Chapter 43
Skylar
"When do you finish work?"
My husband’s features soften on my phone screen. "Soon, baby. How are the interviews going?"
It’s been two weeks since we moved Hugo to a top-of-the-line facility—one with expansive grounds and separate, serviced apartments allocated to the residents, instead of rooms. And round-the-clock help with a patient to staff ratio of five to one.
That means there’s always someone looking in on them, including one person to check in with them as they sleep. That’s what money can buy.
I should be grateful for it, and I am; Hugo is well looked after.
Especially when my husband made sure to fix up the kitchen in his apartment, so he can practice his dishes, making sure there’s someone watching over him when he does it, so he’s safe.
All of this was accomplished over the course of a week.
I’ve insisted on checking in on Hugo every day, spending time with him until I’m sure he’s happy. And each night, I return home to the arms of my waiting husband. He started working from his home office, so he’s always there when I return. And he takes care of me, too.
The first time I returned, he signed off of his video call mid-conversation, then bent me over his desk and fucked me.
The second time, he pushed me to my knees and insisted I blow him while he was talking.
It was both demeaning and hot, especially when he came down my throat, then kissed me and carried me to our room, and proceeded to fuck me while looking into my eyes in the way only he can.
Every night, he’s shown me how innovative he can be when it comes to bringing me to climax… Or rather, edging me until he brings me to climax.
One night, he took me to the verge of orgasm over and over again.
Just thinking about it sends a wildfire of electricity humming across my nerve-endings.
I manage to keep the blush off my features and lean back in the chair in my tiny office in the bakery.
"The interviews are going well.” I clear my throat.
“I identified one team member from the ten candidates I met.”
He whistles. "You’ve been busy."
"Not as much as you. When did you get the time to put in calls to the employment agency, so they’d not only put forward the CV’s of eligible employees, but also talk to me first to ascertain my requirements, then prioritize me over their other clients?"
"I can be persuasive." He schools his face into an innocent expression.
"You mean, you didn’t give them a choice?" I scoff.
A one-shouldered, casual shrug, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me with just the right amount of casual boredom that tells me—"Hold on, you own that employment agency, so they had to prioritize your call?"
"You might be right," he concedes.
I laugh. "Why am I not surprised? In fact, I should have expected that." I should be grateful that he thought of the demands of my business and anticipated my needs again, just like he did with the migraine medication. But there’s a part of me that can’t help but feel resentful.
He must notice the dueling sentiments on my face, for he frowns. "What is it?"
I shake my head. "Nothing."
"Tell me," he murmurs.
When I hesitate, his gaze narrows. "Tell me, Starling.
" He lowers the tone of his voice, and the hushed dominance inherent in it causes a flurry of goosebumps to scatter across my skin.
That cascade of electricity across my nerve-endings intensifies, and yet again, I manage to school my features into one of seriousness.
Apparently, I’ve learned a lot from my husband in the few weeks we’ve been living together. Namely, how to hide my emotions.
"I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, but I also can’t stop myself from thinking about how easy it is for you to make things happen.
You wave a hand, and a company drops their current projects and prioritizes yours.
You raise an eyebrow, and I have a line of people waiting outside my door to be interviewed.
Do they even want the job, or were they promised money to pretend to be interested and—" I break off because he’s flared his nostrils, and anger clings to the contours of his beautiful cheekbones.
"Are you implying I had to bribe people to come to you for an interview?"
I shift around in my seat. Shit. Guess I shouldn’t have said that?
But it’s the truth. And why should I be afraid of saying what’s on my mind with him?
"I’m saying, because of who you are and how clever you are with your negotiations, people likely don’t have a choice when you ask something of them.
" Like I didn’t when you asked me to marry you.
I don’t say that last line aloud, but he must hear the implication in my words, for the furrow between his eyebrows grows deeper. "I’m not going to apologize for who I am and how I get what I want."
You wanted me, and you got me.
"I did." He nods, doing that mind-reading thing again. Ugh! How does he always know what I’m thinking?
"And I want your talent to be seen and recognized by the world," he growls.
My treacherous heart flips at his praise. Those little bubbles of electricity cascade to my extremities.
"And you’re selling yourself short again, if you think people don’t want to work with you." He sets his jaw.
"Why would they want to work with me? I’m a little, one-woman, almost-bankrupt business—"
"—who makes the most delicious desserts in this city, probably in this country, and has the most innovative names, which are bound to be a hit with your audience, provided"—he holds up a finger—"they know about it. Which is why you need the team, so you can up your game—"
"Fine, got it. I know all the reasons. It still feels wrong that it should all come so easily, now that—"
"You’re my wife?"
That cascade of desire under my skin, turns into an inferno.
Jesus, he only has to say my wife, and I’ll do anything he asks of me.
My breathing grows shallow, and sweat beads my forehead.
I can no longer keep my reaction off of my features, and he notices, for a sly look comes into his eyes. "Are you wet, wife?"
"What?" I squeak.
"Is your pussy moist and needy and yearning to be wrapped around your husband’s big, hard, thick cock?"
Husband. He called himself my husband. Heat bursts through the pores of my skin like lava through a volcano, like steam gushing out from a geyser. And if I touch myself between my legs, no doubt, I’ll find a pool of moisture dripping down my thighs.
"Touch yourself," he growls.
"What?" I glance around the little office. "Here?"
"There. Where anyone can walk in and find the boss writhing around her fingers and moaning my name."
"Ohmygod." The picture he paints is so hot, so erotic, so pornographic in its detail, that the heat spreads to my extremities. My toes curl, my scalp tingles, my fingertips tremble, and before I can stop myself, I’ve slid my fingers up my skirt and pushed aside the gusset of my panties.
When I brush my clit, little jolts of electricity arch out to my nipples, which in turn, tighten into points of desire.
"Hmm…" He drags his thumb under his lip. "Now, slide four fingers inside yourself."
"Four?" I swallow.
"We both know, I’m at least twice that in girth, but it’ll have to do. For now."
"For now?"
"Until I get there, I mean." He rises to his feet and exits his office.
"You’re coming here?" I gape at him.
"My wife’s horny and wants to get off. Of course, I’m coming to you."
That melting sensation in my chest becomes bigger and bigger and spreads to other parts of my body. I’m one hot, gooey mess, and every particle has little hearts drawn on them. That’s how sweet and arousing this entire conversation is.
"I might be done by the time you get here," I murmur.
"I doubt it." He walks down the corridor. "Also, did I tell you to stop, wife?"
I shake my head.
"Keep going." His tone brooks no argument. The dominance in his words sparks a thrill of anticipation across my nerve-endings. I thrust four fingers inside myself, then gasp when I’m stretched around my digits. Of course, it’s not the same as having his cock inside me, but when I begin to fuck myself with my fingers, tendrils of sensations course through my veins.
I pant and grip the edge of my desk, allowing myself time to adjust when he urges me on again.
"Don’t stop." His harsh command sinks into my blood and arrows directly to my core.
Something frantic begins to build inside of me.
Something like a ticking time bomb, which begins to speed up, faster and faster.
On screen, he makes a noise like a groan and a growl and everything in between. "That’s it. Keep that cunt hot and wet and lubricated for my cock."
"Oh, my god, you’re so filthy," I gasp out.
His lips twist. "But you knew that when you threw yourself at me on your eighteenth birthday."
"Did not," I manage to choke out.
"What a little liar you are, Starling. Your big eyes practically ate me up as I walked toward you that day. You were wearing a frilly white dress that ended above your knees, with pink over-the-knees socks, black Mary Janes, and a pin holding up one side of your hair. A pin with Hello Kitty on it.”
"You remember that?" I ask, surprised.
"I remember everything about that encounter. Especially how young you seemed, how innocent, and how everything about you was soft and pliable and waiting to be marked by someone. And knowing I was going to hell for hoping that man was going to be me."
"And now you are." I swallow.
He walks out of the elevator, climbs a few more stairs, and steps onto a terrace of sorts. And then, the whump-whump-whump of a chopper can be heard in the background. He slides in wireless earplugs, and the noise recedes.
"And every part of me is thankful for the moment I bartered a deal with you. I’m your first, and I’ll forever be humbled you gave me that privilege."
"Virginity is notional," I scoff.
"Only a woman would say that." He smirks.
"Why is it so important to a man, anyway?"
"It’s not the concept of purity, if that’s what you’re asking.
" He steps inside the chopper, then nods his chin at the pilot. The screen tilts as the helicopter takes off. "It’s the fact that I am the only one who’s been inside you.
The only one who knows how your pussy feels around my shaft, the only one who knows how you taste.
Call it primitive, or elementary, or base, or all of it, but knowing you’ve only been with me so far, that you’re my wife, and only I can make you come, fills me with a sense of pride and possession, and a fuck-load of satisfaction, like nothing else can.
Also, did I give you permission to stop? "
I shake my head, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s telling me—the fact it means so much to him, the fact he’s so grateful that I waited for him.
And I did it because I wanted to. Because no one else would do, but him.
Because I’ve always known he’s the one for me.
Because really, there was no other possible reality in my life.
Because I still can’t believe this man, who’s flying toward me across the city in a helicopter, because it would have taken too long if he’d taken a car, like everyone else—is mine.
Because I’m his, only his. The thought sends a spurt of need lancing through me. "Nate, I need you."
"I’m almost there," he says in a grim voice.
"Me too."
"Don’t you dare come without me," he snaps.
I circle my clit with my finger, and my body convulses, "Ohgod, ohgod, oh—"
"—Nate. Say it."
"Oh"—I curl my fingers inside myself, and the climax swells up my hips, up my spine—"Nate."
That’s when the walls seem to shake. The whump-whump-whump of the helicopter definitely sounds closer.
"Don’t you dare come," he growls at me as he shoves open the door of the helicopter, then races down the steps. A part of me registers that he’s landed in the middle of the road, and that he’s headed across the sidewalk and is now pushing open the door.
I hear the familiar tinkle of the doorbell over the entrance, then the voice of my employee asking him to stop, before the sound of footsteps approach, the door to my office is shoved open with such force it almost flies off the hinges, and then he’s there.