Page 29 of Scream (Duchess & Devils #1)

Her head bobs. “It's not something I'm proud of. I'm working on it.”

“What happened?” I blurt out, but she only shakes her head. The light atmosphere from earlier is gone, and the sadness in her emerald eyes is enough to make me feel sad for her.

“It doesn't matter. It's something I have to move past on my own. Nobody else can do that for me.” She clears her throat and takes another few bites, then stands to clear her plate from the table.

I follow the sway of her hips as she immediately washes it and sits it on the rack to dry, then dries her hands on a towel.

“Thank you for having them make the soup.

Probably the best stew I've ever had.” She stands there in her little shorts, a pale blue shirt hanging loosely off her body.

It looks wrong – the blue, I mean. Or maybe it's that her clothes just don't look right.

I had noticed that at our wedding. How she looked smaller.

Her hourglass figure enhanced by the second wedding gown she'd had on that evening, and the way her necklace, a solitary pink pendant, sat on the little hollow of her throat between her more pronounced clavicles.

I had gotten her sizes from Lily, her PA. Had she got them wrong?

Sabrina shifts from one foot to the other, a blush still on her cheeks from her fever earlier.

“How… are… the clothes?” I ask awkwardly, wanting to kick myself.

“Fine, thank you.”

I give one nod and look down at the spezzatino, suddenly not hungry. “The wives… will probably be back to check on you tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, I'll be ready. Just need to get more sleep.”

“Okay.”

She blinks. “Okay.”

I don't know why I want her to stay, to keep talking to me. I want her to… I'm becoming pathetic. I laugh at myself inwardly. I could have had anyone. I could have chosen one of the chapter daughters here… “You should rest some more. You still look sickly.”

I regret it as soon as I say it.

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare.

There goes that.

I wait for the moaning to start before I even dare step inside of her room.

What I'm having to wait for makes me feel vile, but soon my fingers are plunged into her pussy.

Her delectable little sounds have me sweating beneath the covers and aching to come.

She isn't wearing shorts tonight, just a tiny little lace thong and an oversized shirt I'm pretty sure is mine.

I make quick work of my boxer briefs, and my dick fits beautifully between her asscheeks.

She's grinding so hard against me, the soft skin of her ass so delicious against the heat of my dick.

Her sweet cunt is chasing my fingers. Her stomach tenses against my arm, and I know she's so fucking close to losing it, to breaking for me.

I get lost in the citrusy scent of her silky hair, the way her body moves, the feel of her in my embrace, those breathy little sighs, and the way she moans my name. Is she dreaming about me? Am I making her come on my tongue in those dreams? My fingers? My cock?

It would be so fucking easy to slip past this tiny piece of fabric…

but no. When I slip into her for the first time, she'll be awake.

She'll be staring into my eyes, so she knows it's me, and not some fever dream.

And she'll fight me. I know she will. But the thought of her taking out her anger on me, struggling against me, pushes me over the brink, just as she squeezes my fingers so tight I'm pretty sure she's cutting off the circulation, but I let her ride it out, praising her.

I can't help myself this time. I softly roll her on her back and carefully bury my face between her thighs.

I'm not exactly sure what to do, but the heady scent of her cum is heavy under the blankets, calling for me to lick it up.

I rest my head on the juncture between her thigh and her sex, and my tongue seems to know exactly what to do.

A tangy, sweet flavor bursts on my taste buds, licking lazily at the little bud I feel, and soon I'm diving in, seeking more of her pleasure to drench my tongue, sucking on one lip then the other, shoving my tongue deep into her entrance, licking her pussy clean until she's quivering.

I don't want her to come. I want her to feel unsatisfied.

I want her to ache for me during the day.

I want her pussy to miss me. My tongue. My fingers. Me .

So I back away, go to the bathroom, and paint the fucking mirror with my cum. I cleaning it, myself, the sink, and the counter. It's a waste. It should be inside of my wife. Keeping her filled up. I should be breeding her.

The thought alone makes my dick roar back to life, so I jerk off a second time, making the same mess I did before.

Somewhat satisfied, I go back to my wife, snoring softly beneath the blankets, and settle in behind her.

I stare up at the ceiling, listening to her soft little purrs, before turning and placing a small kiss on her temple.

I drag her into my chokehold, reveling in the way her small frame fits with mine.

It's only when she begins to stir in the morning hours, as the sun's first rays start peeking through the blinds, that I leave her bed. I miss her scent, and that’s when I know, I'm royally fucked.

It continues like that every night on our spontaneous honeymoon. During the day she learns to bake pastries with the wives until she's mastered them. I've gained five pounds from eating her treats… and her pussy.

I'm addicted.

Even when the weighted blanket shows up, and it could solve both our problems, I don’t give it to her.

Every night when her little murmurs begin, I slip my tongue into her, my mouth already salivating for a mere drop of her exquisite taste.

I beg her to stop me, tell her to wake up and push me off but she never does.

I’m amazed she hasn’t noticed the pool of cum I’ve left at the foot of the bed, no longer allowing myself to step away from her, simply leaving a puddle because she’s gotten more vocal and it’s so fucking hot to watch.

I lick through the aftershocks of her orgasms; the taste that follows makes me come with her. Every time.

It’s explosive.

It’s divine.

I never want it to end.

But it does.

Because Parker shows up on the fourth day of our forced honeymoon.