Page 85 of Cruel Romeo

“That’s it,” I murmur. “Feel it all.”

She loses her rhythm, but I don’t care. I keep fucking her through it, make her scream through her orgasm. Then, when I feel myself right there on the edge, I pull her down hard onto me, burying my cock deep.

I come with a low groan, spilling inside her.

Sima collapses against me, panting. Catching her breath even as the pleasure doesn’t let her go.

Good.I don’t intend to let her go, either.

“Good girl,” I whisper into her hair. “Such a good little fox.”

That’s when I realize that, for the first time all day, the tension is gone.

32

SIMA

Three weeks go by in a flash.

I never imagined it would go like this. If anyone had told me my family’s sworn enemy was going to kidnap me, blackmail me into a marriage, and rock my world to get me pregnant to the point I never wanted to do anything else, I’d have asked for a hit of whatever they were smoking.

But that’s exactly what happened. Three weeks of pure marital bliss.

I’ve learned how he takes his coffee (black, but he’ll finish up mine if I ask, despite the ridiculous amount of sugar and cream), how to spot the faint dimple on his left cheek that means he’s holding back laughter, that he’s extremely particular about which side of the bed ishisside of the bed. Little things that sneak up on me when I’m not paying attention, but that bring me closer to figuring out who my husband is.

And then there’s everythingelsethat happens on his side of the bed, too.

Petyr isn’t just insatiable. He’s also attentive, more than I ever could have expected. My pleasure always comes before his, often several times in a row. He’s hungry for it in ways I didn’t think were possible. He doesn’t justwantme—he makes mefeelwanted.

I’ve stopped pretending I don’t feel the same way or that I don’t think about the things we do at night every second of every day.

Because I do. Constantly. When I drink my morning coffee, when I try to focus in class, when I’m supposed to be cramming for a test… it’s just Petyr on my mind.

It’s almost enough to make me forget we’re on a clock. We justworktogether. Most real couples never get to experience this level of chemistry.

I’d know—I’ve seen my fair share.

Which is why the dull, tight ache in my stomach when I wake up makes my heart sink.

I push back the blankets and sit up slowly, blinking at the light sneaking in through the curtains. The house is quiet, like it always is. Perks of being nestled right in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, NY.

I can tell without getting up that Petyr has already left for work. His side of the bed is cool, the sheets folded neatly. Who even makes the bed when someone else is still sleeping in it?

My husband, that’s who. My control freak, sex beast of a husband.

Too bad that, for the first time in three weeks, sex is the furthest thing from my mind.

I roll onto my back and press my palm to my abdomen. It’s like I woke up with a squad of tiny construction workers all turning on their electric drills simultaneously inside my uterus.

Which can only mean one thing.

I just got my fucking period.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rush towards the bathroom. The floor is cold under my bare feet, but I don’t want to waste time looking for my slippers. Better to leave a couple of footprints than turn the polished hardwood floors of the Gubarev Mausoleum into Carrie’s prom scene.

I move automatically, grabbing what I need from the cabinet as I sit. When I spy the red splotch on my panties, I put my head in my hands and sigh.

“Fuck.”