An evil grin curled the corner of my mouth. Maybe they needed to be reminded how much worse I could be.
I pulled my damp hair into two pig tails, which I braided. I dug through my toiletries to find a clay mask for my face, which I applied liberally. After it dried, I padded softly into the bedroom, where I fished my least form-fitting sweatpants from the drawer, topping my outfit off with a large nightshirt that added another bulky layer. Complete with my favorite purple furry slippers, I was ready to have dinner with my husband.
He had already set the table, complete with lit candles. I sat in my seat next to my plate just as he entered the dining area carrying two plates full of food. Grilled fish, some quinoa and steamed kale.
At least now I knew why he insisted on doing the cooking.
He surveyed my new appearance without a word before he put his plate in front of his seat and joined me at the table. He unfolded the cloth napkin across his lap, so I did likewise. He barely concealed his amused smirk.
“Quite an interesting ensemble. Don’t tell me you did this all on my account.”
I practically snarled his direction. “Isn’t that the idea? Clearly I’m under construction.”
“Indeed,” he agreed before he dug into his flaky, perfectly seasoned grilled fish.
“You’re such an asshole,” I grumbled as I stabbed the fish with my fork.
“Indeed,” he agreed again as he savored the bite.
“So just how long do you think it will take me to transform me from an ugly stepsister to the belle of the ball?”
“Two weeks,” he said without looking up from his plate.
Why that motherfu–! “I don’t know if that’s enough time,” I sneered. “You have a lot of work to do, apparently.”
Those intense green eyes finally met mine. “I can do a lot in two weeks.”
“So it would seem,” I snapped. I ate some more of my perfectly healthy, perfectly proportioned dinner.
“Things will be a lot nicer for you if you just got on board with everything and stopped pouting, Coralie.”
I dropped my fork on the plate. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He leaned forward, putting his utensils down as well. His voice never raised, yet it still commanded the room. “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. I’m fucking trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help!”
“Oh, I think you do,” he corrected in a soft voice. “Ever since the day we met, you’ve been telling me how badly you’ve wanted to expand sizing at Cabot’s, so that customers like you feel valued and welcomed. This is your chance to do exactly that, no matter what sets the ball in motion. Are you really going to let pride get in the way of your goal?”
I reached for my glass of wine. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right about that,” he agreed. “I’ve never understood the poor little rich girl meme. You have more opportunity and privilege than over ninety percent of the country, but because you don’t get to stamp your name on a project and collect your gold star, I’m supposed to feel sorry for you. Sorry, sweetheart. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be treated like you don’t even exist,” I snapped.
He leaned even closer, those eyes as deadly as his quiet voice. “Don’t I?”
I gulped hard. “Is that why you married me, Devlin? To prove to everyone you exist?”
His jaw clenched. “I married you because I love you. How can you even question it?”
“Because I don’t know who you are!” I exploded.
“You know me,” he said again.
“You know, I thought I did. But ever since we got back to L.A., I’ve been learning something new each and every day. Things…,” I started, but my throat closed, as if to prevent me from saying something I’d regret.
“Things?” he asked. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t look him in the eye. Finally he filled in the blanks. “Things that may have made you rethink marrying me?”
I closed my eyes. That was the bitch of it. I loved him. I loved being married to him–mostly, anyway. I wouldn’t have changed anything. I would rather be in that chair, my gut eaten up by the angst of our frustrating situation, than be safe in my father’s house, safe with my ‘nice’ boyfriend, and safe playing eternal runner-up to my more gregarious friends.
“It’s already hard, Dev,” I finally said. “Why do you want to make it any harder?”
“The only person making it hard is you, Coralie. It’s like you need chaos to feel comfortable.”
My eyes narrowed as I glared at him. “Fuck you,” I said softly.
His soft voice dragged across my skin, like fingernails. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
I scooted out of my chair and stomped exactly three steps before I felt his strong arm surround my waist and lift me right up off of the floor. I yelped as he carried me to his large sectional sofa, where I landed with a soft thud. “What are you doing?”
He unbuttoned his shirt without breaking my gaze. “I’m going to fuck my wife.”
I tipped my chin in defiance. “What if your wife doesn’t want to fuck to you?”
He smirked as his shirt fell from those massive shoulders. I nearly crawled back into the corner of the sofa. He flipped on the stereo system before he landed on top of me. “Tell me,” he challenged as his eyes locked with mine. “Tell me you don’t want me, Coralie.” He rubbed himself against me slightly, so I could feel how hard he was. His voice dropped a decibel. “Tell me you don’t want me inside you.”
I shuddered. There was no way I could form the words. In his arms was right where I wanted to be, and after our night apart I was unable to resist. I decided to turn it around on him. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want me. Since I’m such a fixer-upper and all.”
He chuckled as he bent to kiss my neck. My eyes fluttered closed. He knew just where all my magic buttons were. “Is that the reason behind all this?” he asked as his palm easily captured one breast. “Did you really think you could wear some baggy clothes and I’d forget how goddamn sexy you are?” I shrugged. His hand cupped my face caked with clay. He leaned forward to plant a kiss soft peck against my mouth. “There’s nothing you could ever do to change my mind about that, Coralie.”
“Famous last words,” I mumbled.
“Feel me,” he commanded again. “Trust me.”
I toppled headlong in those green eyes. How I wanted to believe every sweet word that he said. But things had changed. Reality was closing in on our perfect fantasy, threatening to crush us in the middle. I had no idea what might be coming next. “Devlin,” I started.
“Take off your clothes, Coralie.”
The sexy command reverberated throughout my entire body, setting every nerve ending on fire. And just as I willed every cell in my body to ignore such a command, Devlin lifted away from me to sit beside me on the sofa. He simply watched and waited, just like the first night we met, when I had fucked this sexy stranger without a single iota of remorse or shame. I wanted him. I ordered him. I got him.
And now I was his wife. His wife.
The look in his face hadn’t changed in the brief weeks we’d been together. And from the tent he was pitching in his pants, he wasn’t faking any interest. He wanted to see me, even when I had done everything to turn him off.
As if he read my thoughts, his hand cupped his growing erection through his trousers. “Now,” he commanded again.
My hands shook as I slid off of the sofa, to stand in front of him. I peeled the nightshirt from my body, allowing my breasts to swing free. I hadn’t bothered with a bra after my shower. Let him see how they drooped from their massive weight, heavy and imperfect.
Instead of being repulsed, he easily unfastened his pants and impatiently shoved the material aside as he reached inside to cup his stiffening cock. “Touch yourself,” he said, his eyes fixed on my breasts.
“Devlin,” I started again. His gaze met mine.
; “Stop arguing, Coralie. Obey.”
As archaic as it sounded, as horribly offensive and completely chauvinistic, I had to admit that I swooned a little by his command. Deep down I knew that he wasn’t trying to overpower me by forcing me to abide by his rules. He was trying to liberate me from rules altogether.
It was what he had always been trying to do, from that very first night together.
Finally I cupped my breast with my hand, circling one nipple with my thumb and my forefinger to tweak the sensitive peak. I couldn’t stop my gasp if I wanted. Devlin’s head fell back against the sofa as he gasped too, squeezing his hardening dick as he watched.
It was empowering to know I had that kind of effect on him. Finally I pulled down my sweatpants, kicking them free. He groaned as he jacked himself off with a little more urgency. As I walked closer to him, I caught a glimpse of myself in the large window across from the sofa and I realized that I still wore the ugly clay facemask, which turned my dial down from sex kitten to clown. “Shit,” I mumbled I turned away, feeling so awkward and embarrassed.
“Turn around, Coralie,” he said softly.
I shook my head. “I look like an idiot.” I knew it was true. Not only did I look like an unfinished statue from the neck up, with layers of gray flaky mask covering most of my face, but I was wearing ridiculous braids, channeling my inner “Half-Pint” from some old TV show from the 70s.
The next thing I knew I was swung into his arms again, flung over his powerful shoulder like a bag of flour. He carried me straight for the bedroom. He didn’t stop until we reached the shower stall, where he turned the hot water on full blast. He positioned me right in front, tugging my hair back by the braids. “Dirty girl,” he growled into my ear. The moistened claw ran down my face from my face as his teeth claimed one tender earlobe. I cried out, so he turned me into his possessive kiss. Wet clay slid down my face, getting all over his body and mine. It was so dirty and primal that I wasn’t surprised to feel him slide himself up into me with a grunt. He held me in place with one of the braids as his other hand curled around my torso to squeeze my breasts.
His deep voice vibrated in my ear. “Do you know what it means to be claimed, Coralie?” I shook my head, too overcome to speak. “It means that I searched my whole life to find my mate. I’ve gone through countless partners on the hunt for one special person, who was born to be mine. Someone who fits to the curve of my dick.” He pressed me into the glass. “Look at us,” he said in my ear.
I glanced across the room to the large mirror that covered one wall. I watched him as he rode me from behind, bucking up into me with powerful, decisive strokes. His hand abandoned my breasts to venture southward between my legs, where his expert fingers landed immediately on their target. I slapped both hands against the stall to brace myself. I was coming hard within minutes, which always blew my mind no matter how often he made it happen. I had made love with several men before him, but none had ever been able to make me come. They inserted Tab A into Slot B and if that was enough to get me there, great. If not, well that’s just how it worked for women. They accepted it. I accepted it.
Not Devlin. I came every single time we had sex. Every. Single. Time. Not just once or twice or randomly like a fluke. It wasn’t some mystery. It was biology. No one would ever think to touch every place on a man’s body but his penis and expect him to “get there.” Devlin knew just where to touch, just how to touch, and what the true objective for partnered sexual contact truly meant. The job simply wasn’t done until I reached the finish line, too.
He taught me to reach it. Expect it. Demand it. Just like a man. And now that I knew that was possible, I knew I’d never go back to settling again. Why on earth would I? I felt valued and equal, even when he was virtually manhandling me.
“You belong to me,” he reminded as he sent me reeling into multiple orgasms that I had miraculously found at the tips of his expert fingers. “Nothing you will ever do will change that. I’ll always know you. I’ll always find you. I’m never going to let you go.”
Fuck. I swooned against him as he slammed into me, until he came too with a roar of his own. It took a minute or two for me to stand solidly on my feet after that. He said nothing as he took out my pigtails and smoothed my long hair. After another kiss, he turned off the water. We exited the shower and he toweled me off thoroughly, including my now clean face. “There she is,” he grinned. “My beautiful wife.” He kissed me again and I completely forgot why I was so mad.
When he swept me into his arms to carry me to bed, I didn’t complain. We didn’t talk about work for hours after that. Instead we made up for lost time, our dinner completely forgotten as we tangled together on his bed.
On our bed.
Only later, when I was sweaty and breathing hard, catching my breath after another round of orgasms (YOU get an orgasm and YOU get an orgasm and YOU get an orgasm,) did I venture back again in dangerous territory.
“So what’s the plan now, Svengali?” I asked.
“We get you ready for the wedding in a couple of weeks. You show up, knock everyone’s socks off, and then we introduce Darcy’s collection to dear ol’ dad.”
“What if she’s not ready?” I asked.
“She will be,” he assured. “I already talked to her about it.”
“Of course,” I said with a sigh.
He peered at me in the low light of our bedroom. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I shrugged, so he persisted. “Tell me.”
“It means that you talk to her about stuff, but you never think to let me in on the plan. I just get to roll with the punches like a good little obedient wife. More like a Schnauzer,” I snipped.
“I don’t tell her everything,” he reminded. “If she knew that I’d been working as an escort these last three years…,” he trailed off, as if the ending of that sentence was too horrible to consider.
I supposed for him it was.
“Fine. She’s just as in the dark about certain aspects of your life as I am.” My eyes met his. “Does anyone know the true Devlin Masters?”
He gathered me close. “You’re as close as anyone has come in a long, long time,” he said softly as he stroked my hair.
I supposed I had to be placated with that.
As it turned out, the rest of the week was going to test my patience in a big way.
After work on Wednesday, we stopped by another mall with yet another specialty boutique for extended sizes. He bought me workout clothes, since I didn’t really have anything suitable to wear. He didn’t care for my oversized sweats and T-shirts, replacing them with active wear, clothes that fit so close to the body we could watch our progress.
“What progress?” you may be asking.
When we got back to the apartment building, I got the answer. After changing into said workout clothes, we headed down to the executive gym available for all the residents. I was relieved to find it empty. I hated working out in front of people, particularly at gyms. It was one reason that I usually didn’t bother to join one.
The other was, you know, the actual exercise part. He started us out on the treadmills, walking at first, to warm up, and then going into a full jog to get our heart rate elevated. There were only slight inclines included in the beginner’s program on the machine, but my legs burned by the time we finished. Devlin wasn’t through with me yet. Six more machines and forty-five minutes later, I was convinced everything in that state-of-the-art workout room had been torture apparatuses lifted right from the middle ages. I was sweaty, exhausted and sore by the time a couple of other tenants joined us in the huge room overlooking West L.A. all the way to the ocean.
That these two tenants were young and beautiful didn’t help much. They smelled like fresh floral bouquets in their perfect designer wear. One was an athletic blonde; the other was a statuesque black girl with a halo of ebony curls around her face. “Hey Devlin,” they both crooned together, as if they were so close they could complete each other’s sentences.
&nb
sp; “Ladies,” he smiled.
“We haven’t seen you around in a while,” the blonde pouted. “We thought you’d moved out.”
“Not yet,” he said.
“Good,” the black girl said. “We still have to finish my training for my Ironman triathlon, you know.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Simone,” he promised. “We’ll have you in fighting shape in no time.”
As I watched the transaction, it became clear that neither girl paid any attention to me. They had eyes only for Devlin, and the familiar way they interacted seriously stoked the green-eyed monster within. The longer he went without actually introducing me, especially as his wife, the worse I felt about it. Instead he just pulled out his phone and tried to find a spot in his schedule where he could assist this new person, this ebony goddess, with her training.
I hated the way both women stood so close to him, as if they had the right to do so. How familiar were they? Where they clients of his image consulting business? Or some other business entirely? These were wealthy women. I’d know my own kind anywhere. That meant that they had the funds to match their interest in a man who, up until May 29th at least, exchanged his sexual favors for money. The only reason he’d quit was because he had gotten married, but he mentioned neither of these facts to these women. Instead he used that beguiling charm to disarm them.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I gathered my stuff and exited the gym.
It didn’t help things at it took him a good half-hour to get back to the apartment. I had enough time to shower and change into my robe. I was in bed, reading a book and nursing a bottle of water, when he finally arrived.
“A little rude to leave so abruptly without saying hello to our neighbors,” he remarked casually as he stripped out of his workout gear.
I hated the way my whole body responded to him as he bared himself in front of me. “I figured if you were going to introduce me, you would have done it already.”
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