Page 79 of Vengeful Vows
The Bella who fell in love with me was a completely different woman. She’d smile and head straight for my arms.
Now, she works late, goes out with Amelia, and the number of fundraisers she attends seems to have increased exponentially.
Instead of joy in her eyes, there are now smudges beneath them.
No matter what I do, it seems that each day takes her further away from me.
What I wouldn’t give for things to be better between us.
For that to happen, we would have needed to be born in a different place and time where we were free to meet and fall in love.
But there’s fate to deal with—and her cruel, cruel twists.
Bella’s mine because her brother killed my sister.
And if that hadn’t happened, we would never have met, and she would never have become my bride.
Because I’m a man obsessed, I’ll take what I can get.
“You’re home sooner than expected.”
I believe her. Otherwise I probably would have found her in bed pretending to sleep like most nights.
Studying her, I roll her nipple between my fingers.
Until this very moment, it’s been a shitty day.
I spent part of it at Roberto’s bedside in the hospital before he discharged himself against doctor’s orders.
The truth is becoming increasingly difficult to deny. Roberto will not be my uncle’s consigliere for much longer, and the reality weighs on me. Not just because I’m unprepared to assume the responsibility, but because I genuinely care for the man.
But now, with Bella, my problems seem less urgent, and I have a powerful need to bury myself in my wife’s body, finding lightness in a day filled with darkness.
Since I’m feeling generous, I tell her, “You can choose where we fuck. The bathtub or the bed. Either way, you’re going to ride me.”
Cowgirl has become my favorite position. I have access to her breasts and her clit. Better still, she cannot hide her expressions from me.
“I’m tired, Nico.”
“Are you? In that case, I’ll help you relax so it’s easier to fall asleep.” I tighten my grip on her nipple.
Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t try to pull away. Instead her breathing has increased.
“You were given two options, and in less than three seconds, the decision reverts to me.”
“The bed,” she says hastily.
Satisfied, I release the flesh I’ve been tormenting. “You have five minutes, and then I expect to find you kneeling in the middle of the bed with your hands behind your neck.”
She doesn’t respond.
If she pushes me tonight, she may find herself over my lap while I paddle her sweet bottom.
I’m tempted to do it just to clear the air between us, but I prefer to make her cry out from desire.
Leaving her, I stride through the bedroom to the main living area to pour myself a whiskey that I carry to the window. Sipping, I stare outside. Clouds obscure the view, and not being able to see clearly seems to be a metaphor on a much grander scale.
I give her six minutes—not because I think that she needs them but because I want to heighten her reactions, making her wonder what I’m planning.