Dress-Up & Defiance #2
He wipes the splatter off his chest, unimpressed. “If you wanted to lick food off of me, Americana, I prefer chocolate syrup. Whipped cream, maybe?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re underdressed.”
My eyes narrow into razor slits as I slam the fridge shut. “What are you talking about?”
He lets out a tortured breath, stepping further into the kitchen. Still shirtless. Still with tomato residue on his chest. “Where the hell do you think you’re going dressed like that, wife?”
I fold my arms. “It’s Halloween. It’s a costume.”
He glares. “Marlow.”
“What?”
“That’s not a costume, it’s an invitation.”
I take a step forward. “And what exactly am I inviting, husband?”
He steps forward, too. “If you’re leaving the house dressed like that, the only thing you’re inviting is trouble.”
He takes me in some more. “You’d think you were inviting your husband to turn a house into a home inside your tight, wet—”
I cut him off with a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, get over yourself. You think I get dressed for men?”
“I think you get dressed to be seen.”
“By you?”
“By the looks of it right now, everyone.”
I breathe out a humorless laugh. “So now you’re the morality police?”
“No. I’m the man who married you, remember?” His voice sharpens. “The one who knows how it feels to have you pressed up against him and doesn’t want to share even a goddamn glimpse of that with anyone else. You can call it fake all you want but I can assure you, my bullets are not.”
We’re close now. Inches. Our breath tangled and hot between us.
“You don’t get to play the possessive husband, Declan.”
“Why? Because you’re still pretending this doesn’t mean anything?”
“Because it doesn’t. It can’t mean anything. And because I’m not your fucking property!”
He grins. And it’s not playful. It’s sharp. Unyielding. “What’s mine is yours, right?”
“What?”
“You’re not my property,” he confirms, stepping in, “but if we’re married, half of this sorry excuse for a costume is. No need to wait for the divorce. I’ll take my half now.”
His hand moves quick, intentionally, and catches the edge of my neckline. His eyes lock on mine.
“Don’t you dare—”
He licks his lip.
I don’t even know when he grabbed it, but suddenly there’s a knife in his hand, slicing clean through the neckline of my black bodysuit. The leather gives with a soft tear, splitting right at the collar.
Riiip.
My breath halts. The front falls open, peeling away to expose the exact strip of skin that’s been testing his restraint since he laid eyes on me.“Declan!” I gasp.
He leans in. “Find a new costume or you’re not going anywhere.”
My heart hammers in my chest. His hand hovers at my side, not touching, just close enough to set me on fire.
“You’re out of your damn mind,” I whisper.
“Maybe.” He breathes. Nearly panting. “But I’m also crazy for my wife. And I’m not letting you walk out of here looking like every man’s fantasy.”
His gaze drops to my lips and then my cleavage. “This,” he whispers seductively, “is all mine.”
I should slap him. Hell, I should twist his testicles until he begs for mercy. But I don’t. I just stand there—bare, breathless, and shaking. The space between us hums with everything I’ve tried to ignore and everything he’s been begging for.
We don’t move.
We don’t touch.
We just burn.
His eyes are lasered on mine, like he sees every piece of me I’ve tried to hide. Every inhibition. Every ache. Every lie I told myself about not needing him. Wanting him.
And still, he waits.
I’ve kept my distance. Built walls. Weaponized silence. But none of it holds now. Not when I’m standing in front of him stripped of everything but truth—and it’s screaming inside me.
He doesn’t beg anymore. Not with words.
His stillness is the plea.
Come back.
Come home.
Be mine.
We’re standing on the edge of a cliff, and there’s no turning around. Not after this.
We are too close.
Too far gone.
And I’m about to fall.
I think I’m ready to.
“Why do you fight me so, Americana?”
It’s a question he’s asked before—dozens of times, in different ways, with different tones. And I’ve always had an answer. Sharp, practiced, armored.
But this time, with him taking up all the air, all the logic, all the space in my chest, I’ve got nothing. No words. No retort. Just silence and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.
He’s finally done waiting for an answer. He’s done waiting for me to decide to fall. To stop fighting.
His hand slides to my neck, firm but gentle, steadying me. And then he kisses me—soft, unhurried. Tracing the shape of my mouth with his tongue like he’s grateful just to breathe the same air.
I moan into him and I try to pull back because, what the fuck? I’m crazy, right?
Declan pulls me closer.
My once sexy costume now falls to pieces as he begins gingerly removing what he’s just cut to shreds.
“Declan—”
“I love the way you say my name. Say it again.”
“Declan, we—”
“Shhh,” he murmurs, unclasping my bra from the front with a practiced flick. “Let’s just see what happens when you stop fighting. Do you remember what that felt like? Not fighting me?”
His head dips, his mouth closing over my breast, tongue swirling over my nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper. Every flick is calculated, every bite a punishment and a reward.
“Hmmm, Senora Agassi,” he whispers against my skin, the name vibrating through me.
“Declan, we need—”
“To give in, mia moglie bella.”
I’m in nothing but a thong now, and that disappears with one sweep of his hand.
I’m bare to him. Open.
He touches me, and there’s no hiding it—I’m soaked for him. Aching. Every stolen glance, every night I ended with my hand between my thighs, trying to silence the memory of him, is now crashing down on me.
Running down my thighs and towards him.
My husband.
He kisses me, tongue hungry and demanding, while his fingers stroke my clit in tight, devastating circles. I gasp into his mouth, hips rising to meet his touch.
“You’ve needed this,” he growls. “Admit it.”
And I do. Because for some reason I can’t lie to him.
“Yes,” I pant. “Fuck, yes.”
He slides a finger inside me and groans, deep like he’s found something he lost.
“Just like I remember. Just like my wife.”
He stills, gaze pinned to mine, unblinking. Not just looking. He’s searching.
“Has anyone touched you like this since our wedding night?”
Wedding night. The way he says it.
“No,” I whisper. And it’s the truth. I’ve been haunted by that night ever since I slipped out of his bed and tried to pretend I didn’t belong there. Beside him.
Declan drags his fingers out of me and I crave them but he swiftly lifts me like I weigh nothing. His hands are strong but shaking just a little. I can tell he’s barely holding himself together.