Page 18 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)
This close, I can smell the scent of us on her. It’s like she belongs to me in every way, and if I push her back and spread her, she’ll welcome me into her wet, tight pussy with a soft moan, then beg me to use her for my pleasure .
A prickling sensation spreads. My dick hardens like it didn’t just explode inside her less than an hour ago.
My fingertips twitch, and I curl my hands, refusing to touch her.
I don’t want her to think she’s in charge.
She will never be in charge. I’m never giving her that much control and power again.
“I was desperate,” she says. “But now I’m not. I have the money, and once I pay them, they’ll leave me and Sherry alone.”
I sigh. “You realize the loan sharks are probably just going to jack up the interest, right?”
She blinks in bewilderment. “Why would they?”
“Because they can. Because they’re assholes. If Aaron went into debt while gambling, they probably have mob connections.”
“Well…” She shakes her head. “I’ll deal with that when it happens.”
“How? Are you planning to borrow more from me?”
Her cheeks redden. “I’ll think of something.”
I detect a slight tremor underneath her firm tone. “Are you paying off the extra with your body too?”
“I don’t like to think about hypotheticals.” Suddenly she clears her throat and stands up. “Actually, I need to go.”
Flustered? “Where to?”
“To…” She hesitates. “To get my things.”
“I said where , not why.”
Not meeting my eyes, she shrugs. “Jude’s place.”
“Why? Now that you got fucked by me, you want to hop back into his bed?” The nasty question is out before I realize what I’m saying. The words are full of old wounds and pain, and I want to smack myself for inadvertently revealing a glimpse of the hurt I’ve been harboring.
“Don’t be crude,” she says sharply.
I inwardly sigh with relief that she didn’t notice anything. I put up an even higher and more unbreakable wall.
She continues, “He had all my things moved there last night. All my shoes and clothes and stuff.”
“So? You aren’t crawling back to him, regardless of the excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse—”
“If you go anywhere near him, the deal’s off. You won’t need to wear clothes for what you’re here to do. ”
Her expression starts to crumble before she blinks away all signs of vulnerability. “You are such an asshole now.”
“No. I was always an asshole. It’s just that I wasn’t an asshole with you.”
Something halfway between anguish and disbelief flashes across her face. Her hands clench into fists. “You know what? I’m not wasting my breath talking to you.”
“Good. You aren’t paying off the loan by talking. Now go take a shower, unless you want to smell like you just got fucked,” I say, selecting words for maximal pain.
Her complexion turns red, white, then back to red before she spins around and walks upstairs.
“Third door to your right,” I call out. That’s the only guestroom with an en suite bathroom that’s fully stocked.
The slamming of the door is the only answer. I cock an eyebrow. Temper, temper.
Now… Will she come out in the same dress with nothing underneath once she’s showered? I can strip her of the damned outfit, have her grip the back of the couch and take her from behind, this time shooting my cum all over her bare back, reapplying my scent to her.
If I take her until her pussy is raw, perhaps this endless hunger can be satisfied. But part of me says that’s the worst kind of strategy. She’s expecting that—and likely has counterplans for it.
I don’t want to see her in the wedding dress she picked out to marry Jude Morven ever again.
I head to my closet and pick out the oldest T-shirt I own. The pale gray cotton is faded, but clean. It even has a couple of small rips around the neck, thanks to Josh. The least attractive. Perfect. Then a pair of brand-new boxers, still in the plastic packaging.
I leave them on the bed for Fiona and grab some documents I need to review before tomorrow, then settle into an armchair with a glass of Yamazaki 18.
But my focus isn’t wholly on the paper. Part of me is hyperaware of Fiona upstairs—in the shower, naked and wet and covered with slippery suds.
When she washes her private parts, does she glide her fingers through her folds, then rub, making herself feel good at the same time?
Her clit and pussy are probably still sensitive.
I remember how long they remain like that after she comes.
Is she rubbing herself for another quick orgasm in the shower?
Or is she trying to ignore the awareness between her thighs?
I sip the whiskey, letting the liquid fire burn down my throat all the way to my stomach. But the heat in my gut has nothing to do with the fine liquor. It’s all about the woman upstairs.
If she had her phone, she might stay hidden upstairs, but her purse is still in my Rolls-Royce. Well, when I see her in my old T-shirt, I’m not going to feel this uncomfortable or worked up. I picked it specifically because it’s going to look ridiculous on her.
But she doesn’t come out of the room for the rest of the day. Even though her purse and phone are still in the Rolls.
I have to read the documents three times, constantly distracted by images of her in the damn shower.