47. Rico
Rico
I don’t enjoy this secret game.
It unsettles me. Makes my stomach twist and my thoughts spiral into places they shouldn’t go. Every little secret I’ve given up so far has slipped past my lips when I’m buried inside this woman, like some kind of twisted confession booth where she plays priest and executioner.
As I've said—she steals shit.
And if we were keeping track, and of course I fucking am, she’s stolen:
My oxygen.
My biological responses.
My time.
My secrets.
Yet this time, she drops the bomb instead of extracting one.
I wasn’t her first kiss.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect to marry some chaste, untouched bride, wearing a white dress and a halo, untouched by the grubby paws of Manhattan’s most mediocre men.
And yet—there’s a flicker of something hot and violent twisting in my gut at the thought of some other bastard’s mouth on hers.
Before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “How many?”
I didn’t mean to ask. I didn’t need to know. I moved her into my room to speed up the process of impregnation, not to get the full documentary of her tragically short dating history.
I blame the lavender.
Apparently, it relaxes people. At least, that’s what I read when I researched why the hell my wife slathers herself in it every night in some kind of sacrificial ritual.
According to Google, lavender has calming properties—good for stress, muscle relaxation, and apparently ruining my life because now I know entirely too much about it.
I could have been working on the actual problem that has been plaguing my company for weeks. But, instead? I was deep-diving into the world of women’s nighttime skincare rituals because my wife has, yet again, stolen my time.
She tilts her head. “How many what?”
“Men.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Why?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know why. But suddenly, I need to know how many men have seen my wife naked. How many men touched her before I did? How many men had the privilege of knowing how she tastes, how she sounds when she moans, how she—
One. It better be one.
She exhales slowly. “One.”
Well, at least I can name what I’m feeling now. Relief, with a generous side of shame.
Shame because, apparently, I’m pathetic enough to care about my wife’s past when mine isn't exactly saintly.
Hypocritical? Absolutely. But self-awareness is key, and I’m nothing if not painfully aware that I’m the pot calling the kettle scandalous.
“Same one that kissed you?”
“Yes.”
I’m done with this conversation.
Unwilling to waste another second, I grip her legs and yank her down the bed, enjoying the little screech she lets out. A sound I should not enjoy as much as I do.
Lips I cannot fucking touch again.
Because she steals kisses. That’s for damn sure.
Okay—maybe this morning was a lapse in judgment. But when a man has been suffering from perpetual blue balls, he is not liable for his actions.
Tonight, I have no intention of repeating that mistake.
I flip her onto her stomach, waiting for a protest. Nothing.
Even as I slide her panties off. Nothing.
I narrow my eyes. “So you’re just going to take it?”
Yes, I’m actively inviting my wife to fight me on this.
Because, for reasons I don’t care to unpack, I enjoy that sharp tongue of hers—even if it costs me an extra five to ten minutes. That she’s just letting me move her in and strip her down without so much as a snarky remark? Concerning.
Apparently, I need this woman to argue with me. Preferably about everything. Because, as it turns out, I find it unreasonably arousing.
She pushes up on her elbows, looking back at me, and I hate how excited I get. She looks pissed off. “Do I have a choice?” Her voice is soft. “You moved me in here for one reason.”
Several, actually.
But I’m not about to tell her that.
And all of them? Self-serving.
Her comment grates.
"You have a choice."
I say the words as if I believe them. As if I didn’t move her into my room purely for efficiency—to ensure that even if she stumbled in at two in the morning, I could wake up, roll her over, and conduct my regularly scheduled impregnation attempts. I’m a man on a mission, right?
But her assuming she doesn’t have a choice? That pisses me off.
"What if I said no?"
The words sound real enough. The way her ass presses back against my hard cock? Not so much.
She’s testing me. Pushing me. And although my control is hanging on by a thread, I don’t bother pointing out the obvious. That she’s rubbing against me hoping to spark a fire.
Instead, I yank her panties the rest of the way off, toss them onto the floor where they belong, and shove my sweats down with one hand. Then I press my body over hers, weight barely there, supporting myself on my forearms as I cage her in.
“Say no.” My voice is low, vibrating against her back. “And I’ll go to sleep.”
Not that it’ll do much for my cause, which is knocking her up, getting her out of my bed, and—preferably—no longer having to deal with the way she steals everything, including my sanity.
She moans.
Fucking moans.
And my cock practically gains an extra inch in pure appreciation for the sound.
Great. Add that to the list.
My secrets? Stolen.
My ability to think straight? Gone.
My dick’s autonomy? Completely hijacked.
I slide a hand down her side, fingers tracing the dip of her waist before I grip her hip and tug her up, positioning her exactly how I want her.
No response.
Oh, so that’s the game we’re playing?
She’s trying to kill me. That’s the only explanation.
Logical, really. If she’s already stolen everything else, why not go for my actual life?
I grit my teeth. “Allie—”
"Fuck me, Rico."
Well…shit.
Who am I to tell my wife no?