Chapter 24 #2
His brow furrowed, suspicion clouding the heat in his eyes. “Why?” he asked, voice cautious.
Yet his body betrayed him—his jaw tightened, his chest rising faster, his hand twitching like it ached to touch me.
“Because,” I said, holding his gaze, “no matter what you’ve turned me into, I’m still your wife.”
He inhaled sharply.
Then, to my surprise, he shook his head. “No,” he said, voice strained but certain. “I want you—every second of every damn day. I dream of you under me, gasping, clawing, mine. But not like this. Not when everything between us is poison.”
“Poison?” I bit out, my anger flaring. “You can’t touch me because of guilt. Because deep down, you know you’ve gone too far.”
Before he could speak, I reached behind me, unclasped my bra, and let it fall soundlessly between us.
The air hit my skin, sharp and cold.
His eyes darkened but he didn’t move.
“Milaya,” he groaned, the word breaking on his tongue.
My love.
My curse.
He leaned forward, drawn by something neither of us could name, but I pressed a trembling finger against his chest, stopping him.
“Stay still,” I whispered, my voice a mix of command and plea.
His heartbeat thudded against my fingertip, steady and violent.
For a second, the world narrowed to that single rhythm.
This—this moment—was my last act of defiance. My last illusion of power. The only thing I could take from the man who had broken me, from the life that had stolen my innocence.
I slid off my trousers, then my g-string, until I stood stark naked before him, my skin prickling under his gaze.
His eyes were desperate, veins popping in his hands and forehead, his body taut with restraint, as if I’d cast a spell to keep him frozen.
“Milaya...” he growled again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the room.
“Patience.” I said, a teasing edge to my voice as I reached for his singlet, pulling it off to reveal the hard planes of his chest, the bandage on his arm stark against his skin.
I tugged at his trousers, freeing his erection, hard and straining, a testament to his hunger.
I held it, my fingers wrapping around its warmth, and bent my head, lifting my eyes to meet his.
His expression was raw, tortured, as if I were punishing him with every touch.
My lips brushed the tip of his cock, and he growled, the sound reverberating through the room, a primal roar of need.
I took him into my mouth, slowly at first, my tongue tracing the sensitive skin, drawing another groan from deep in his chest.
I had no experience, but I’d read enough erotic novels to guide me, each movement deliberate, fueled by a mix of desire and vengeance.
I sucked harder, my lips sliding down his length, his hands twitching as if fighting the urge to grab me.
“Don’t.” I ordered, my voice muffled but firm, and he obeyed, his fingers clenching into fists.
My mind churned—Seraphina, his plan to marry her, to divorce me once I was gone.
The betrayal stung, fueling my movements, my mouth working him with fierce intensity.
I hated that I thought of her, hated the jealousy burning in my chest, the irrational urge to find her, to press a gun to her head and demand she leave him.
I sucked harder, the pressure building, a storm of anger, pain, and pleasure I couldn’t untangle.
I wanted this moment to be mine, to claim him one last time, even as I carried his child, a secret he’d never know.
His hand landed on the back of my head, and this time I didn’t stop him, letting his fingers tangle in my hair as he groaned, “Milaya... Milaya... God...”
His body tensed, and a rush of hot, thick liquid flooded my throat, burning as it slid down my esophagus.
I didn’t let a drop escape, sucking until he was spent, his breaths ragged, his body trembling.
I pulled back, my hand stroking him, his cock hardening again under my touch.
I climbed onto him, straddling his hips, positioning myself so my pussy enveloped him, hot and slick.
This would be our last time, and I wanted it seared into my memory, a final act before I learned to forget him.
I rode him, my hips grinding, his hands gripping my waist, guiding my movements with a desperate strength.
My breasts bounced with each thrust, his gaze locked on them, his grip tightening as he groaned, “Eyes on me, Milaya.” It was a command, not a request, and I obeyed, my hands pressing into his chest, nails digging into his skin as I fucked him with an aggression born of pain and need.
His cock drove deep, touching the core of me, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through my body.
His hands slid to my ass, his fingers digging in, the pressure amplifying the heat building inside me.
I rode him harder, faster, my body slamming against his, the bed creaking under our rhythm.
The pleasure climbed, a tidal wave cresting, and I pushed harder, my movements frantic, until I shattered, my orgasm ripping through me like a storm.
I screamed, my voice raw, my body trembling as waves of release pulsed over his cock, leaving me breathless, spent.
I collapsed beside him, panting, my chest heaving as I tried to blank my mind.
He was sending me away for another woman, planning to divorce me, while I carried his child, a secret that burned in my silence.
The pain was a knife, twisting deeper, but I’d heal in New York, I told myself, away from him, away from this.
“Milaya,” he said, his voice gentle, his hand reaching for my face. I flinched, shoving his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re crying,” he said, his tone soft, concerned.
I turned away, curling into myself, my naked body pressed against the sheets as I wiped the tears streaking my cheeks.
“We just fucked, Penelope—why are you crying?” His voice was low, confusion and frustration warring in it.
His hand twitched at his side as if resisting the urge to grab my chin and force me to look at him. “What did I do this time?”
He exhaled sharply, the sound rough. “Tell me what’s hurting before I lose my fucking mind.”
I stayed silent, my lips pressed tight.
He was seriously asking? After everything—his lies, Seraphina, the dark room that had nearly killed me?
His hand found my waist, and I flinched again, screaming, “Get your hands off me! Don’t you dare touch me!”
But his grip remained firm, pulling me against him, my body flush against his, his warmth seeping into my skin.
The heat between us was a silent passion, a current of unspoken longing and pain, his chest pressed to my back, his breath fanning my ear, stirring a flutter in my belly I hated.
“Penelope,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, sending shivers down my spine.
I didn’t answer, couldn’t. His voice, his touch, unraveled me, and I hated how much I craved it.
“If you don’t want to leave tomorrow, you can stay,” he said, his tone softer than I’d ever heard.
“I’m leaving,” I said, my voice resolute, though my heart wavered.
My actions were a contradiction—seducing him, breaking down after, driven by a foolish love I couldn’t kill.
Distance would heal me, I told myself, and force me to stop loving him.
I tried to wiggle free, but his arms tightened, his voice a plea. “Please... Just... stay. Sleep here, in my arms. Tonight, that’s all I’m asking.”
Why was he being gentle now, on my last night?
I stopped fighting, letting his embrace hold me, the warmth of his naked skin against mine a cruel comfort.
I hated how safe it felt, how soothing, the way our bodies fit together like pieces of a broken puzzle.
I hated the ache in my chest, the longing to wake like this every morning, to sleep like this every night.
Quiet tears slipped down my cheeks, silent in the dark.
He’d always hate me, for betrayals I didn’t commit, for my family’s sins I was innocent of. That much was clear.
As I lay there, wrapped in his arms, I mourned the love we’d lost, the future we’d never have, and the child he’d never know—a secret that would follow me to New York, where I’d learn to heal, to forget, even as my heart broke for the man I couldn’t stop loving.