32. Rico
Rico
I’m positive my wife is trying to kill me.
Not the quick, painless kind of death either. No, Allie’s going for the slow, torturous route. Death by denial. One cock-hardening, pride-shredding, sanity-crumbling moment at a time.
Sure, I’ve skirted around our agreement.
I did the bare minimum—just enough to tick the boxes without offering more than legally required.
Like a man paying his taxes, begrudgingly and without fanfare.
But now, she’s tossing my loopholes back at me with the finesse of a lawyer fresh out of fucks to give.
And my cock? Fully on her side. A traitor standing at attention, pulsing against my sweats, and making it very clear who's really losing this battle.
“Congratulations,” I bite out, voice rough enough to sand wood. “You found a loophole. But you’re ovulating. We have to have sex tonight.”
Never, in all my meticulously planned life, did I think I’d stand in front of a woman, calendar app in hand, dictating her biological duty like some deranged HR manager enforcing company policy.
She smiles, slow and sinful. The kind of smile that makes men sign away kingdoms and commit war crimes and I’d like to think I’m better than them, but a deep dark little voice from inside me says “Bro, you’re not.”
“We are supposed to have sex,” she purrs, standing up from the bed, strolling closer, hips swaying and my mental breakdown swaying with them. “But I’m not taking ovulation tests anymore.”
“What?”
“I’m done,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“No more peeing on sticks. No more obsessing over dots on a calendar. If you want a baby, you’re welcome to have sex every night.
” She pauses, tongue flicking out to wet her bottom lip, which is basically porn at this point.
“But I’m not scheduling it like some corporate deadline.
If you want a wife who plays by contract terms, go find someone else. ”
I hear her words, but they don't hurt. No, that's because all I can focus on is how her nipples pebble through that flimsy satin camisole begging for my mouth.
“We agreed,” I growl, jaw tightening until I taste the metallic tang of my blood.
“You broke the terms first. I’m just leveling the playing field.”
I stare at her. Papa gave her six months. If she refuses sex, she can hold out, file for divorce, and walk away without a backward glance. I could replace her.
Okay, no, I couldn’t. I’m not exactly drowning in offers, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Plenty of fish in the sea.” I instantly regret how pathetic it sounds, especially since I'm practically begging to get my dick wet at this point.
And that’s when she laughs. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back laughter that makes her tits bounce and her hair cascade like liquid silk. Her throat stretches, bare and vulnerable, and all I can think about is sinking my teeth into that soft skin until she forgets how to speak in complete sentences.
“Then go fishing, honey.”
She pats my chest—pats—like I’m an unruly dog, then turns and saunters toward the bed, leaving me standing there, hard, furious, and dangerously close to throwing her over my shoulder.
I don’t chase women. I don’t argue. I certainly don’t negotiate with terrorists.
But this woman?
She just stole my last ounce of control. And I’m not sure whether I want to strangle her or fuck her until we both forget our names.
Actually, I want both.
I step forward, close enough to inhale the faint trace of honeysuckle clinging to her skin but not close enough to lose the upper hand. Assuming I still have it. Even though I know I don’t.
“The chance of you getting pregnant while ovulating is thirty-three percent.” My voice is flat, clinical, the way it always is when I’m trying to convince myself I’m a man of logic, not impulse.
“In reality, it’s closer to twenty, twenty-five percent.
Which is fucking pathetic, considering it’s supposed to be prime fertility mode.
You’d think biology would offer better odds for survival. ”
“No. More. Tests.” So, she's not wavering then?
And then, like the universe itself is conspiring to dismantle every ounce of restraint I have left, her fingers trail down her silky pajama shorts, hooking the waistband and sliding them down inch by torturous inch.
No underwear.
My brain resembles the dreaded blue-screen of Windows 95 in a storm. Not that it was functioning at peak capacity to begin with these days, thanks to her standing there like the fucking embodiment of temptation.
She peels off her top next, revealing smooth, golden skin and peaked nipples that my mouth will definitely be on. Faint bruises bloom along her hips—the ones I left there. Proof that, for one night, I forgot to be rational. Forgot to hold back…and loved it.
Allie flips her hair over her shoulder, like she knows exactly how much power she holds in that single motion. Then she climbs onto the bed, slow and deliberate, propping herself on her elbows and stretching out like a feast laid before a starving man.
“Say it, Rico,” she purrs. “Agree to my new terms, and you can have this.”
And just like that, the thief strikes again—stealing my oxygen, my pulse, my ability to think past the ache in my cock or the thunder in my chest.
Control? Gone. Logic? Obliterated. Not entirely sure I could tell you my full name right now.
I should walk away. Should remind her that biology doesn’t give a damn about stubborn wives and their refusal to follow rules. But my feet don’t move. My mouth doesn’t form the words.
Instead, I stand there, watching my wife offer herself up like the prize she damn well knows she is, and realize…
I’ve lost.