Page 4 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

He lets out a sigh, possibly disappointed in my actions, and leans down to turn on the tap. The giant bathtub fills.

It’s death by drowning then.

“Undress,” he orders but to my curiosity he does the same, tugging at his buttons.

“Um.” My arm is at an awkward angle. I didn’t shove myself into this dress all on my own.

He grabs me by the waist, spinning me lightly, his fingers making easy work of the various zippers and buttons that glue the material to my skin. Skin which flushes each time his fingers meet my back. I should not like the zips jolting through me .

He pushes me toward the bath, which I shakily climb into, while he finishes undressing.

My face is hot from the steam. Definitely hot from the steam and not the giant cock he reveals when he steps out of his briefs. He motions for me to move forward and settles into the tub.

He grabs me by the shoulders, wrenching me back so I lean against his chest. “Relax. It’s been a long day.”

Awkwardly quiet takes on a whole new meaning when you’re sitting naked in the bath with a stranger.

I understand aftercare, being washed off after a satisfying encounter.

But this is wrong. Dare I say too intimate as the water gently ripples when he moves a hand. There’s a delicate splash as he lifts his hand, his finger swirling against the skin of my stomach.

“Let’s wash the day away.”

Get it over with , I want to grumble instead.

He continues the methodical swirls along my skin. His finger drifts from my belly, up along my ribcage. To the swell of my breast.

My back arches when he plucks at a nipple.

“Calm down, Mrs. Zimin,” he whispers in my ear. The cold bastard finally sounds amused.

“I can wash myself off.” I fumble for a bottle on the side of the tub, the item practically flying through the air in my chaos.

He tsks in my ear, pulling me back to his chest.

“Relax.”

Nobody relaxes when they’re ordered to.

But I try, more so because I don’t want to breathe like a crazy person, though my lungs struggle for air.

His fingers smooth down my skin again, dipping under the water and lower and lower.

Water sloshes when my back arches as he strokes me down there.

“Um.” No other words make it out of my mouth when the finger goes up and down my folds. It’s no longer the delicate pattern. And when he presses a finger inside my cunt my back arches even more.

“Sensitive,” he remarks, another finger pressing in. “Tell me did Marissa choose you for that very reason?”

I don’t answer. My fingers wrap around the edge of the bathtub.

“Stop fighting it,” he soothes, another finger pressing inside me.

I knew his mask of calm hid the devil. His fingers hit a spot and my head rolls back. Looking up through dark lashes, I spot those dark eyes staring down at me.

He has no intention of taking it easy on me. He’s proving a point.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “Please.”

“Please what?” His strokes don’t slow.

“I need. . .” to calm the fuck down. Why the fuck am I enjoying three fingers in me when I just met this man. Shit, if there’s barely any warm-up now, what’s my life going to be like?

Hell. It’s going to be hell.

You’ve got to reign this in, Russet.

I scoot away from him, surprised he lets me go. He’s not bothered when water spills over the edge, though, from the state of this place, I’m guessing he’s got a thing about cleanliness.

“I think maybe we should. . .”

He props an elbow on the tub, his head leaning to the side. The bored, tired face is on, but he listens. I suspect it’s because he finds me amusing.

“Maybe we could. . .”

“Could?” he prompts.

“Um.” I swallow and for some reason, the only thing that comes out is, “Maybe we could get a divorce?”

A second goes by. And then two.

His hand snakes around me and I’m roughly pulled back into his chest. “No.”

The word is as bored and unfeeling as he is.

“But. . .” Surely, he doesn’t want to be married to a stranger?

“You went into that church, sweetheart.” He thrusts his finger inside me. “I didn’t think Marissa’s girls needed to be told what happens between married men and women.”

My cheeks scald and this time it’s not the steam from the water. “I’m not one of her girls.”

He thrusts in another finger, his pressure cruel. “No? You’re not one of the countless whores Marissa’s parades around this city?”

“I’m not. . .” My head leans against his chest.

“Not what? Marissa’s whore?”

“No!”

He finds his rhythm, his thumb rubbing my clit. His fingers in and out as I sit there and take it.

“Interesting,” he says. “So were you always in on Marissa’s plan? Did you wake up today and decide you’d fuck a Zimin one way or the other?”

I don’t reply.

“Hmmm.” His other hand tugs my nipple. “I guess you got your wish, wife.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the bathtub. The orgasm crashes around me quickly and embarrassingly easy.

I swat his hand away from me, the one leisurely stroking my nipple.

“I’m not one of her whores,” I tell him, spinning around in the tub. My spine bumps against the opposite end like the distance will save me.

“Yes, you are.” The heat causes his hair to curl even more. He rakes a hand through it, unbothered by anything that just happened. “One way or the other you are, because you’re here.”

He’s right, not that I’ll admit it.

Don’t get mixed up in Marissa’s shit. It’s the only rule I knew growing up. One that got broken thanks to Daisy. And now I’m here.

“But the good news is you no longer belong to her.” He sounds deceptively caring, especially since his next words declare, “You’re mine.”

I’d rather rot in hell.

He shakes his head, a smile gracing his lips, his jawline sharp. The water distorts the view, but his abs are rock hard, his muscles solid. Arrogant and good-looking. That’s all I know about my husband at this moment.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice is calm.

Quiet. Factual. Dark eyes peek up and for a moment there’s an air of boyishness.

“You married me. You’re my wife. My property, mine to do whatever I please.

If I want to finger you in the bathtub, I’ll do it.

If I want you on your knees, sucking my cock, it’ll happen.

Your cunt is owned by me and guess what sweetheart, so is your soul. ”

I shake my head. No one can own my soul.

He sighs, that same patronizing, ‘I can’t believe I have to explain this to her’ look on his face.

“It is,” he declares. “Now come back here and lets finish our bath.”

How about not.

I stand up, water dripping off me.

“Sit back down.”

“I think I’ll sleep in the guest room.” We have several of those.

“That won’t be happening.”

I climb out of the bathtub, my skin hot despite the flush of cold. I’m searching for a towel when I hear him stand and do everything to avoid him.

“Russet.”

I don’t like the calm voice he uses. The facade.

“I’m going to—” My foot slips out from under me.

I’m saved from a faceplant when my husband grabs my elbow, but my ankle twists at an awkward angle.

Maxim sighs. “Of course, Marissa gave me a defective wife.”

Rude.

He picks me up, my hair pasting to wet skin and he marches us toward the bedroom. Unceremoniously, he throws me on the bed, a giant thing with tons of pillows and a satin duvet.

He carefully touches my ankle. I don’t bother to lift my defective self up. “This hurt?”

“It’s okay.” Not really, but I doubt he’d care.

My suspicions are correct when he smooths his hand over my leg, going up and up and slap .

Did this motherfucker just slap my pussy?

The way he meets my eyes as my mouth drops open tells me everything I need to know.

I married a sadist.

“Are you fucking serious?” I push up on the mattress, trying to get away.

He grabs my ankle, pulling me back. “It’s on you how this goes.”

His palm smacks my pussy again and I jump.

“This was your night for pleasure.” He looms over me, his face as hard as marble. He appears just as frozen. But those eyes are nothing but fire. Like smoldering coal.

He leans in close, hovering over me. “Tell me who owns you and we’ll get back to the pleasure part.”

I don’t stop wiggling on the bed, my whole body vibrating.

“Though it looks like you’ve already got to the pleasure part.”

My arousal coats his hand and he forces his fingers into my mouth.

His other hand teases my clit. To stop my squirming, he lifts my arms over my head.

“Do not move them,” he orders.

I’m at his mercy, utterly naked as he stands above me getting a complete view of my tits and pussy.

And I’m fucking panting.

He slaps my legs wider apart, his fingers delicately gliding over my folds. He’s not wrong about the arousal part. I’ve always known I’m wired for the harder stuff.

Maxim wraps a hand around his cock. My mouth dries at the thought of it inside me.

Which is exactly where it goes. His hips slam into mine, making my back arch. All I get is two seconds and then he slides out. He thrusts all the way to the hilt and I know. . . I just know this is what my life will be like.

Hard, but delicious.

“Your cunt was made for me, Mrs. Zimin. Fucking hell.” He grinds into me, biting his bottom lip.

Holy hell, for a second the bored mask breaks. His hand fists into my hair, and he hits a spot that causes a gasp.

“I. . .”

Those soulless eyes stare into mine. His hips jerk faster and my fingernails claw into the palms of my hands, which I continue to hold over my head .

He tilts his head slightly, studying me as I break apart, my body burning from the inside out.

If I think he’ll let me catch my breath, I’m wrong.

“Please.”

He picks up his pace.

I shake my head.

Surprisingly, the thrusts grow gentler. I almost don’t understand until I find him with that same quizzical expression on his face. I’m splayed out, my body his to manipulate and he knows it. He’s not going easy on me. He’s figuring out what I like.

Slow and leisurely, he takes his time. My back arches again, my chest heaving as I squirm. He trails a soft hand across my nipple.

I shut my eyes, giving in to the sensation. His back stiffens and he coats my insides as he comes. Cum trickles down my thighs when he pulls out, falling beside me on his back.

My arm drags across my face, covering my eyes. Part of me wants to curl up in a ball, but I’m too tired to move.

But not Max. After a few minutes of peaceful quiet the duvet rustles and the pad of his fingertip toys with my nipple.

Not moving one hand away from my eyes, I try to swat him away. He easily brushes off my defenses, tugging and pulling my nipples.

“I’m tired,” I breathe out, my back burying into the mattress.

“I know.” His breath is warm against my hard nipple. “But I don’t care, Mrs. Zimin. You should know that now.”

His hands drag across my body, stroking my pussy again. I think I whimper.

It’s like this all night.

He never lets me go. He drags his tongue across my skin, smacks my pussy, and goes so deep, over and over again, I combust. And when I’m sinking into a tired oblivion, his hand somehow traces patterns on my skin.

“Don’t you want to sleep,” I beg at one point, my chest moving up and down as I pray for relief.

“No.” He kisses my pussy. “I want to play with what’s mine.”

I bite my lip, giving in to the sensation. Giving into him.

It’s only been one night but I’m well and truly owned by Maxim.