31. Allie #2
I blink. Swallow. Probably not subtly. He’s close enough that I catch the faint trace of cedar and something darker—and I want to rub against it like a cat while I purr. My body hums in agreement.
Crossing my arms, I channel every ounce of stubbornness I inherited from a long line of equally bullheaded Sicilians. “Care to elaborate, or are we playing cryptic caveman tonight?”
Big mistake. My eyes meet his. Because while his face stays locked in its signature resting dictator expression, those amber eyes tell a different story. Hunger and frustration, like he can’t decide if he wants to devour me or throttle me and I’m fine with both because it would be amazing.
He grabs his phone from the bed, flipping the screen toward me, finger jabbing at the date. The thirteenth. A red dot sits under the number, like it knows something I don’t. Tomorrow has a dot too. And the day after that.
“What am I supposed to be looking at? You planning a polka dot-themed party?” I sidestep him, only to yelp when his hand snaps out and grabs my throat, pinning me back to the wall. God, it's so hot. Yes, my panties are wet. And yup, I've officially set back feminism by a few decades.
In a blink, my front hits the wall, his hand releasing me almost like the contact shocked him. Before I can pivot and start swinging, his arms cage me in, one on either side of my head.
Then he leans in, breath warm against my earlobe, each word a direct line to my ovaries. “I’m not playing games, Allie. We had a deal.”
My body? It used to have a spine in there I think.
I shove backward, back slamming into his chest. Solid, unyielding muscle. And, oh hello, impressive erection. Focus, you spineless idiot.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He hates touching, avoids it like it’s poisonous. Yet here we are.
So, like the mature adult I am, I wiggle my ass against his very noticeable problem.
He groans. A sound so raw it should be bottled and sold as an aphrodisiac.
The grip disappears like I’ve burned him, and he stumbles back.
My nipples, those disloyal little accessories, stand at full salute, perfectly outlined by my silk camisole. Look, I didn’t design the top. I just wore it. Not my fault if the fabric does more disclosing than covering.
I stroll past him, casual and calm. I’m not calm at all inside. Pulling back the covers of my bed, I take my time, debating what I’ll do next.
Clearly, he’s thinking with the wrong head.
And if I’m going to win this round?
Now’s the time to strike.
“You’re ovulating.” Rico stands there, phone in hand.
I don’t look at him. I don’t want to know how he knows. And I definitely don’t want to acknowledge the traitorous tingle low in my belly at what that means. For God’s sake, woman. Pull it together. The man is literally arranging sex like it’s an appointment.
I snatch back the covers and focusing on getting ready for bed. “So?”
His jaw ticks so hard I’m amazed a molar doesn’t shoot across the room. “You’re required to tell me.”
“Oh, my sweet, delusional husband. There are plenty of things you’re required to do, but you’ve mastered the art of selective obligation.
And for the record, I’m not required to tell you.
The contract says we have sex when I’m ovulating, not that I have to send you a ‘Come Breed Me’ calendar invite. ”
His nostrils flare. “You are now.” He waves his phone like it’s the holy grail of reproductive rights, the red dots glaring at me from the screen.
I blink, unimpressed. “Cute. Did you set that reminder before or after you fucked me on the table and then blew me off for a week?”
He steps closer, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for battle. “Allie.” I would say the low rumble of his voice scares me, because it should, but I'm turned on.
“Rico,” I mock, pulling the pin from my hair. Dark waves tumble down my back, and I don’t miss the way his eyes track every single strand, like gravity suddenly shifted and my hair is the sun. My stomach somersaults.
I smile, slow and calculated. “Yes, Rico. I’m ovulating.”
The growl that rumbles from his throat is pure predatory. Not creepy stalker vibes, but the possessiveness romance novels promise—the I’m-going-to-ruin-you-and-you’ll-love-every-second kind. Oh god will I love it.
He places his phone on the dresser with deliberate calm, like a man about to commit a crime and ensuring no witnesses.
One step. Two. Then his hand fists in my hair, yanking just hard enough to sting but not enough to hurt.
Tears prick my eyes while my body sings hallelujah like I’ve just found religion.
“Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel.
Jesus. Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot. It’s caveman-level offensive, like being told to fetch a bone. Only, my body went straight to Yes, sir.
I tap a finger to my lips, feigning deep thought. “No.”
His eyes darken, flaring wide. “No?”
I shake my head, dragging my finger down the center of his chest, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t swat me away like last time. Baby steps.
“Allie. We have a deal.”
“And you’ve been dodging that deal since day one,” I snap, stepping into his space, and yes, rubbing my tight nipples against him.
I have no shame. “The notes instead of conversation. The grunts at dinner. You’ve treated our contract like a suggestion.
So guess what? I’m just following your lead, sweetheart. ”
His grip tightens in my hair, tilting my head back. His other hand fists at his side, flexing like he’s restraining the urge to touch me more than he already is.
Do it. Touch me Rico. Not sure if I’m begging internally or pushing him at this point.
“Turn around. You have three seconds before I make this all about me and you get nothing.”
I shove him back with both hands. He doesn’t budge, but the shock in his eyes? Worth it.
“I’m not your therapist,” I bite out. His face twists, eyes wide with something remarkably close to vulnerability.
“I won’t play your little wind-up doll. Bend over, get it done, barely touch me, and then leave like I’m a task on your to-do list. You know what I realized today?
You refuse to let me touch you. You strip me bare, but keep yourself fully clothed.
You talk dirty, but hold me at arm’s length.
And why? Because you spent years handing yourself over to someone else, didn’t you?
“Did you say the same filthy things to her? Did she get to touch you? Kiss you? What exactly did you pay for, Rico? Because right now, you’re treating me with less respect than the woman you hired by the hour, and I’m not standing for it. I’m your wife, not your whore.”
The word whore hits like a grenade. He cringes as he drops his hand from my hair, and takes two slow, deliberate steps back, chest rising and falling like he’s restraining the urge to smash something.
He’s going to leave. I can see it in the way his gaze flicks toward the door. Typical. Run before the conversation gets messy.
But I’m not done.
Nonna’s advice echoes in my head—push until he can’t think straight, then make your move.
So, I smile. Sweet. Defiant.
“Go ahead, Rico,” I purr, climbing into bed like I’m perfectly unaffected, pulling the covers up and fluffing my pillow with exaggerated nonchalance. “Walk away. But just know if you do? You’re not touching me again until the terms change. New deal. My rules. My way.”
His eyes narrow.
Checkmate, husband. Your move.