Page 12 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce

A soft touch on my shoulder from behind. I start, then spin on my feet.

“You can’t run from me forever.”

The words are said in an even softer voice, but my mouth dries anyway. Mom stands before me, looking as beautiful as ever, her blue eyes on me. Her small smile is full of a satisfaction so deep it spikes my veins with anxiety.

I’m not a helpless child anymore, I tell myself. I’m an adult now, bigger and stronger than her. She can’t drag me away. Not now, not ever. She has no hold over me—

“You used to be so adorable and cute—a good boy. But look at you now. All big and grown. So respectable and wonderful.” She takes a step forward, then another. “Still a perfect, good boy.”

I’m rooted to the spot, my legs feeling like lead. I raise my palm. “Stop.”

“Why? I’ve waited so long for our reunion.”

“I never want to see you again.”

An incredulous laugh erupts from her chest. She grips my hand. “But you’re seeing me now, aren’t you?”

My skin crawls at her touch. Her skin is buttery soft and smooth, but it only makes me want to recoil. I try to pull away, but she holds firm and I can’t free myself. What the fuck?

“You’re mine.”

Panic swells. No.

Suddenly, someone else grips my free hand. “Bryce.”

I turn and gaze into Fiona’s green-gold eyes, which slide to Mom for a second before she turns her focus on me. What’s she doing here? Her warm grip chases away the chill Mom’s touch brought. The dread in my belly eases, and the anxiety recedes.

“Come with me,” Fiona says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

She tugs at me, and like magic, I can move my legs. She lets me go, then runs ahead. I follow her along a long, dimly lit corridor.

Abruptly she turns, cradles my face in her hands and crashes her mouth against mine. Her lips are soft, giving under mine like a ripe peach. The taste of her—all woman and sugar—drives me wild, and she smells like rosewater and warm female flesh, an intoxicating combination.

I push my tongue into her mouth, needing more. She moans and sucks on my tongue, tunneling her fingers into my hair. The heat underneath my taut skin is unbearable. She drives me crazy. She always did. All the blood in my body pools in my dick. She rubs herself against me.

The more she strokes me with her tongue, the more the layers of chill and ugliness Mom brought fall away. I cling to Fiona like salvation, fuse my mouth to hers like I could meld our bodies if I just kiss her deeply enough. I don’t know how I stayed away from her for so long—

She pulls me down until I’m on top of her, her back on the floor.

She’s in a stunning white gown—very much like the wedding dress I saw in the pictures.

When did she change? But I never get to ask the question; she hikes her skirt up to her waist, raises her knees and spreads her thighs, beckoning. My mouth waters.

“Like what you see?” she teases softly.

“You know I do.” My voice is guttural. I run my palm along her soft inner thigh, heading for the gorgeously flushed flesh, but she wags a finger.

“Uh-uh. You can’t touch me there.”

“You spread your legs for me. You’re mine.”

“I can spread my legs for anybody.” She dips a finger into her opening, keeping her eyes on me. Pleasure clouds her gaze. “Including myself.”

Lust clutches me. I’ve never seen her touch herself, and the sight makes my dick ache, my fingers itch. Her breathing hitches.

“Let me stick my fingers into your pussy. Find the spot you can’t resist while I suck your clit.”

She shakes her head, her eyes narrowed. She thrusts two fingers inside herself.

When she withdraws them, they’re slick. She bites her lip.

Jesus. The visual is too much. The need to hammer into her thrums in my skull.

I want to fuck her through the floor and into the dirt below.

I want to defile her, hate her and love her at the same time until I get this maddening obsession out of my system.

“Not a good idea,” she says breathlessly. “I’m waiting…”

“To come?” I say when she doesn’t say more. My dick hurts so much, but most importantly, the need to touch her rides me like a monster I can’t resist.

“No. She’s waiting for me .” Jude appears in a tux and starts to fall on her. I grab him before he can touch her. My fist connects with his face until blood spurts from his nose. Satisfaction sears through me.

I’ve always wanted to do this. It’s almost as good as sex with Fiona.

Fiona’s scream echoes, the impact of the shriek hitting me like a concrete block—

I blink. My eyes struggle to find something tangible in the utter darkness. I rub them, smell the soft lavender scent—potpourri from Akiko. She sends it to me every so often because she suspects I don’t sleep well, but also knows if she worries too overtly, I’ll withdraw.

I run a hand over my face. The lavender smells nice, but it doesn’t do a thing to keep nightmares at bay. Nothing worked until I met Fiona.

For some reason, holding her helped me sleep. The nightmares stayed away when she hummed for me, her fingers threaded in my hair. But I’ll be damned if I admit she had anything to do with my improved sleep back then. She’s no human Ambien. It was just a coincidence.

It sounds annoyingly unconvincing even to me.

I turn, burying my face in the pillow, chills and heat chasing each other through my body.

The damn nightmare . What the hell was that—Mom, Fiona and…

Jude at the end? Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve had a messed-up dream involving those three.

If I were still seeing a therapist, he’d have a field day with it… especially since I’m still hard.

I don’t blame my dick too much. After all, I’m healthy, in my prime, so when a hot chick masturbates in my dream, yeah, I’m going to get an erection.

But I’m awake now. The dream’s over.

My penis continues to throb. If it could talk, it’d say, “Grab me, fucker. For God’s sake, gimme a break!”

The problem is that the only thing I can think about right now is Fiona—her legs spread, her eyes dark with pleasure, her cheeks and mouth flushed with heat. I’m not jerking off to that. No. No way.

My mood hits rock bottom when I finally drag myself out of bed three hours later.

I haven’t slept a wink and my head feels like it’s full of wet cotton balls.

Thank God I’m not working today. I need to get some pills to help me sleep through the night.

I quit using them after my last birthday—didn’t like the dependency—but screw it.

My dick still refuses to get the memo. It’s semi-hard. I ignore it and shower. “This is going to be a great day,” I tell myself as I get ready to attend Ares’s wedding. My brother is disgustingly happy with his wife, and he deserves that more than anybody else.

The ceremony is held on a wide green field.

It’s just the Huxleys and some friends. Nobody from Lareina’s side of the family comes, but then, “attending a wedding” is not a valid excuse to leave prison.

But she’s probably happier without them anyway.

And it avoids a potential murder, because Ares might just kill them if he ran into them.

“Here Comes the Bride” soars in the air. Lareina appears in a stunning white gown. Although the ceremony was hastily arranged, you’d never be able to tell. There are beautiful orchids, lilies, jasmines, tulips and other flowers I can’t begin to name, along with a live band and fantastic catering.

Lareina’s backless dress is something straight out of a fairytale. Hundreds of diamantes sparkle, and the bodice is sewn with countless little pearls. Ares spared no expense to ensure his wife would get a dream wedding, the kind befitting a queen.

Josh and I stand as Ares’s groomsmen. My phone continues to buzz. Probably more photos from Jude, who’s trying desperately to get my attention—and reaction. How pathetic can he be?

But how pathetic are you , thinking about something that only happened in your dream? You’re wondering if she spread her legs and plunged her fingers into her pussy in front of Jude …

A ball of acid burns in my gut. My heart says it’s jealousy, but I refuse to accept that. Why should I get jealous? I don’t feel anything for her.

Too late. You got hard .

God, I hate arguing with myself.

After the vows are exchanged and Ares and Lareina march out to Mendelssohn while rose petals rain down on the couple, Josh pulls out his phone, then stiffens and glares at it. “ What? ” He turns to me. “Marriage? Are you crazy ?”

I do my best to look confused. “What?”

“Stina!”

I make a big deal out of frowning and scratching my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

He stares at me in disbelief. “The girl from yesterday! You told her to buy a ring because I wanted to propose!”

“Oh, her . Yeah. You sent her to me, so I just returned the favor.” I give him a what-did-you-expect shrug.

“You were supposed to act like you’d never met her before—”

I snort. “Didn’t have to act. I never had met her. But I thought you might want to get something going with her, since you didn’t outright reject her.”

“I did, but she burst into tears.”

My jaw drops. “So you sent her to me ?”

“I was trying to help you. I was about to tell you that before you cut me off.”

“Help me?” I fold my arms and wait. “This ought to be good.”

“Yes! You’ve been uptight and irritable for weeks now. Ever since Fiona visited your office.”

It takes considerable willpower not to clench my teeth. However, any reaction would be admitting he’s right, and I’ll be damned if —

“So you could’ve just released your built-up pressure with Stina, and voilà, back to normal.”

I sigh. “I’m not uptight and irritable, and I certainly don’t have any ‘built-up pressure.’”

“You made an intern cry.” He says it with the triumphant finality of a lawyer unveiling his best exhibit, the kind that will destroy the opposing counsel’s entire case.

“He fucked up!”

“But making him cry?”

“Hey, if he can’t handle constructive feedback, it’s on him. Huxley I want to grab Fiona and shake her for being a cheap idiot then pound into her until she’s begging for mercy.

Jesus. What’s wrong with me?

Then another ping—from a different number. The new photo isn’t of Fiona, but Jude in a tuxedo in a white room much like the one in Fiona’s photo. Several vases of lilies of the valley sit in the background. His hair is slicked back, his eyes bright. The smirk twisting his mouth is full of smugness.

–Unknown: Perfect groom for the perfect bride.

So he really is marrying Fiona? This piece of shit, who treated her worse than the dirt on the soles of his shoes?

Despite what I told Jude last night, I might not have been her first choice.

She might’ve gone to him first, then come to me after he didn’t give her the answer she needed fast enough.

Or…maybe she’s just that cr azy about him.

The years apart might’ve shown her she couldn’t be without him.

Who the hell knows what’s going on in her head?

My mouth tight, I block the number. She wants to brag that she’s marrying the man of her dreams? Well, let the traitorous bitch marry that snake. It’s a perfect pairing.

I shake my head. She’s never changed. Yet my gut churns with acid. I simply can’t understand—

Ignore it. She wants that asshole.

I forcibly wrench my attention back to Ares. But the wedding-night scenario reappears. Except this time, instead of the wrinkled hands, Jude’s hands glide over her body, his mouth on her lips, his cock entering her—

The last image nearly blows the top of my skull off. The pressure has built so tight, my sternum feels like it’s about to crack.

Over my dead body they’re going to have a fairytale wedding and live happily ever after.

Pulling at my tie and loosening it, I get up and start to leave. I have a wedding to go fuck up.