Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

Something wet runs down my cheek. No, no, no. I spin quickly, wiping underneath my traitorous eye. When I look up, I realize I’ve spun towards Connor.

  His brow arches at me. I glare at the sight of his wide grin, and I want so badly to mouth, shut up, but I can’t speak to him. Hopefully my eyes convey the message. This better not be considered cheating.

  Loren laughs behind me. “Did you just cry, Rose?”

  “No, Loren,” I retort, turning back around. “There was dust in my eye.”

  “Sure,” he says, a smile attached to his voice. “It was just dust.” He tilts his head at me. “You know you’re a kickass mom, right?”

  I think he’s trying to make me cry.

  “I’m pretty sure you would rip out your hair for my son too.”

  I have to wipe my eyes again. “I would,” I whisper beneath my breath. I would over and over again.

  Lily adds, “I know that you’d love Moffy as fiercely as you love Jane.” She wipes her nose that drips with her tears. She sniffs. “And we’d be at peace knowing he’s with you.”

  I have to dab my eyes with a paper towel. I say what’s aching to come out. “Thank you.”

  I live my life confidently, but motherhood has always been “in progress” for me. After I’ve had Jane, I’ve felt more self-assured, but it belongs in my heart. My growth remains empty in the eyes of others. Except these people, in this kitchen. They see me. And I realize that’s all I needed.

  The oven timer beeps, and I glance over my shoulder at Connor. We lock eyes again.

  Silence is a cruel punishment between the people you love.

  Never again, I think.

  I can’t imagine how this is going to work tonight. Ignoring each other. In bed.

  Something tells me a pillow barricade won’t restrain my ambitious husband from getting what he wants.

  Regardless, I’m no cheater. And the rules still apply.

  [ 44 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  I brush my teeth before bed and do my very best to ignore my husband’s dominant presence. He seems to make a show of stretching slowly across the counter, just to reach for the fucking toothpaste.

  It’s unnerving. His height. His unfaltering posture. His sheer ability to vacuum all oxygen by grabbing an object alone. This type of confidence intoxicates the air, and I inhale the poisonous fumes with each shallow breath.

  I collect my hair to my right shoulder, holding it back as I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth. I avoid the mirror, his gaze beckoning me to meet him, and I search for my hairbrush. I won’t succumb to him that easily.

  He lost.

  There are consequences.

  “Rose, you’re lying down with your ass perfectly raised,” he says deeply. I try not to tense. Ignore him. “One of my hands is wrapped around your neck.” I sense him nearing me. One step. Two. “I forcefully roll your panties down your ass, down your legs, off your ankles.” His hand rests beside mine on the counter, and I slam the drawer shut. Ignore him, Rose.

  “You just collapsed on the bed,” he says.

  I did not, I almost retort. I literally bite my tongue.

  “I haven’t even slid my erection inside of you yet, but I plan to…” His voice seems to be nearer, like a husky whisper in the pit of my ear. “I plan to fill you so full, Rose. My cock all the way between your legs, right in…right there…” I keep waiting for his hands to touch me, right there. Even when they don’t and I’m left with cold air, I clench. Fuck me.

  No, Rose. I ditch the pursuit for my hairbrush that has disappeared at the most inopportune moment. Then I turn my back to Connor. On my exit out of the bathroom, I flick off the lights, shrouding him in darkness, as though he doesn’t exist at all.

  I feel his frustration behind me, his body tightening and coiling at my lack of response.

  Connor rarely simmers. Our back-and-forth banter releases his pent-up conceitedness, his narcissism that needs to be fueled and acknowledged, and without my reply, his irritation pools and pools.

  I’m afraid my vagina does not understand tonight’s mission.

  Ignore thy husband.

  I delicately set every decorative pillow in the middle of the bed. Already dressed in a black sultry chemise, a slit up my thigh, I’m prepared for se—sleep.

  God. I cannot have sex tonight. Get in the game, Rose.

  I think I’m tangled in the midst of it.

  I climb underneath the puffy comforter about the same time Connor exits the bathroom, shirtless but still in black slacks. I try not to hone in on his body for long or his styled, wavy brown hair.

  In my peripheral, I catch him inspecting the pillows along our bed with agitation and then he unbuckles his belt, his movements rough and controlled and extremely audible. The clack of the metal clasp. The whisk of the leather leaving his pant loops.

  I press my cheek to my pillow and reach out to my end table, switching off my lamp. I dip my hand underneath the comforter, splaying my palm on my thigh. I ache to go a little higher, a little closer to my panties, for stimulation…

  I listen to him too intently, hearing him step out of his slacks. In effect, I imagine Connor in his boxer-briefs, his bulge noticeable, maybe even already hard beneath them.

  My fingers stroke my bare thigh, diving beneath the silk of my chemise. I’m dying to touch my clit, but I fear that he’ll hear. Even married, I still masturbate, but not as often and never while next to Connor. He’s never even seen me do it. My skin heats the longer I tease myself, my hand so close to my panties…

  The bed undulates with his weight, and I hear each pillow being tossed onto the floor. Normally I stack them delicately on the chaise in front of our four-poster bed. I can’t even curse Connor out for maltreating my pillows.

  I could crawl out of bed and put them in their proper place, but my squeezed thighs and the pulsing inside of me has carnal demands, not clean ones.

  I’m literally too horny to move.

  I fixate on the wall, my back turned to him, and I wait for his lamp to flicker off. An eternity must pass and I sincerely wonder if he’s reading a book just to annoy me. It’s 2 a.m.—we both need sleep. Or sex.

  That too—but only I can quench my own arousal tonight.

  Ignore thy husband.

  With this in mind again, I slowly turn and realize that he is, in fact, propped against the headboard with a book in hand. Not to annoy me though. His brows are cinched in frustration as he flips the page, focusing on the text. Reading is his attempt to stimulate his brain in ways that I’m not.

  It’s not working either. He shuts the book roughly and then locks eyes with me, his lips beginning to rise. “Venez à moi.” Come to me.

  Oh no. Not happening. At least not how he wants. I plan to turn off his light for him. I break eye contact and then scoot closer, stretching over his lap to reach his end table. I inhale as he grasps my ass, his fingers dipping quickly between my thighs and skimming my panties.

  I hurriedly shut off his lamp, bathing us in semi-darkness, and I go to move back to my side of the bed.

  Right as I pass, he clutches my face and kisses me forcefully, stealing all oxygen from my lungs. I ache and pulse and then wake up, pulling apart and pressing my hand over his mouth.

  “There are rules,” I pant, trying to catch my breath. “Don’t fuck with them.”

  My eyes already orient to the lack of light. His displeasure crosses his features. I gave him an order. In bed, I never play this role. I don’t like it, and while it’s not ideal for either of us—we can’t diminish the stakes of our games. He knows this.

  He’s just not used to failing.

  I peel my hand off his lips, remove his wayward fingers from my panties, and then slide back to my end. I fluff my pillow, waiting for him to speak.

  “Do you even know how wet you are right now?” he asks.

  I freeze.

  “Your panties are soaked, Rose.”

  I don’t doubt it. I hope he notices my fiery glare, even if it�
�s not plastered to his face. I lie on my back, scooting fully beneath the comforter with my arms disappeared beneath it. I’m a stiff board, mummified. If brazen enough, I can also be a satiated woman.

  I shut my eyes to block out Connor from my peripheral, but his domineering aura still shadows me. I feel him in the same position: propped against the headboard, his knee bent. His mind is at constant work to find a solution in order to achieve his desires.

  “I never said how you felt the first time I put my cock inside of you.”

  My chest collapses in a deep breath. He’s trying to arouse me enough that I succumb to him and allow him to dominate every inch of my body.

  I’m not that easy to crack.

  It’s a part of why he’s with me. He loves the challenge, and he thinks I won’t touch myself while lying next to him. But I’m as stubborn as he is dominant.

  “When I slid into you, Rose, you were so tight that my cock swelled from the pressure.”

  The first time I had sex. I never asked if I was that tight, but hearing that it affected him increases the pulse. It hurts, screaming for a hard, fast entry. My left hand kneads my breast and my other descends down the front of my panties.

  I hesitate only when I dive into my mind, wondering if he’s watching or if he’s concentrating on other things. Like what, Rose, the ceiling, the floor?

  When he speaks again, it goads me to continue to my clit, thinking that he’s more focused on his words. “You were used to toys but you weren’t used to the warmth or length of my erection, which fit perfectly between your thighs. In and out…in and out.”

  I swallow, my fingers rubbing the sensitive bud. My toes already curl in anticipation, and the wetness creates easier friction.

  I want him. In and out…in and out.

  I buck my hips once and then freeze. The silence solidifies me. If he’s not speaking, then he’s watching. Is this a bad thing?

  It’s partially unsettling, partially arousing, partially I-don’t-fucking-know-what.

  I have to see what he’s doing. I can’t let my mind draw irrational conclusions, so I slowly turn my head. He’s in the same sitting position against the headboard, arm resting on his bent knee, and yes, his gaze is locked on me.

  I glare on instinct, fire returning to my hellish eyes. Look away, Richard, I speak through them.

  “No.” His singular word holds more weight than anyone else’s could.

  I have three options.

  1.) Go to bed horny.

  2.) Continue masturbating with Connor watching.

  3.) Succumb to my husband’s wants too easily and let him fuck me.

  The second option is the best one, even if it’s difficult. I stare at the chandelier above our bed, and I quicken my fingers. I want to come so fucking hard. I try to remain still, but my legs quiver at the overwhelming sensations, my skin heating with sweat.

  In and out…in and out, I imagine Connor pumping between my legs, spreading them wider—

  The comforter tosses off my body, revealing my source of pleasure, hand beneath my panties, chemise rolled to my breasts, my nipples exposed as the straps have fallen off my shoulders. I’m so close to coming.

  “Richard,” I half-pant in want of him, right inside of me, and I half-warn in threat of him right inside of me. I sit on two polar ends of yes and no. Too complicated for an ordinary man.

  Thank God I have Connor, an intelligent one, who can handle my bipolar desires.

  He cups my heat, right where my hand resides, and my eyes drill into him. He’s quick. He slides behind me, his legs extending on either side of my body, and then he lifts me against him, my back to his chest.

  His assured movements, every one of them, knocks the breath out of me. I tuck my knees together, silently not cooperating.

  He grasps my leg and pulls it open again, stretching to meet his leg that seems too far away. I fit between him, every limb touching his limbs. I can feel the shape of his hard cock against my back. I tremble.

  “You’re cheating.” My raspy voice scratches my throat.

  His lips graze my ear. “Ignore me, darling.” The words sound full of sex. He nips my ear, bites my neck, his fingers pinching my nipple…

  “Play…by the…rules…Richard,” I breathe.

  “Stop speaking to me, and I am.” He slides my panties off and then guides my hands to his thighs, dictating my movements.

  I hesitate, my brain not functioning properly to understand.

  He notices, his hand encasing my face while his lips touch my cheek, my jaw, then to my ear, “I see an alternate path.” I’m listening. “I see us abiding by the rules.” Yes. “And me fucking you how we both want. So ignore me. Be silent. Stay still. Do nothing.”

  Do nothing.

  He found a loophole by being technical with each word to our rules. I ignore him for twenty-four hours, a silent treatment. It doesn’t mean that he has to ignore me, and if we can’t stimulate each other mentally, at least we can physically.

  He’s going to get what he wants.

  And I am too, I realize.

  We both win.

  Just as I think it, he lifts me by the hips. One hand on his shaft, he lowers me onto his dick, the fullness blinding my mind. I’m going to come. His low breath warms my ear. “Don’t move, darling.”

  And then he bucks up—oh Connor. The deep rhythm never ceases, the friction winding into a giant ball….and I combust.

  A cry breaches my lips, a moan that causes him to increase his vigorous pace. My body tightens, and I clench around him, bursting again and again. I can’t see Connor behind me, but I can feel the sweat of his skin, the ripple of his muscle, his strong hand encasing my face as my head begins to loll.

  He whispers husky French, sex dripping off each syllable, and my brain is too fried to translate a single word. I glance down, his cock driving into me, fast. In and out. My nerves prick again, ready for another heady, mind-numbing experience with Connor at the helm.

  I do nothing.

  And in doing nothing, I feel everything.

  Minutes fly and his fingers brush my clit. I gasp, constrict, and my lips part, a pleasured noise strangled in my throat.

  He spanks the side of my ass.

  My back curves, and when he rams up into me, he hits his peak too, his low grunt vibrating my whole body.

  He just came inside of me…and part of me wants to take a shower and maybe even change the sheets, a neurotic impulse. But I’m too physically tired to enact that plan.

  As we both catch our breaths, he carefully lifts me off him and rests me on my side. My eyes fluttering closed and I can’t will them open. His body is much closer to mine now, his arm affectionately draped across my waist. His lips press on my neck—the last sensation I feel before I fall quickly into sleep.

  * * *

  I wake to fullness, to Connor thrusting into me. I moan softly into the sheets, still on my side. My body rocks each time he pounds, his cock driving deeper, his hand on the crook of my hip.

  I love these impromptu sessions, spurned by his arousal. My knees are slightly bent, which must have allowed him access into me, even on my side with my thighs pressed together.

  My eyes graze the clock. 9:59 a.m.

  He let me sleep in, and I want to ask about Jane—if he took care of her earlier this morning, even though I’m sure he did. But his punishment still has one minute left—

  His hand suddenly envelops my chin, jaw and mouth, pulling my neck back until I meet his gaze. He’s tangled in my damp hair, and the intensity of his blue eyes drills me as much as his erection. His hand lowers from my hip to my ass, squeezing my flesh.

  I moan into his palm, the noise tickling my lips.

  “First word that comes to you,” he tests me, probably right at 10 a.m.—not a minute too late. He shifts his hand off my mouth, his body and mind meeting mine at once. “Rose.”

  “Love,” I say in one breath.

  He kisses me, upside-down, while thrusting, and I break
away first as my body reaches its tipping point. I clutch the sheets and practically scream into the mattress, my orgasm electric and more powerful. I can feel him milking his own climax, slowly pumping inside of me one last time.

  When he pulls out, he rolls me onto my back. He’s half-sitting, his hand beside my shoulder as he stares down. “Good morning, darling.”

  I’ve had so many thoughts that I wanted to share with him in the past twenty-four hours, and they all traitorously flit away, leaving me with the present. I throb like he’s still inside of me, even when he’s gone.

  I need a shower, wetness oozing down my inner thigh. “It’s like you’re trying to impregnate me.” My yellow-green eyes pierce him. His sperm already defeated my birth control once. Part of me wants him to say: I am.

  His eyes sweep my features. “I get off on toying with science—”

  “Fate,” I clarify. He gets off playing Russian roulette with my ovaries.

  “When my sperm works hard to reach your egg, it’s called reproduction. Science.”

  “The possibility of your sperm reaching my egg right now is a chance happening. Fate.”

  “Probabilities are also scientific.”

  Ugh. I growl in irritation, about to push him away from my face, but he clasps my wrist. Seriousness pulls between us for a moment. I have to ask, “Do you see an alternate path to have more kids?”

  His body solidifies, his features blanketing in a hard resolution I don’t want to meet. And he says, “No.”

  It hurts. That one word. I recognize how much I want more. How much we both want them.

  “Ça ne peut pas être comment ça se termine.” This can’t be how it ends. It feels like a closing of our future. All I see is a massive door trying to swing shut on our dreams. The ones we’ve built together. Raising eight children together.

  “C’est vrai.” It is.

  Two more gut-wrenching words.

  “Then maybe you should wear a condom next time.”

  His thumb brushes my bottom lip, but I notice his jaw tightening. He’s not happy with this verdict. I expect he’s going to say, not yet. I predict that he’s not ready to accept this outcome.