CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
“So I told him you’re my wife. At least that way he can assume your piece-of-shit daddy forced you to walk down the aisle for land or some bullshit. Seemed more realistic than anythin’ else.”
“But—”
“Told him you ran off. We had a fight and you were mad at me. As you should be ’cause I screwed up and did it real bad.
Told him there ain’t no excuse for the things I’d done.
That’s why you came in here, ’cause you wanted to get away from me.
And the reason you were flirtin’ with him was ’cause you wanted to make me jealous. ”
At this, he squeezes me so hard I can’t help but moan, and I know the bartender heard that, too, because his back tenses.
I clench my eyes shut at how crazy this is, how crazy wet it makes me.
I go to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“You wanted to make me regret all the bad things I’d done.
Punish me for ’em; make me pay. Make me hurt worse than when I made you stab me with that knife, worse than when that bullet hit me. ”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not why I flirted with him. I didn’t—”
“Told him I understand it ain’t his fault, but if he looks at my pretty little Princess wife again, I’ll have to do what any good, lovin’ husband would.”
He finishes that with another squeeze and I whisper, “What?”
Tilting his face to the side, he whispers in my ear, “Blind him.”
I flinch and pop my eyes wide open. “Is that why he won’t look at me?”
His chest moves with a breath as he replies, “Yeah. Told him it pisses me off. When someone looks at my wife. If I had my way, I’d keep her locked up on my ranch. Lock the doors, bar the windows. Shoot anyone who comes within a hundred feet of her.”
My hands slide down from his forearms and grip his hands, threading our fingers together. “That’s worse than psychotic. That’s b-barbaric.”
“She don’t need other men to look at her when her husband’s eyes follow her everywhere.
When his eyes stalk her every move like his life depends on it.
Like he wouldn’t be able to breathe if he went without seein’ her for more than a few hours.
He wouldn’t be able to function from one second to the next if she ran away and he didn’t know where she was the whole fuckin’ time. ”
I squeeze his fingers. “Radisson, I—”
“So I told him, no matter what happens, he isn’t to look at you, talk to you, fuckin’ breathe the same air as you,” he growls. “’Cause what happens between a man and his wife ain’t no one’s business but theirs.”
“God, you’re not… you’re not my husband.”
“He don’t know that.”
“And I’m not your wife.”
“But you better act like you are if you don’t want me to hurt him.”
I shut my eyes again. “This is—”
“Psychotic,” he says, completing my sentence. “But then again, you knew that, didn’t you, darlin’, that your husband’s goddamn psychotic for you.”
My cheeks blush and do it so hard I think I’m spontaneously combusting. I think if he doesn’t stop calling himself my husband, my heart is going to start believing his crazy, psychotic lie.
“Anyway,” he rasps, continuing. “My wife’s got some explainin’ to do. So how about you go ahead and tell me why you ran from me, while I get busy doin’ my own thing.”
I’m about to ask him what thing when one of his hands moves away from my waist and goes down my thigh. It doesn’t stay still, though, if that’s what I expected. It moves, gets under my new blue dress, and I gasp, asking, “What are you—”
His chest vibrates with another hum, cutting me off, and that’s because he’s at my panties now. My very wet panties. Then in my ears again, “Gotta say, though, my wife’s a little psychotic too.”
I shake my head, rolling it against this warm but vibrating chest. “I’m not your—”
“Or her tight little cunt wouldn’t be so wet for me.”
I dig my head into his shoulder. “Can you please not do this while I try to t-talk?”
“Afraid I’ve gotta.”
“What, why?”
“’Cause what kind of a husband would I be if I didn’t know what my wife tasted like.”
“What?”
“But you can talk,” he keeps going, all calm and collected.
“It ain’t your mouth I’m gonna do things to, darlin’.
Not right now, at least. It’s your juicy fuckin’ pussy I’m after.
” He rubs his thumb over the center of my panties, somehow homing in on my clit and flicking it as he continues, “So why don’t you keep your legs open for your husband so he gets to play with your leakin’ hole while you tell him exactly why you ran from him.
I promise I’ll listen. Reckon I’ll listen better with the taste of that tight princess snatch in my mouth. ”
My words become a gasp and I flinch because somehow, in the matter of only a second or two, I feel him putting his finger inside me.
I don’t know when he moved my soaked panties out of the way or even when I spread my legs enough for him to be able to do that.
But sometime while he was saying filthy things to me, my thighs decided to obey him without me catching up, and he decided to thrust aside the drenched fabric so he can get to my pussy and now, he’s in there.
And God, he’s just as big as he was the other night.
When he put his finger inside of me for the first time.
I can’t help but not only flinch at his sudden invasion again but also squeeze my channel around his big, big digit.
Making him groan. As loud as he did before when the bartender heard him. In fact, this groan was louder along with his words, “Goddamn, feels like the first time.”
For a man who doesn’t talk all that much, he sure said that in front of company, telling the bartender exactly what we’re doing back here. And even though it turns me on, doing this when someone else is around, I still think I should berate him. I still think I should tell him to be less shameless.
Except the words that come out of my mouth are something else entirely. “That’s b-because you’re so… big.” He grunts, pumping his finger once, twice, somehow stroking against that thin membrane inside of me, making me moan.
His face has completely dropped down on my shoulder. “Nah, it’s cause you’re so goddamn sweet; no matter how big I am, you’ll still let me do it.”
“But maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“If we…” I squeeze his hand and rock my hips. “If we do it enough t-times, it won’t hurt?”
What a stupid thing to say when we shouldn’t be doing it at all.
When my plan is to get away from him, not get tangled up in him more.
But before I can correct my own mistake, I notice a large breath escape him and in the wake of it, I hear a very deep chuckle.
“Could fuck you with my big fuckin’ finger for a thousand years, could fuck you with my big fuckin’ cock for a thousand years, and your juicy pussy will still snap back to where she was before and become tight as fuck again. You know why?”
“Why?”
He strokes my membrane again as he replies, “’Cause you were sent from above to torture me, Princess.
You were made to torture me. Everything about you, your beautiful fuckin’ eyes that look at me like you really believe I ain’t a monster; your pretty pink mouth that I wanna abuse until it becomes all swollen and red, stung by a bee; your tight little body that I wanna wrap my arms around and throw over my shoulder so I can carry you away in the night, so I can protect you with my life; your angel voice that I don’t deserve to hear but is the only thing that gives me some goddamn peace; every fuckin’ thing about you was made to temp me, haunt me, motherfuckin’ undo me till I forget my own name. ”
Before I can say anything to that, to his fierce words and even fiercer finger inside of me, he takes it out and leaves me bereft. I want to cry out and tell him to come back when I watch him take that finger and put it in his mouth, tasting it.
Tasting me.
If there was ever a gasp that could be louder than a gun, then it’s the one I emit at his filthy, filthy action.
At him sucking on his finger after it’s been inside of me.
And then I let out another gasp, this one even louder than the last, when he opens his eyes, the green gone dark and looks down at me.
“Knew it,” he rasps, much like he did the other night, his finger glistening from his saliva, “my wife’s princess pussy tastes sweeter than whiskey.”
“I’m not—”
He goes ahead and licks his finger again, this time looking into my eyes, as if licking the digit clean. “Better not waste a drop.”
I rake my nails over the back of his hand. “Why are you being so—”
“Tell me why you ran,” he says then, his gaze direct.
I intend to reply when I feel his fingers between my legs again and I stiffen.
“Tell me why you ran, darlin’,” he repeats.
I try to push away from him then, try to get some control back.
But I guess I only manage to piss him off because he does something even crazier than tasting me.
He goes ahead and spanks my pussy. Just like he spanked my ass up on the cliff.
It’s not so hard; I know that, but it’s still a slap on the most tender part of me and I jerk and twist in his lap, trying to get away.
But he won’t let me. In fact, he plasters my spine to his chest by snaking his arm around my belly like a rope.
But what makes me stop struggling altogether is when he chases the sting he gave me by rubbing the whole center of me with his scraped palm.
And holy God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that before. I don’t think I ever understood the meaning of hurts so good, until he smacked my pussy and then chased the burn away with his hand.
Before smacking me again.
“Oh God, Radisson,” I moan, jerking, twisting, writhing.
As if to reward me for that, he rubs me again and even I can feel how slippery I am. How soft and soaked and sloppy. Then, “Tell me why you ran.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think—”