Page 23 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Fiona

How curt. And weird. Bryce didn’t sound like himself, like he was both angry and relieved.

If he was upset that I called, he should’ve answered my texts.

It isn’t easy to stay up this late when I usually get up by six.

But I couldn’t just fall asleep, knowing he wanted to take his second time tonight.

Maybe he wants to role-play and got annoyed I didn’t call sooner?

I shake my head. We used to be so in tune. A single glance, and I knew what he needed, whether it was a kiss or a hug or comforting humming or sex. Now, I never have any idea. He threw me out of my office, then changed his mind. He mocked me for “offering my body,” then demanded I pay with my body.

The man is fickler than a weathervane in a hurricane.

Or this might be his way of screwing with me. After all, he made it clear he’d never forgive me for what happened…which is probably deserved. He’s doing everything in his power to punish me for that past humiliation—also understandable from his perspective.

Part of me wishes I hadn’t bothered with the text, asking to meet and speak to him—just gone over to him and explained what really happened between me and Jude before leaving for my job in Wisconsin.

However, when Bryce said I was dead to him, my courage died.

Or maybe I was just relieved that I didn’t have to relive the trauma and shame.

I felt like I owed him an explanation, but even if I’d given him one, he might’ve still accused me of making excuses.

He might’ve been more disappointed and annoyed that I wasn’t the perfect angel he’d initially assumed when I saved his golden retriever.

Stop thinking about what might’ve happened .

An Uber drops me off in front of the Aylster. The concierge comes to me with a polite smile. “Ms. Oberman? The presidential suite is this way.”

Guess Bryce told the hotel.

I nod and follow her, carrying a box of condoms in a paper bag. Can’t be prepared enough. It’s possible Bryce arranged for some, but birth control matters more to me than him. After all, my consequences would be far more immediate—and dire.

The concierge takes me to a waiting elevator, swipes a card over the reader, then hands it to me. The car moves upward silently.

I exhale, trying not to fidget. The mirrored doors show a woman with her hair shiny and unbound, cascading around her shoulders in auburn waves. A respectable black trench coat with the waist cinched tight with a fabric belt. The heels I picked out are strappy and scream sex.

Bryce wants something sexy. I plan to give it to him—and show him that just because I go along with his demands, it doesn’t mean he’s in control. If I can’t establish that, our time together is going to be disastrous.

He already wants to establish his control and possession over my body.

I need to make it clear that sex doesn’t mean he gets to own me until he gets his fill—because I know perfectly well he isn’t going to count all the way up to three hundred.

He’s just being a jerk because of how we parted ways.

Once he gets bored, he’ll stop, but my life needs to go on.

Hopefully that will happen sooner rather than later. And hopefully we won’t harbor any residual feelings for each other. A clean slate, everything totally even. Hell, if I ever get married and need a divorce lawyer in the future, it’d be nice to be able to consult Bryce without any hard feelings .

The elevator stops with a ping. The doors open. A sign in the hall says the suite is to my left. I walk along the thickly carpeted corridor, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I can play whatever game Bryce wants to play.

There is a pair of massive double doors at the end—and a platinum plaque to the right that reads PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. I swipe the card. The lock clicks open.

I run a palm over my hair and stride inside, my heels silent on the lush carpet. A giant vase full of fresh white calla lilies sits on a stand to my left. The floor-to-ceiling windows show a spectacular view of L.A., countless lights glittering like gemstones in the dark.

Next to an ivory baby grand piano is a trail of clothes: a white shirt, black vest and jacket, pants and underwear, all thrown haphazardly.

Cushions litter the floor, some flung far from the big sectional.

Socks and shoes lie under the glass-top coffee table.

A tie at the foot of the bed. The tips of my shoes almost kick the cuff links glinting on the floor.

What the hell happened here? It isn’t like him to leave a mess all over. He’s surprisingly tidy. Even when stripping for sex, he’s always left his things in a neat pile near the bed.

Except… The only time he was a wreck was that time he had a horrible nightmare earlier in our relationship.

I walked in on him after a late-night group study session as he swiped his hands over his desk, sending everything crashing on the floor, including his laptop and phone.

He threw the Babs Bunny mug I left on the nightstand that morning.

The ceramic exploded like a bomb against the wall.

I jumped, my heart pounding with shock and concern.

He yanked at his hair. I dropped my bag and rushed forward.

He swiveled his head toward me, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused, lost and haunted.

“Fiona…?” he croaked.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Something tight and agonizing on his face crumbled.

I pressed a tender kiss on his cool, unresponsive lips, then held him, stroking his back.

The skin was icy, but slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell erratically.

He wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck, sucking in air desperately.

Shudder after shudder racked through his big body.

He struggled to even his breathing, but it didn’t seem to help.

I pulled him down on the bed, since I didn’t want anything on the floor to cut his bare feet, and held him and crooned softly, hoping the steady gentle rhythm of the melody would help him regain control.

The shudders eased. His breathing grew regular. I stroked his hair, and his back. “What happened?” I asked.

“Just a bad dream.” His voice was rough.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, his hair tickling my skin, and clung to me. “It’s enough that you’re here.”

We fell asleep, holding each other. And I never saw him react that badly to a nightmare again.

Uneasy, I step over a pillow and move closer to the bed. The sheets are twisted. If I didn’t know better, I might worry that he had another nightmare episode. But he was obviously awake when we spoke on the phone. So what could’ve caused such a mess?

I pull the condoms out of the paper bag and toss them on the night table. The air smells faintly of mint, sandalwood and sex. My eyes scan the area—no sign of female clothes. Apprehension tightens my chest. Something’s definitely not right.

A hand grips my wrist. “Fiona.”

Bryce . He spins me around, taking both my wrists in his hands. I gasp as he pins me against the wall by the nightstand, my hands trapped above my head. He leans forward until his naked body is pressed against mine. His erection throbs against my belly. My pulse gallops at how hot he feels.

“You really came.” His voice is low with surprise.

“Well…you asked me to. Didn’t you?”

His cheeks are slightly flushed, his mouth even redder.

The air in my throat catches at the darkly possessive gleam in his eyes.

His pupils are so wide that the irises look nearly black.

It reminds me of the time his eyes glazed from the nightmare, but there isn’t any of the vulnerability from the past.

He pushes a thigh between my legs, spreading my knees, making me feel exposed even though I’m the one who’s still wearing clothes.

His cock is trapped between our bodies. Is it even bigger and harder than last night?

My breathing shallows as I remember how amazing it felt when he invaded me, filled me and stretched me. Is tonight going to be even better?

He lowers his head to my mouth, and I turn my chin so that his lips graze along my jawline. He inhales sharply with displeasure. The hands around my wrists flex in a silent warning.

“I said no kissing on the mouth.” I look up at him, meeting his eyes.

Savage possessiveness and a need to conquer burn in their black depths. My mouth dries, and I run my tongue over my lips without thinking. His eyes follow the movement, and his grip tightens as he tries to chase my lips.

“No!” It comes out more sharply than I want, but recalling the past has weakened my emotional shield.

A kiss might feel too much like it was before—when it wasn’t just a prelude to sex, but a way for us to show each other we cared.

I can’t afford to wallow in the past and become vulnerable, not if I want to leave this arrangement unscathed.

Something that looks like pain passes over his gorgeous face, but I’m just imagining things. A rejection from me doesn’t have the power to sting him.

He puts his mouth on the side of my neck, right over my pulse point.

A frustrated groan rumbles in his thickly muscled chest. He nips the delicate skin until I feel a small tingle, then he licks.

Hot shivers vibrate through my body. He uses his free hand to undo my belt and unbutton my thin coat.

All the while, he ravages my neck, sucking and biting and licking, as though he’s punishing me for denying him my mouth.

His hot breath fans over me. The prickling sensation spreads, pulsing all over until it ends between my legs, making my clit throb with the need to be touched.

I admit in the back of my mind that—maybe—I was looking forward to another night with him when he told me to dress sexy. After all, he’s amazing in bed and we have great chemistry. Transaction or no, he would never deny me pleasure.

He spreads the lapels of my coat and trails his hot mouth down over my collarbones. I clench my thighs as more liquid heat pools in my already-slick flesh. My thong’s going to be a mess.

Still pinning my wrists to the wall, he pushes away my coat. His eyes drop, and he takes his fill.

The black strappy underwear provides very little cover—and what is there is made of sheer lace.

The satin bands crisscross my body like rope bindings, and tiny scraps of lace cover my nipples and make a tiny triangle over my crotch.

A thin string made of the same material wraps low and snug around my neck like a collar with a platinum heart in the center.

A garter belt and fishnet stockings complete the look.

While he looks, I look. My eyes roam all over his physique. The incredibly wide shoulders and the slabs of muscle over his chest. The ridiculously defined six-pack, and the narrow hips and thick thighs that say power .

His cock is so erect the head touches his belly, leaving a streak of precum on his abs. How long has he been like this?

“Did you get hard thinking of me?” I ask, my voice raspy.

“I already came twice thinking of you.”

I gasp at his raw response. My eyes fly to his face. His cock is this stiff after two orgasms? Even when we were in the throes of young love, he wasn’t this insatiable.

“No way,” I whisper, trying to pull away and failing when his grip remains firm.

Heat blazes in his eyes, burning away whatever sanity and control he’s been hanging on to. He pulls the coat down my body, then picks me up and tosses me on the bed. I gasp as I bounce on the soft mattress. The sheets underneath are wrinkled, and my hand touches something sticky.

I glare up at him. “I’m not going to sleep with you in a bed where you had sex with another woman.”

He leans over me, his hands on either side of me, trapping me between his legs and arms. A smug smile tugs at his mouth. “You look pretty when you’re jealous.”

I want to deny I’m jealous, but it’d only make me look foolish. “I don’t want you getting an STD and giving it to me.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry, there was no other woman.” He looks into my eyes. “I told you: I came twice thinking of you .”

Oh my God …

He grips my hair and dips his head, then stops when we’re only hairsbreadths away from kissing. “Oh, I forgot. No kissing the princess, right?”

Before I can process the resentment and wistful longing in his voice, he pulls my nipple into his mouth while pushing away the thin strap between my legs. He groans when his fingers dip into my slick depths.

“How long have you been wet?” Without giving me a chance to respond, he moves his fingers inside me so hard that I shake. “Were you thinking of me?”

I shake my head, not wanting to answer and stroke his ego.

His eyes flare. “Were you thinking of someone else?”

I grit my teeth as the pleasure builds. I’m going to get my orgasm, and he’s getting whatever he wants out of the arrangement. I don’t owe him any explanations. I can’t afford to offer any. I need to remember what this is about and keep my heart insulated.

He lets out a mocking laugh at my defiance, then flicks his tongue over my left nipple.

I moan at the teasing stroke, how good it feels.

He sucks the tip of my breast with single-minded focus, and I grip his hair.

He pumps his fingers, and my pussy grips them.

He barely grazes the bump inside me, the one that makes me go wild.

He keeps a steady pace, enough to build the fire, but not enough to make me explode.

“You bastard,” I grit out. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were nice.”

He laughs with the nipple in his mouth, the vibration sending streaks of sharp pleasure to my core. I press my feet on the bed for better mobility, to rock against his hand, but he just rides the motion, maintaining a constant, unfulfilling pressure.

“Do you get horny thinking of me?” he asks against my breast. “Does it ever get unbearable? Do you ever finger-fuck yourself, remembering all the things we did together?”

No, no, no , I shake my head. Even as he goads me, his eyes are glazed and unfocused with raw vulnerability. I’ve glimpsed that before, when I walked in on him after he’d just had a nightmare. Part of me wants to cradle his face and press a kiss on his mouth as tenderly as before, but I pull back.

I don’t want to give in and let my guard down. I don’t want to remember the nights when I thought of him, wished I could hold on to him, kiss him until we were out of breath and have him glide into me over and over again until I forgot all the ugliness in my life.

I don’t want him seducing me into hoping this can be anything but a deal. He and I… We’ve been through too much to believe in fairytales and happy endings.

“Do you—”

Blinking away the bittersweet tears before they fall, I put a hand over his mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”