Chapter 3
three
. . .
Wynter
My body feels like it belongs to someone else.
Someone wanton and desperate who screams for a man she just met.
My thighs are sticky with the evidence of what we just did, and there's a delicious ache between my legs that reminds me with every movement that I've been thoroughly claimed.
I should be horrified. I should be calling the police or at least hotel security.
Instead, I'm lying here next to this mountain of a man—my husband, apparently—trying to understand how my body can betray me so completely.
"Hungry?" Vance's voice rumbles through me like distant thunder. His massive hand rests possessively on my bare stomach, fingers splayed wide enough to nearly span my entire abdomen.
The word triggers my empty stomach to growl embarrassingly loud. I haven't eaten since…I can't even remember.
"I'll take that as a yes." He chuckles, the sound vibrating through the mattress. "Let's get you fed, baby doll."
Baby doll. The pet name shouldn't affect me, but it does. Like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders on a cold day. I shake the feeling off. This is insane. All of it.
"I need to shower first," I say, voice raspy from screaming his name. My cheeks heat at the memory.
"Need help washing your back?" His dark eyes gleam with suggestion.
"No!" The word comes out too forcefully. I soften it with, "I just…need a minute alone."
Surprisingly, he nods. "Take your time."
In the bathroom, I lock the door and lean against it, exhaling shakily. The woman in the mirror is a stranger—hair wild, lips swollen, a purple mark blooming on my neck like some kind of ownership brand. I touch it gently, remembering the feel of his mouth there, and shiver.
Focus, Wynter.
The shower helps clear my head. Hot water sluicing away the physical evidence if not the memory of what we did.
This isn't me. I don't have one-night stands, let alone drunken Vegas weddings.
I'm the girl with a five-year plan, who reads the fine print on contracts, who once returned to a store because they gave me five cents too much in change.
I need an annulment. Today. This was clearly a mistake, regardless of what he says. Regardless of how my body responded to his touch. Never mind that he took my virginity in the most deliciously…
I shake my head and order myself to stop thinking like that. How good his body felt is beside the point. The point is…the point is…
I grab a towel and huff. The point is I need to get dry.
By the time I emerge wrapped in a fluffy hotel robe, I've got my speech prepared.
Vance has dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest like it's holding on for dear life.
The material clings to every ridge of muscle.
He's on the phone, his deep voice arranging breakfast in the hotel restaurant downstairs.
"Ready?" he asks, hanging up. His eyes travel over me with naked hunger.
"I need clothes," I say, clutching the robe tighter.
He crosses to the closet and pulls out a simple sundress I don't recognize. "Bought you a few things while you were sleeping earlier."
The casual statement sends a chill down my spine. How long was he watching me sleep? How did he know my size?
The dress fits perfectly. I don't want to think about the implications.
The hotel restaurant is upscale, all gleaming surfaces and hushed voices.
Vance guides me with a hand at the small of my back, his touch both gentle and possessive.
The hostess practically trips over herself seating us, her eyes lingering on Vance's impressive physique despite his intimidating aura. Or maybe because of it.
Once we're settled and have ordered, I take a deep breath. Now or never.
"We need to talk about getting an annulment," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady.
Vance's expression doesn't change, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "No."
One word. Just one. But it lands like a boulder.
"You don't understand. This isn't me. I'm not..." I gesture helplessly, "this kind of girl. I'm from a small town. I have a regular life. This trip to Vegas was a rare splurge for me."
"Tell me about this regular life." He leans forward, seeming genuinely interested despite dismissing my request.
"I…I grew up in Cedar Mill. It's tiny, you wouldn't know it.
I work at the local library. I have a cat named Fitzgerald.
I have friends I've known since kindergarten.
" I'm babbling now. "My point is, I'm not cut out for…
whatever this is." I wave at him, encompassing his dangerous aura, the tattoos peeking from his collar, the barely restrained violence in his posture.
"You think I can't tell that?" His voice softens slightly. "That's exactly why you're perfect, baby doll. Pure. Untouched by my world."
"But I don't want to be touched by your world!" I hiss, leaning forward. "This was a drunken mistake. You took advantage—"
"I gave you exactly what you wanted," he cuts me off, his voice hardening. "What you still want, if the way your body responded to me this morning is any indication."
Heat floods my face. I can't deny it—my body had betrayed me spectacularly, responding to his dominance like a flower turning to the sun.
Our server arrives with coffee, a young man with a practiced smile. "Good morning! Can I get you anything else while you wait for your food?"
"We're fine," Vance says curtly.
The server's eyes linger on me a beat too long. "Just let me know if you need anything at all." His smile turns a shade more personal than professional.
The temperature at our table drops twenty degrees instantly. Vance's face transforms, darkness sweeping over his features like a storm front.
"Look at her again, motherfucker," Vance growls, voice deadly quiet. "Look at my wife like that one more time."
The waiter blanches. "S-sir, I didn't—"
Vance's fist slams onto the table, rattling silverware and sending coffee sloshing over cup rims. "You think I don't see where your eyes are going? You think I won't rip them out of your fucking skull?"
"Vance!" I gasp, mortified.
The waiter stumbles back. "I'll…I'll have someone else bring your food."
He practically runs from the table. Other diners stare, then quickly look away when Vance glares around the room.
"Was that necessary?" I whisper, heart pounding at the casual violence in his threat.
His eyes, when they return to me, are still dark with rage, but it softens as he looks at me. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” he growls.
The possessiveness in his voice should repel me. Instead, a treacherous warmth blooms low in my belly.
"You're so damn perfect," he says, reaching across to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is shockingly gentle for hands capable of such threat. “Have no idea how every man in this room is staring at you, do you?”
I don't know how to respond to that. I don't know how to respond to any of this.
Breakfast arrives, delivered by a nervous older woman. We eat in tense silence, though Vance seems perfectly at ease, as if he hadn't just threatened to mutilate someone over a glance.
Back in the room, I'm still shaking. From fear? From something else? I don't know anymore.
"You're upset," Vance observes, closing the door behind us.
"You threatened to rip someone's eyes out for looking at me!"
"And I meant it." He approaches slowly, like I'm a skittish animal. "That's what marriage means to me, baby doll. Protection. Possession."
"That's not normal," I whisper, backing up until I hit the wall.
"Nothing about me is normal." He cages me with his arms, his massive body blocking out the light. "Nothing about how I feel for you is normal either."
His proximity is doing things to me again. Making my breath come faster, my skin tingle with awareness.
"I need another shower," I mumble, desperate for escape.
"I'll join you this time," he says. It's not a request.
I should say no. I should demand space, demand an annulment again, demand my freedom. Instead, I find myself speechless.
In the bathroom, he undresses me with reverent hands, his eyes devouring every inch of skin revealed. His own clothes fall away, revealing that warrior's body covered in tattoos and scars, each telling a story I'm both afraid and eager to learn.
The shower is enormous, with multiple heads spraying water from all directions. Vance adjusts the temperature, then pulls me under the spray with him. Water cascades over his muscled form, making him look like some pagan god of war.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, hands skimming down my sides to grip my hips. "My baby doll. My wife."
His mouth finds mine, surprisingly gentle at first, then increasingly hungry. I respond without thinking, my body arching into his touch like we're magnetized.
"That's it," he growls against my lips. "Let Daddy take care of you."
The word should sound ridiculous. Instead, it sends a jolt of heat straight between my legs.
He turns me, pressing my front against the cool tile wall, his massive body covering my back. His cock, already hard, slides between my thighs, teasing.
"Gonna take you like this," he rumbles in my ear. "Gonna fill this sweet pussy. Make you mine all over again."
"Vance..." I gasp as he enters me in one powerful thrust, stretching me, filling me completely.
"Say it right," he demands, teeth grazing my earlobe.
"D-Daddy," I stammer, the forbidden word slipping out easier this time.
"Good girl," he praises, beginning to move. Each thrust pushes me against the tiles, the dual sensation of cold wall and hot man overwhelming my senses. "Such a good little girl for Daddy."
His hand slides around to find my clit, circling with practiced precision. "So wet for me. So perfect."
"Please," I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for.
"Gonna fill you up, baby doll," he growls, pace quickening. "Gonna put my baby deep inside you. Make sure everyone knows who you belong to."
The filthy words should horrify me. Instead, they push me closer to the edge, my body tightening around him.
"You'd look so pretty," he continues, voice growing ragged with his approaching climax. "All swollen with my seed. Carrying my baby. Would you like that? Having Daddy's baby growing inside you?"
"Yes," I cry out, not even recognizing my own voice. "Yes, Daddy, please!"
My orgasm crashes over me, so intense my knees would buckle if he weren't holding me up. He follows with a deep groan, pulsing inside me, filling me with warmth.
Afterward, he washes me with surprising tenderness, his big hands gentle on my sensitized skin. I let him, too dazed to protest, too confused by my own responses to this man who's a stranger and yet somehow feels like he knows my body better than I do myself.
What's happening to me? What kind of woman responds like this to threats and possessiveness and barely restrained violence?
Apparently, the kind of woman I am now. The kind who's somehow, impossibly, this man's wife.