25. Allie #2
“Rico, you only touch me when it’s convenient for you and your grand plan to have kids. How do you expect me to get pregnant if you can’t even pretend to find me attractive?”
“IVF, preferably.”
The retort I’d cocked and charged dies on my tongue, leaving behind nothing but an acidic aftertaste. “IVF?” The word stumbles out, wobbly, like those three letters just hit me harder than a Mack truck.
He nods. Nods. Like he’s suggesting we switch from regular to decaf.
“So you don’t even want to have sex with me?” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. “You’d rather let a doctor handle it than…” I can’t finish. The words clog my throat, held back by the sting of tears I refuse to shed.
Not here. Not in front of him. He doesn’t get to see me fall apart, even if every muscle in my body coils tight and my heart shrinks like it's trying to escape this disaster of a conversation.
Pushing my chair back, I toss my napkin onto my barely touched plate.
“Well, glad to know I’m so repulsive, the idea of making a baby with me sends you running to the nearest fertility clinic.
I guess we’ll never consummate this marriage either, huh?
So what are we, Rico? Two miserable strangers sharing a house where happiness goes to die? ”
I grab my wine glass, lifting it in a mock toast. “To 'til death do us part,” I mutter before downing the rest in one defiant gulp. It burns—but not as much as his indifference.
The wine will kick in soon, numbing everything I’m trying not to feel. I plan to snatch the bottle off the table as I go, drown my sorrows upstairs in my room, submerged in a bubble bath with the soundtrack of my ugly sobs echoing off the tiles.
I’m two steps from the table when his arm snakes around my waist, yanking me flush against him. “The issue isn’t you.”
His breath scorches my ear, delivering tingles down my spine while goosebumps bloom across my skin. I shudder—traitorous body—and hate that I can’t decide if it's from anger or desire.
“What is the issue, then?” My voice comes out breathless.
“Me.”
I can’t help it—I snort. “No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Silence. We both freeze—his mouth still grazing my ear but not quite touching, like he’s savoring the moment while I’m over here trying to convince my hormones to stop breakdancing.
He breathes slow and controlled, the picture of calm, while I’m practically throbbing like I just shotgunned four espressos.
“I want you to find me desirable. That’s the issue, right? You don’t find me attractive. To you, sex would just be another item on your checklist. This won’t be a real marriage. It’s just something on paper. Because you can’t even bring yourself to consummate it. How unattractive am I, Rico?”
His grip loosens, and my stomach drops. Here it comes. The glorious exit.
But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, his hand slides around my waist, fingers trailing down my stomach until they reach the waistband of my jeans.
With one hand, he unbuttons them while the other large hand anchors me against him.
I gasp—because hello, something very solid, very, very thick, presses into my lower back.
Well, at least that part works. I was half-convinced he needed a little blue pill or an "erection mode" button.
“I never said you were unattractive,” he growls, the sound rumbling through my bones.
My jeans loosen as he tugs the zipper down, his hand slipping beneath the denim and brushing past my panties like he’s done this a thousand times, and I tell myself to not think about with whom.
His fingers find the heat between my thighs, and my spine arches—no conscious decision there.
My body’s officially running on autopilot.
I should knee him in the balls. I should spin around and give him an earful about mixed signals and emotional neglect.
But I don’t. Because, apparently, my internal debate team has one rational fairy screaming Run!
and an irrational one waving pom-poms and shouting Ride him like a mechanical bull girlfriend, yeeeeee-haaawww!
The irrational one’s winning, by the way.
“So wet and soft,” he hisses, and the rational fairy officially taps out, gagged and bound in the corner.
I groan when he slips a finger inside, curling just right, and—dammit—he sighs like he’s relieved. Like proving I want him fixes something inside his complicated head.
“You want me to consummate the marriage?” His voice drops lower. “Make it feel real?”
“No,” I gasp, even though every nerve ending screams Yes, you idiot!
He slides in another finger. “No?” He pulls away, and I instinctively push back, seeking the friction I’m suddenly desperate for.
“Maybe…” My voice is barely a whisper. It’s breathless, pathetic, and I don’t care.
“Maybe?” His thumb circles my clit, and I’m officially gone—floating on cloud nine, ten and planning to one hundred.
“Y-yes,” I stammer, heat pooling low in my belly as tension coils tighter
His other hand snakes up, fingers curling gently around my throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep me in place. Possessive. And way hotter than it should be.
I moan. Who am I right now?
“Fine, Pearlina,” he murmurs. “I’ll show you what it’s like to be fucked by your husband.”