Chapter 16 Sean
Sean
The guilt crashes through me. She doesn’t deserve what I just did to her.
This isn’t her fault. This is our father’s, and I’m taking it out on her in ways that I should be ashamed of.
I turn back to the car, but she is already climbing out into the middle of the road, looking like a goddamn princess in her big white dress.
I’ve tried not to look, tried not to pay any attention to her whatsoever, but now, in this one single moment where the weak sun catches the diamonds at her ears, and the moment after that where she picks up the dress to walk to the pavement with a stiff back, all I can think of is my cum running down her thighs.
It angers me.
It turns me on like a fucking light.
It makes me want to kill the driver who saw her grinding over my cock.
It makes me want to drink because she isn’t mine.
She bears my name, she wears the ring I didn’t buy her but unceremoniously shoved onto her finger. But she isn’t mine.
“Let’s go,” I say stiffly when she stops next to me. I hold my hand out for her.
She takes it, her skin like fucking porcelain.
But looks are deceiving. She crushes my hand in her grip, like I did to her, and pulls me closer.
“If you even so much as look at a glass in there, I’m going to gut you like a fucking fish. Do not embarrass me.”
Looking into those cold, green eyes, I know she means every word. She’s a killer in white lace, and for a second, the heat in my veins isn’t from the anger or the sex, but from the sheer, unadulterated madness of her.
“Don’t worry, stór,” I sneer, leaning in close enough to brush my lips against her ear.
To the onlookers watching from the hotel steps, it’s a whisper of devotion; to us, it’s a declaration of war.
“I know how to play the part. Just try not to look like my cum is sliding down your thighs while the photographers are snapping away.”
Her soft gasp is enough to know I’ve hit where I was aiming.
I straighten my cuffs. The fabric feels like a straitjacket over my skin, and I lead her toward the grand entrance.
The doors swing open, and we step into the ballroom.
The air smells of expensive perfume and hypocrisy.
It’s a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns, a gathering of sharks pretending to be dolphins.
Immediately, a waiter drifts toward us, a silver tray laden with crystal flutes of…
sparkling water. The bubbles catch the light, dancing, mocking me.
My throat goes dry, a reflex I can’t control, the itch starting under my skin.
Ciara’s grip on my hand tightens, her nails digging into my flesh. She’s a physical tether to reality, painful and necessary.
“Thank fuck,” she murmurs so quietly, I barely hear her.
She was truly worried about this. Not about me, but about me losing control and embarrassing her.
Any guilt I felt over fucking her and denying her pleasure vanishes as I realize she is just like my father. I take a glass, the crystal cold against my sweating palm. It’s water. Just fucking water. I down it in one gulp, the bubbles burning a path down my throat that is screaming for whisky.
“Happy?” I mutter, slamming the empty flute back onto the tray with enough force to make the waiter jump.
Ciara doesn’t flinch. She just offers a tight, camera-ready smile to a passing couple she probably doesn’t even know. “Ecstatic,” she clips back, her voice low enough that only I can hear the venom. “Now, smile. Your father is watching.”
The old bastard is perched on his throne at the head table, watching his investment pay off. He sees a sober son and a docile daughter-in-law. He doesn’t see the wreckage inside the car or the fact that my blood is currently vibrating with the need to destroy something.
We move through the room like royalty, shaking hands that are too soft or too callous, accepting congratulations that are as empty as my stomach.
Ciara plays the part perfectly. She laughs at the right moments, tilts her head just so, her hand resting possessively on my bicep.
But I can feel the tension in her grip. She’s terrified I’m going to snap.
The worst part is, looking at the sea of faces waiting for me to fail, I’m not entirely sure I won’t.
I’m a grenade with the pin half-pulled, and she’s the one holding it tight, thinking her grip is enough to stop the explosion.
It’s not. I know without a fucking doubt that if there were booze here, I’d be three glasses deep by now. My hand trembles and my stomach clenches.
“Excuse me,” I mutter and pull away, striding across the ballroom to the men’s room located somewhere in the corridor according to the sign above the door.
Ciara’s laugh follows me, getting quieter as I push through the double doors and practically stumble towards the door that promises relief from the crushing force of this farce.
The music and laughter drift through as the doors open behind me, but I ignore them.
Probably Connor come to berate me into staying in line.
Heels clack, hurrying against the tile.
Ciara’s manicured hand clamps around my wrist as I push the doors to the men’s room open.
“Let go,” I growl.
“Not a fucking chance,” she snarls, sinking her claws in.
“What? I can’t even piss by myself?”
The elderly gentleman at the urinal looks over, eyes wide as the not-so-blushing bride steamrolls her way into the men’s space.
“Eyes on your dick,” she clips at him, without even glancing in his direction.
He obeys and averts his gaze, probably wishing he could pee faster just to get out of here. I try to shake her off, but she tightens her grip even more, drawing blood with those vicious points on her nails.
The stubborn streak in me snaps.
I pivot, slam her back against the tiled wall hard enough that a paper towel dispenser rattles. Her eyes flash with warning, but she doesn’t flinch. Not that I expected her to.
“Let me piss,” I grind out.
“You can piss with me watching,” she says, calm as a saint and twice as infuriating. “But you are not walking out of this room and into a bottle or a fistfight or a disappearing act. Not today.”
“Jesus, you’re relentless.”
“Relentless keeps you alive.” The reminder of my dad’s threat, the surmise she’s made that must be clear as the water sloshing around those flutes to everyone, is a punch to the nuts.
The old lad zips up so fast, it’s a miracle he didn’t catch his dick. He doesn’t even wash his hands before he scuttles away like a spooked rabbit. The door yawns, then thuds closed, leaving just the two of us and the hiss of pipes.
I step back, give myself space, then angle to the porcelain.
My hands are shaking, and I hate that she can see it.
I stare at the crack in the tile grout while I let my body do something normal for once.
When I’m done, I tuck myself away, hit the flush, and move to the sinks.
Cold water, soap, both hands, straight to the back of my neck. I breathe.
I sense her behind me, silent as a ghost. Her hands land on my back, and for a second, I lean into them, but I should’ve known better. She checks my pockets, patting me down like a fucking criminal.
Okay, it’s fair, but the lack of trust stings.
It’s absurd.
Why do I fucking care?
“You won’t find anything,” I say nonchalantly. “I’m not a fucking magician.”
“Good thing for everyone,” she says, but she doesn’t step back. She remains behind me, hidden from view in the mirror by my much larger body. She is a tiny scrap of a woman, but stronger than I’ve ever witnessed.
Her hands move to my back again, and this time, she leans into it.
The crack in her ice-cold walls hits me hard in the chest. The guilt rears up again, and I turn to face her so quickly she doesn’t have time to move her hands. They are pressed against my chest as she looks up at me with eyes the color of summer grass. Her lips are parted, her breathing slow, deep.
She is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
I step forward, gripping her hands against my chest, forcing her to move backward.
She glides in the dress, and when her back hits the wall, the fire in her eyes is hard to ignore.
I let go of one of her hands and bunch my fist in her dress, pulling it up until my hand can find her pussy.
She gasps when I cup her, squeezing gently.
Her eyelids flutter when I grind my palm against her.
I can feel my cum coating her, and I growl, low, possessively. Fuck everything and everyone.
She is mine.
My wife. Mine to fuck, mine to fight with, mine to protect.
She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t utter a sound.
I increase the pressure, wanting to see her crack. Her breath becomes labored, her eyes close.
“Eyes on me,” I murmur. “I want to see you break under my hand, stór.”
She whimpers softly, and it fucking undoes something inside me. I press my palm harder. Two fingers slide through the heat, the wet. Her name is a growl I swallow because if I say it, if I make this real, I won’t stop.
“Come,” I murmur against her cheek, my breath ghosting her skin. “Come on my hand and remember who you married.”
Her lashes flutter, stubborn even in this.
I slide a finger inside, then another, crooking them slightly.
My thumb circles her clit in tight, unforgiving patterns.
She goes taut, that lean, controlled body strung like a bow.
I keep my eyes on hers, forcing her to hold the line with me while I break it under my fingers.
“Look at me,” I say again, lower. “That’s it. Good girl.”
The words slip out before I can catch them. They taste like sin.
Her mouth parts. Her nails claw at my shirt, hauling me closer, silent and furious and gloriously alive. I feel the moment she tips over the edge. Her cunt tightens around my fingers, her breath punches out against my throat, and the tiniest noise escapes her, strangled and perfect.
I work her through it, slow when she’d expect rough, staying with her until the tremor eases under my hand. Then I stop. I don’t pull away. I just breathe with her, forehead resting against hers.
Reality crashes around me as thoughts of just one drink enter my mind, and I pull away, letting her dress drop around her again.
“Never forget who I am,” I say to her, lifting her chin with my hand covered in our cum.
“I am not your fucking pet project, wife. I am not some arsehole you can control. I am the man who can make you come all over my hand in the men’s room, in a fancy hotel surrounded by the stench of piss and bleach.
That doesn’t make you better than me, Ciara. It makes you fucking mine.”
She draws in a breath to hiss something inappropriate at me, but I move away, leaving her alone as I yank the door open and let it swoosh shut behind me, cutting her off from me so I can fucking breathe.