickers just as he appears before me, still dressed in his gym gear, although this time, the shadows give him a lethal vibe, like a man who’s coming for blood.
My breath stutters, whether from the cold or him, I’m not sure.
He steps into the shower with me as the water temperature goes from freezing to lukewarm.
“Get the hell out,” I snap, shoving him with my shoulder.
He doesn’t budge, his silhouette cutting through the soft haze. I hear the wet slap of fabric as he fists his top, yanks it up and over his head in one rough motion.
The shirt lands somewhere behind him, and his hands drop to his shorts, shoving them down fast and kicking them off his ankles.
Now he’s naked, heat rolling off him in waves that clash with the tepid spray. The faint light glints off the water sluicing down his skin, and God help me, I want to take a bite.
“I said get out.” I press my hands to his warm chest and push.
He catches my wrists in an iron grip, pinning them against the cold tile above my head. His body crowds mine, trapping me between him and the wall.
Water pounds down between us, rivulets tracing paths over our skin. His thick dick presses against my stomach, and I hate the way my thighs clench in response.
“You’re late on your end of the deal,” he growls, voice a rumble and edged with that smug certainty that makes me want to slap him.
“Every day. Shower with me. That’s what you agreed to when I made you smile. Time to pay up.”
My laugh is throaty, and a little choked.
“One stupid smile and you think that means I owe you? I told you before I won’t fall for your games. There’s nothing happening between us.”
“Liar.” He leans in closer. “You wanted to kiss me again last night. I know you did. Just surrender to it, wife.”
A shiver runs through me when his coarse jaw scrapes my cheek.
“And for the record, a Viacava is always true to their word. Our shower deal is watertight,” he muses.
I twist against him, trying to wrench free. “Yeah, you won’t be laughing when you realize showering with me ends in you getting hurt.”
Our bodies collide, wet skin rubbing together, my breasts crushing against his solid chest, hips grinding as we wrestle.
“Come on then, hellcat,” he rasps. “Do your worst.”
Wildfire explodes where we touch, defying the water temperature. I lift my knee up toward his thigh, but he anticipates, shoving his leg between mine, forcing them apart.
His free hand clamps down on my hip, fingers digging in hard.
“Stop pretending you don’t want this,” he says, mouth hovering over mine.
“Bronx…” My voice cracks.
I buck against him again, our slick bodies sliding, every accidental brush of his cock against my core sending sparks up my spine.
When my hands fight his grip, his thigh nudged higher, right against where I’m already throbbing.
He yanks me tighter. “Kiss me, wife.”
His hand slides up, cupping my breast, thumb scraping over my nipple until it’s pebbled and I’m biting back a gasp.
“Kiss me and dig your nails into my back while I fuck you.”
I slap at his shoulder with my free hand, a weak, half-hearted slap that does nothing more than sting.
“I don’t fancy you,” I spit, but my hips rock against his thigh, chasing the friction despite myself.
The denial burns in my throat, tasting like pride and fear, even as hunger coils tighter in my belly.
His laugh is dark, mocking. “Yeah, you do.”
Then his mouth crashes onto mine so hard that I whimper.
On my next breath, he’s lifting me, both hands under my ass now, hauling me up. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
Cold tile bites into my shoulder blades as he slams me against it. His cock notches at my entrance and all my resistance fades.
“Say no,” he challenges, voice ragged, eyes locked on mine in the shadows. “Say you don’t want me inside you.”
I should. God, I should.
But this hunger isn’t new. It’s been building since the elevator in Bucharest. Since the way we fought together and then he let me go.
“Just fuck me already.”
“That’s it. Fight me while I do it. Make it hurt.”
He thrusts in with one brutal stroke that buries him deep. I cry out, the stretch oh so good, my inner walls clenching around him as my heart pounds.
Each thrust drives in deeper, grinding against that spot that makes my vision blur. I claw at his back, nails raking red lines down his shoulders.
“Fuck, yeah… mark me, wife,” he hisses, gripping my thighs harder, spreading me wider. “Mark me as yours and I’ll come inside you so you know you’re mine.”
“You don’t get to own a woman you didn’t even propose to.”
“Admit it,” he demands between gritted teeth. “You need this as badly as I do.”
“I need to scratch an itch,” I gasp as my head falls back, exposing my throat to his mouth. “That’s all.”
This isn’t just an itch, though. It’s me surrendering when I should keep my emotions locked away.
The water keeps falling, warmer now, perhaps heated by the fire inside me. He shifts, one hand sliding between us to pinch my clit, and that’s it.
A violent orgasm takes hold, ripping through me in waves that make me moan his name despite knowing better.
Bronx follows with a guttural curse, slamming home one last time, pulsing hot and deep inside me.
“Fuck me…” he grits. “I’ve wanted to do that since Bucharest.”
The words don’t come out smug or triumphant.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Rather, he keeps me pinned to the tile, to him, and presses his forehead against mine as our breathing slows.
In the dim light, I catch something in his eyes I haven’t seen before.
“Still think you don’t fancy me?” he murmurs, voice thick.
I swallow hard, the angst twisting like a knife.
“Just because we fucked doesn’t mean we put labels on things.”
Because if this continues, I’m the one walking away broken.
“Sure,” he says, lips brushing mine. “You can wear my ring, sleep in my bed, watch me when you think I don’t notice and now—” he grins “—take my cum. We won’t label any of it, wife.”
The generator kicks in, and light floods the shower room.
I unlock my legs and stand on shaky legs, doing my best to stand tall. “As long as we both understand each other.”
“I understand you enjoy showering with me.” He winks and I nibble my lower lip to hide a smile.
“I like water and sex, Bronx.” I move around him.
“Good to know,” he says over my shoulder.
I leave him to wash his hair and wrap a towel around my chest, noticing how the attraction still simmers and the ache in my core still burns hot.
Truth is, I walked into this marriage ready to fight a monster. But somewhere along the way, I caught feelings for him instead.
Connor’s out there planning his future, building a life while I’m losing myself to the man who controls us both. And I don’t know if that makes me weak or completely fucked.
Either way, there’s no going back now.
My guard slipped, and I let him in.
And God help me, I want to do it all over again.