Chapter 7 #2
Yet, his hands—one resting possessively on my thigh, the other steadying my waist—held me with a confidence that made me feel light, almost delicate.
The heat of his body seeped into mine, sparking an electric current I hated to acknowledge, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach that betrayed my resolve.
His touch, firm yet careful, ignited a warmth I didn’t want to feel, a dangerous pull that made my breath catch.
I squirmed, not out of disgust but out of fear—fear that he’d soon mock my weight, that this moment of tenderness was a prelude to cruelty.
“Let me go,” I said, pushing against him, but his grip tightened, keeping me pinned to his lap.
“You’re hungry, no?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft, his hand on my thigh sending a shiver up my spine that I couldn’t suppress.
“I... I am...” I stammered, my usual fire flickering under the weight of his proximity. “But I don’t want to eat here.”
My boldness had evaporated, replaced by a strange, disarming vulnerability, as if his touch had siphoned my defiance.
His left hand remained on my thigh, a steady anchor, while his right hand reached for his spoon, scooping a portion of his bland risotto.
He raised it to my lips, the gesture so intimate it felt like a violation.
I turned my head sharply, glaring at the spoon. “I don’t need you to feed me. And I don’t like food without spice—I made my own.”
He set the spoon down with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m hungry too,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.
“Then eat,” I shot back, gesturing to his untouched plate.
He grunted, a low, primal sound, and leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Not for this,” he said, nodding at the risotto. “For you, my wife.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, a fierce blush I couldn’t hide, and I tried to stand, desperate to escape before he saw how his words affected me.
But his hands tightened, keeping me firmly in place, and I felt it—a subtle shift beneath me, the unmistakable hardening of his arousal pressing against me through his trousers.
My breath caught, heat and heartbreak colliding as flashes of that night—his touch, his whisper, the way he held me like I was salvation—flooded my mind.
The passion, the intensity—and the abandonment that followed.
He’d left me after that, vanishing for months, leaving me to drown in loneliness and doubt.
He was my husband, yes, but I wouldn’t be his toy, used and discarded again.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I declared, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.
He smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We’ll see.”
He released me, his hands lingering a moment too long before falling away. “Go on, eat your food. But it’s happening here, right in front of me.”
I seized the chance to scramble off his lap, my heart pounding as I moved to the opposite side of the table where my tray waited.
I reached for it, intent on fleeing, but his voice cut through the air, heavy with dominance. “You will eat here, Penelope.”
Though he hadn’t raised his voice, the command carried a weight that made me flinch.
My body betrayed me, sinking into the chair as if drawn by an invisible force, my resolve crumbling under his gaze.
I could feel his eyes on me, a relentless pressure boring into my skin, watching every move as I lifted the sandwich to my lips.
The spicy mustard burned my tongue, a small act of rebellion, but his stare unnerved me.
I tried to feign boldness, focusing on the food, but my hands trembled slightly with each bite.
By the third sip of espresso, the ritual of eating grounded me, and I let myself relax, my stomach finally filling.
As I snipped at the sandwich, I glanced up, expecting to find him preoccupied with his own meal—but his eyes were still locked on me, unblinking, as if he drew more satisfaction from watching me eat than from anything on his own plate.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, the crisp linen cool against my lips, and met his gaze, my heart stuttering under the intensity.
“I should leave,” I said, pushing my chair back.
“And leave your husband stranded?” His tone was mocking, his lips curving into a faint, cruel smile.
“Stranded, huh?” I let out a dry chuckle, standing fully now. “I’m not making the same mistake twice, no matter how much you tempt me. You left me, Dmitri. And you’ll do it again the moment I give you what you want.”
“Sit,” he ordered, his voice a whip-crack of authority.
I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor, his glare pinning me in place.
Slowly, I lowered myself back into the chair, hating how easily he could pull me into compliance, how my own body betrayed me by obeying. “I won’t let you—”
“I heard you, Penelope.” His voice sliced through mine like a blade, rough, the muscles in his forearm flexing as his fist curled against the table.
Veins rose beneath his skin, a map of restrained violence.
He leaned forward, the air between us tightening, his presence eclipsing everything else.
The scent of his cologne, the dark weight of his stare—it was like being dragged beneath a wave you couldn’t fight.
“You’re my wife,” he murmured, the words more dangerous for how quiet they were. “And sex isn’t something you get to dangle over me like a weapon.”
“Well, I didn’t become your wife by choice, did I?” I fired back, my voice steady but my fingers gripping the edge of the chair like claws. “I’m more like a prisoner in your gilded cage.”
His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking as something flickered across his face—anger, guilt, maybe both. “You have access to everything I own,” he said, his tone hard but quieter now, like he was holding himself back. “Every privilege a boss’s wife could want. And you still call yourself a prisoner?”
I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “A cage lined with silk is still a cage.”
His eyes darkened, the blue deepening into something cold and dangerous.
His hand twitched slightly on the table, a subtle warning beneath the ice of his tone. “Would you rather I took my desire elsewhere?” The words were slow, deliberate, a razor hidden in silk. “Tell me, Penelope—should I be hunting someone else while you sulk in defiance?”
“I swear, if you cheat, I’ll do the same,” I said, each word deliberate, a blade I didn’t quite know how to wield.
My pulse hammered but my chin stayed high.
He went still. The kind of stillness that felt like a gun being cocked. When he finally leaned back, it was slow, predatory, his knuckles pale against the table.
A smirk tugged at his mouth, cold and merciless. “No,” he murmured. “You won’t.”
“Yes,” I shot back, softer but steadier, daring him anyway. “I will.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a predator’s patience, his jaw flexing as though grinding down the taste of his own rage.
Then—crack—his palms slammed against the table.
The sound ricocheted through the room, a fork skittering off the edge and clattering to the floor.
Before I could draw a breath, he was moving—three long, lethal strides—and suddenly he was there, looming over me.