27. Allie
Allie
The man flipped my orgasm switch and then ran like someone just pulled the fire alarm.
One minute he’s touching me like I’m the last bite of dessert he can’t wait to devour, and the next, he’s peeling himself away faster than a kid who’s accidentally eaten a Brussels sprout disguised as chocolate.
My mouth pops open, ready to say something—anything—to salvage whatever’s left of this moment.
But Rico doesn’t give me the chance. He jerks away, zipping up his jeans so quickly you'd think I'd spontaneously grown teeth down there.
With one brief, clinical glance, he exits the room faster than my dignity can evaporate.
And just like that, I’m alone. Naked. In the kitchen. The door down his hallway slammed vigorous enough to shake the house, vibrating the picture frame I'd strategically hung just outside his precious little "private sanctuary." Petty? Absolutely. Sorry? Not even a little.
A shiver slid down my spine as I stood there—naked, sweaty, and feeling about as wanted as discount sushi on a Monday.
This wasn’t the post-consummation glow I’d imagined.
This was awkward, sticky, and cold. Rico had walked out without a word, leaving me behind like I was a chore crossed off a list. Task done. No thanks necessary.
Scrambling for my clothes, I snatched each piece off the floor, not bothering to put them on. Why waste another second in this sterile house he clearly had given a "modern morgue chic” warmth?
Honestly, I don’t know where I went wrong. One moment he's whispering things so dirty they'd make a trucker blush, and the next he's shutting down faster than Netflix when you don’t click “Yes, I’m still watching.” If emotional whiplash were an Olympic sport, he’d be swimming in gold medals.
The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his fists striking leather echoes through the house.
"Great," I muttered, stooping down to swipe my shredded black lace panties. "Apparently, I'm married to Rocky Balboa."
The sticky reminder running down my inner thigh answered that with an unwelcome "yep," loud and clear.
I swallowed hard, hating the sting of embarrassment that flooded my cheeks.
Used. Not the fun, kinky kind of used that comes with promises of round two and a stupid grin.
Nope, this was purely transactional—and detached.
The used that comes with a receipt, an awkward pat on the head, and absolutely zero eye contact.
Well, never again.
I glared toward the hallway as the incessant thumping continued, fists colliding with leather like a caveman working out his feelings. Only my caveman doesn't do those.
Honestly, I hoped he punched that bag until his knuckles turned purple. Maybe it’d knock loose whatever emotional stiffness he was suffering from.
Because this time, maybe I let him bend me to his will, but next time?
Next time, Rico Bennetti would have to beg.
His first kiss? Ha. And I’m the freaking Easter Bunny.
There’s no universe where a thirty-seven-year-old man with Rico Bennetti’s skill set—particularly the filthy-talking, panty-obliterating skill set I’d just witnessed—has never kissed a woman before.
Sure, he kissed me—but that wasn’t romance.
That was damage control. He kissed me purely because shutting me up required drastic measures.
Like sticking a pacifier in the mouth of a screaming toddler. Effective, but temporary.
Maybe while he murmured those filthy promises in my ear, he was picturing someone else.
A lingerie model, a celebrity, or possibly a curvy new monitor—I wouldn’t put it past him.
That would explain why, ten seconds after he pulled away, reality hit him like an undesirable hangover, and suddenly, he looked at me like I was expired milk he’d accidentally poured into his cereal.
His first kiss? Please. He hadn’t lived thirty-seven years as a sexy-as-hell hermit. No, that was a kiss designed for damage control, a distraction from the fact he’d gone emotionally comatose halfway through sex. Like someone unplugged him mid-thrust.
And then he ran. Actually stormed off like I was the living embodiment of buyer’s remorse.
Even after scrubbing myself raw in a scalding shower, I still couldn’t shake the embarrassment clinging to me. Discarded napkins at a taco stand got treated with more respect.
I leaned my forehead against the shower tile, letting the scorching water rinse over me, scouring every trace of him away until my skin was pink and angry.
And maybe—hopefully—any overachieving sperm got the message and took the express lane down the drain.
A kitchen-table quickie baby? Yeah, hard pass. Talk about the universe laughing at me.
Cold embarrassment clung to my skin, chilling me from the inside out. I might have enjoyed every filthy second of it—those thrusts deserved a medal—but did that really matter when the man looked at me afterward like he’d accidentally bitten into a raisin cookie expecting chocolate chips?
Nope. I was officially done.
Wrapped in a towel and my dignity barely intact, I curled into a ball on the bed. My throat tightened, and despite the promises I made myself, tears leaked onto the pillow. At least my pillow didn’t flinch or run away. Bonus points there.
Is this my future? Every time I announce ovulation like a traffic update, Rico will clench his jaw, close his eyes, and mentally retreat to some inner sanctum while doing the bare minimum required to knock me up?
Then he’ll storm out of the room and spend an hour going ten rounds with an Everlast—like he’s training for a heavyweight championship match against his life choices.
The relentless pounding continues downstairs, rattling the floorboards beneath my feet. He must be picturing my face on that bag, because no one throws that many punches without a personal vendetta.
When we signed our marriage contract, I'd joked about being a business deal. Turns out, the joke’s on me. I’m officially the other woman in my marriage. The emotional mistress he’s desperate to avoid eye contact with.
He’s made it clear with every punch downstairs that touching me required penance—one hit for every regret-filled thrust.
He. Didn’t. Want. To. Look. At. Me.
Well, joke’s on him. I’m here, I’m his wife, and avoiding eye contact will not erase me. If he thinks he can emotionally ice me out forever, he’s in for a rude awakening.
Because Rico Bennetti might think he’s the reigning champ of reaction lockdown, but I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve—or at least annoy into waving the white flag.