Page 40 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

The sound of Bridget's door closing echoes through the penthouse like a gunshot.

I sit there motionless for a long few minutes, thinking about what my wife just said to me. My wife. It should mean so much more than it does, and yet, to me, it still feels like it means everything.

It’s not over. It means that much, at least. She’s mine for now, and maybe I can still convince her to stay. The only way I was ever going to get this far was by agreeing to let her go, if that’s what she still wants at the end of this.

But first, I have to deal with the threat. Have to solidify my position in Miami. Then, once Bridget is safe, we’ll deal with the possibility of ending our marriage.

For now, she is my wife. And for now, nothing can change that.

Wife. The word should feel strange, foreign, but instead it settles into my chest with a satisfaction that catches me off guard.

She's mine now. Legally, officially mine. The ring on her finger proves it, the certificate we brought home with us makes it real. But the closed door upstairs is plenty of proof that a piece of paper doesn’t mean I have her—not really.

I clean up, frustration coiling through me as I go to make myself a drink and retreat to my office.

I try to get some work done, and when that doesn’t happen, I go to the gym, taking out my frustrations on the treadmill and weights.

By the time I’m done, it’s dark outside, and I’m still sporting half an erection just thinking about the fact that Bridget is upstairs.

I can’t stop picturing her in that goddamn dress she wore.

She picked the one that I bought for her to wear out to dinner on purpose, I feel like, to taunt me.

To remind me of that night that went nothing like I hoped it would—a way of reminding me, maybe, that this relationship isn’t going to turn out the way I’d hoped it would, either.

It feels like I’m going out of my mind with need.

I wanted to devour her at the altar, to lay her over it, yell at everyone to get out, and claim her then and there.

My cock hardens at the thought, straining at the front of my basketball shorts with frustration as I grab my discarded suit from the rack I threw it over before my workout and head upstairs to my room to shower.

My footsteps slow as I pass by Bridget’s door, the desire to go inside throbbing through me. My cock twitches, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep walking. To not think about her inside that room, about the bed that I could fling her onto, about all the things I want to do to her in it.

It’s fucking impossible. It’s my goddamn wedding night, I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and my wife is so off-limits to me that she might as well be in another country.

I throw the suit onto the bed the moment I walk into the room, kicking the door closed behind me as I drag my shorts down with one hand and my shirt off with the other, immediately wrapping my fist around my aching cock.

I need to fucking come. I’m going to need to, more than once tonight. Bridget is on the other side of that wall, and it feels like I need to be inside her more than I need to breathe.

My hand slides roughly up and down my length, thumb flicking the piercing in the tip as my breath turns ragged almost immediately.

I’m already close just from the thought of what I could be doing to her right now, the image of sliding that silk dress up her hips, bending her over the bed, and spreading her legs wide.

I picture myself rubbing my pierced shaft over her clit until it’s tender and swollen and she’s dripping for me, teasing her with it until she’s begging me to slide inside of her, to fill her up—

The orgasm hits almost without warning, my balls tightening as I feel my cock swell in my fist and spurt over my hand.

I cup my palm over the head, a groan tearing from my lips as I come hard and fast, every muscle in my body rigid as the orgasm washes over me.

It feels like a desperately needed release, but it’s not enough.

Even after the last spurt of cum hits my palm and I stagger to the shower to clean up, I’m still half-hard, my body aching for more than just the feeling of my own hand stroking my length.

I linger in the shower, all too aware of the fact that my cock won’t go down, my thoughts still full of Bridget.

I pour myself another drink and try to read after I slip into bed, but I can’t think of anything but her, until I’m rock-hard again and have to stroke myself to a second climax just to have a chance of getting to sleep.

She wants me. I know she does. I can see it in the way her breath hitches when I get too close, in the way her pupils dilate when I look at her for too long. But she's built walls around herself that I'm not sure how to breach, at least not without becoming the kind of man she already thinks I am.

The kind of man who takes what he wants without asking.

I’d never do that to her—to anyone. But god, the thought of her in the next room feels like a special kind of torture.

She’s mine, and I can’t have her. The dichotomy of it is painful.

I clean myself up and pull on a pair of pajama pants, then grab my phone from the nightstand. There are already three missed calls from Konstantin, wanting to follow up on the meeting that I walked out of. I consider calling him back, but send him a text instead.

Meet tomorrow. Let me know what time works for you. Will update you then.

Tomorrow, I’ll let Konstantin know that I’ve chosen my bride, and it sure as hell isn't one of the vapid socialites Konstantin has been pushing on me. It isn’t Isabella or Catherine or anyone else.

Bridget is my wife. And she’ll be my wife until she forces me to let her go.

I fall back into bed, clicking the button to close the blinds against the glow of Miami’s nighttime skyline and drench the room in pitch-darkness.

What I need is a good night’s sleep. And, although I doubt at first if it’ll come, before long I’m dreaming of Bridget, her face and voice and perfect fucking body filling my dreams for the entire night.

—

I wake up in the morning rock-hard from dreams of Bridget, restless from not sleeping well.

I’m only half-awake when I wrap my hand around my cock, jerking off to a quick orgasm with every filthy thought from my dreams still running rampant through my brain.

Only then do I manage to roll out of bed and make myself somewhat presentable, dragging on a pair of black joggers and a T-shirt to head down and see about breakfast. I swipe my phone from my nightstand, dreading what message I’ll see from Konstantin.

1 P.M. Don’t be late.

That’s all there is. It’s curt and to the point, which is a relief considering that I was expecting him to chew me out for walking out on the meeting before I ever got back to see him in person.

There’s still plenty of time, though, and I’m not looking forward to the meeting itself in the slightest.

I make my way downstairs, resisting the urge to knock on Bridget’s door.

To my surprise, I find her at the kitchen bar already, sitting there in a pair of workout shorts and a loose T-shirt, sipping a cup of tea.

I can smell it from where I’m standing, but it only half-registers.

I’m too busy trying not to stare at the length of her tanned legs, mostly visible in the tiny shorts, and sending blood straight to my overworked cock.

“Morning.” Bridget looks at me, a wary expression on her face, as if she’s expecting me to order her back to her room.

“I ordered breakfast.” She motions to a box from a local bakery that’s sitting on the counter, and my credit card next to it.

“You left your card out on the counter, so I figured—” She shrugs.

“That’s exactly what I left it there for, in case you got up first.” I’m pleased that she didn’t hesitate to use it.

Bridget’s eyes narrow. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not.” I walk to the box and flip it open, taking out a bear claw, my favorite from that particular bakery—although Bridget couldn’t possibly have known that. “Why would I be?”

“Because I spent your money without asking?” Her eyes are still narrowed, pinned on me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I chuckle.

“Bridget, trust me, a $10 box of pastries is nothing. Besides, we’re married now. That card is yours to do with as you please. There’s no limit on it.” I nudge it toward her. “Keep it with you, in case you need anything. Have whatever you want delivered. I don’t care.”

Her mouth curls up at the corner. “I’ll be sure to order several hot male dancers to keep me entertained while you’re gone, then.”

I almost choke on my bite of pastry. “Anything except that,” I amend quickly, dropping the pastry back into the box.

Before I can stop myself, I cross the space between us, resting one elbow on the counter as I tap one icing-coated finger against her lower lip.

“The only man entertaining you, bellissima, will be me. And if you don’t want that, you’ll have to make do with your imagination. ”

She goes very still, and something flashes in her eyes that makes me wonder if she’s done exactly that. The thought of Bridget in my guest room touching herself, making herself come, makes me instantly hard, and for a brief moment, I can’t take my finger away from her lips.

All I can do is brush it over the full curve, leaving a glaze of icing behind.

Her eyes fix on mine, and her tongue flicks out, touching the tip of my finger before I can take it away. That small point of contact jolts directly to my cock, and a groan slips from between my teeth before I can stop it, as I feel my cock throb and pre-cum slide down the shaft.

I want her so fucking badly it hurts.

“Bridget.” Her name comes out throaty and hoarse, and she freezes, her tongue flicking over her lip before disappearing again.