Until the End of Time

by Nikki Winter

  She’d wanted the same, but her proud metro of a husband had refused to wear ruby woo in order for the purpose. Instead she settled for, “I would be his only Delilah” in Italian beneath her shoulder blade. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he’d been so accommodating through her weeks of whining about it that she knew it was worth it. Admittedly, he’d gotten his far before she’d gotten her own. A fan of needles she was not. However, he’d marked her in so many other ways, ink was no more permanent than her feelings.

  Feelings that she hadn’t expressed properly lately. She’d withdrawn. It was just…easier. Easier to hide than to blurt out every insecurity beating on the back door of her mind. He’d do her the favor of caressing the curve of her jaw sweetly before calling her several kinds of stupid. And for a while Nyssa would believe him. She’d trust that what he said was true, that he’d love her with or without an addition to their home. Weeks would pass; they’d quite possibly fall into their old patterns. But then Nyssa would spend time with her nephews and niece while listening to Samara bellow at Luciano about the need for a steady supply of fried pickles during this particular bout of pregnancy. She’d watch Sansone run amuck with the boys at Trenton home, witness the light in his eyes when he was rolling around with Marco and Vincent. The desire to do so with his own sons would cut through the air silently and all their progress would dance backwards. Because she’d wonder once again why she couldn’t give them both what they so desperately wanted.

  “Cara?” Sansone softly called now, drawing her out from beneath the weight of her thoughts. Those dark eyes searched her face a moment. “Va bene?”

  She made herself smile. “I’m fine.” Waving at the scarf and tray, she said, “I see you’ve been plotting again.”

  “Do I know how to do anything else?” He curved a hand around her nape, right beneath her twists, and pulled her forward. “It’s one of my best habits, is it not?”

  Nyssa studied his expression, finding his eyes lit with their usual amount of mischief. Oh he was definitely up to something. She couldn’t decide if that something was good or bad as of yet. “It depends,” she whispered.

  “On?”

  “Whether or not I’m going to enjoy this.”

  His hand withdrew, only to fist itself in her braids at the root and tug her head back the proper way. The slight sting made her nipples turn into stone. “Now when have you ever known me to do anything you don’t find absolutely, undeniably enjoyable?” her husband questioned, his mouth against her throat, his free hand curving around her jaw to hold it where he wanted it to be.

  She drew in a breath to respond, but his quietly commanded, “Hush,” pulled her up short.

  He nipped her. “I’ve got chocolate dipped fruit on that tray, all things you haven’t had since our last island vacation. For every one that you guess right, you’ll be rewarded.”

  Nyssa swallowed and ventured asking, “With?”

  Sansone put his lips to the shell of her ear. “Whatever the fuck I want. Understand?”

  She slowly nodded.

  Rumbling his approval, he said nothing else, just moved away and grabbed the scarf. “Hands up to the headboard.”

  “This requires being tied up?”

  “All the fun things do,” he retorted, watching her beneath heavy lids. “Now do as I say.”

  Leaning back, she stretched out into position on the large, feather soft bed and placed her arms above her head. Sansone leaned over her without pause and looped the scarf around her wrists and through the wooden bars of the bedframe.

  He stood straight again. “Tug.”

  She pulled and found it tight but not uncomfortable. Her arms could still bend at the elbow so there was no strain. He grinned and she immediately went on alert. “What gives, Sultana?”

  His lashes batted innocently. “No idea what you mean.” Clapping his hands, he rubbed them together. “Ready?”

  Nyssa watched him warily as he grasped the tray and moved over to her side. He picked up a piece of fruit and brought it to her mouth. She opened it and kept her gaze on his as she took a bite. Two chews in, she knew what it was. “Papaya.”

  “Mmhmm,” he confirmed. His free hand snaked beneath the silken fabric of her robe, curving around a breast while his thumb stroked a nipple. The touch was surprisingly warm, but she shook anyway. The more he pulled at the bud, the higher her hips lifted. Suddenly, he stopped.

  She reached out to place his hand back and remembered that she couldn’t. The smirk on his face told her that had been the exact reason for the scarf. Clever bastard.

  “Sunny…”

  He placed another piece of fruit to her mouth, the chocolate thick and dark.

  She bit down and licked her lips. “Guava.”

  The belt to her robe flicked from its loose knot, giving way to his mouth on her tummy, his tongue in her belly button. It was a part of her that she hadn’t known was so sensitive until he’d touched her there. He drifted lower, leaving a trail over her bikini line that made her gasp. Just like that, he was gone again.

  Nyssa released a low, frustrated sound and lifted a foot to drop it back onto the mattress. “Sanso—”

  “Hush,” he demanded for a second time.

  She quieted but glared at the next piece. “Mango,” she barked. “It’s mango.”

  “You sound frustrated, cara,” Sansone said in a mild, entirely too calm tone. “Why is that?”

  Because a few simple touches had lit her on fire and there he sat, collected with absolutely no sign of being as affected as she was. Jesus was that annoying. She began to tell him so and somehow found his thumb encircling her swollen clit. Tight and sensitive, the caress sent her arching upwards. He kept up the pressure and the game.

  “Passion fruit!” Nyssa squeaked on a rising cry.

  His lips crashed down on hers and swallowed it, his tongue pushing past to stroke against her own. Her fingers curled into her palms as her thighs locked around his hand in an effort to keep it where it was. He pulled away from the kiss to watch her. Nyssa’s breaths grew choppy from the focus of his stare on her while a muscle jumped in his jaw. He rubbed his cheek against hers, the coarseness of his beard just another added sensation.

  “I should sell tickets to this,” Sansone told her.

  “To…what?” she panted.

  “The opportunity to watch you come.” His lazy circles around her clit picked up in pace. “Your tits shake, your skin shines and your eyes,”—he groaned and grinned—“your eyes widen liked you’re surprised. The scent of you hits the air like a pheromone and all I want to do is stuff you full of cock.”

  She yelped when he dipped and he bit down on her left nipple. “Then do it.”

  His head came up and he held her gaze again. “Beg.”

  Nyssa jolted. “What?”

  Sansone leaned forward and repeated, “Beg.”

  Pride warred with reason and she lifted her chin. “No.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “Okay.” His hand picked up the pace and he returned to that nipple.

  She stared on dumbfounded. “You’re not serious.”

  “Very,” he said with his mouth half full. “You beg or you don’t get it. Your choice.”

  Nyssa frowned despite the climax working its way up from the pads of her feet. A glance at the tent in her husband’s lap told her that he was just as affected as she, but he wouldn’t act on it. Why?

  “Because you haven’t earned it,” he decided to inform her. “When you earn it, you can have it.”

  Again she tried to move her hands. Again she was reminded of them being bound.

  “Be still,” he ordered, playing her sex like an instrument.

  “You’re being unreason—”

  A smack met the lips of her pussy and her words ended on a bleat.

  “You won’t beg, you won’t be quiet and you won’t be still. So maybe you’ll scream instead.”

  Nyssa closed her mouth and eyes.

  “No, look at me.”
>
  Her lashes parted.

  “And open your mouth.”

  She refused.

  His hand came down again. Her hiss met the air.

  “You talked about punishment earlier, cara,” her husband expressed casually. “I wouldn’t call this that. I would, however, call it a lesson.” He twisted his hand and sent two fingers tunneling into her, placing his free hand at her hip when she almost jerked from grasp. “In humility, if you will. Because I think you’ve forgotten that inside the four walls of whatever place I choose to fuck you, you aren’t in charge. You don’t give orders. I do. You don’t get to bark directions. I do. You plead or pray and I, being gracious enough, answer it. So this is how the next few days will go,” he continued, over her rising scream. “I’m going to essentially drive you insane. I’m going to make you literally blubber from pleasure, your voice carrying from island to island until the waves reverse in deference. I am going to leave you so wrung out, that when you finally break, when you finally can’t take the torment anymore and your pride lowers, you’ll only be able to whimper the word ‘please.’ But I’ll demand that you say it louder. You’ll grit your teeth and do as asked but I won’t stop pushing until I hear it shouted. Then, and only then, will I shove so deeply inside of you that you’ll feel the phantom sensation of my cock tapping at the back of your throat and fuck you so hard that the skies will crack open and weep. Capiche?”

  “Yes! God yes!” she retorted, her hips moving in time with his ministrations. A tap against that spot between her opening and her rosette sent her spiraling, her vision blurring as she came. When she could breathe without wheezing, Sansone stood, untied her wrists, kissed her on the forehead and disappeared into the bathroom.

  It was then that Nyssa replayed every darkly spoken vow and could come away with nothing else aside from, “Huh?”

  Six

  He was unscathed. Sansone hadn’t been murdered in his sleep. His body hadn’t been rolled out into the South Pacific and used as food for something larger and just as prey driven as his wife. How and why he still retained the use of all vital organs and limbs, he did not know. All he was aware of was Nyssa’s silent glowering as he rose this morning to begin breakfast. It was the same glower that had tracked him about the night before as he’d strolled out of the bathroom, whistling as though he hadn’t just spent time violently stroking himself. It was either romance the stone or give in to the urge to put it to use on his spouse. She’d reacted just as he’d imagined she would, punishing more than just herself. The torment rode him hard and fast until the sun came up.

  He’d had no intentions of keeping his hands to himself throughout the remainder of his little game, but waking to Nyssa’s warm, butter soft skin pressed to his and smelling of sugar scrub had sent his normal half mast into a flag climb that rivaled those of state capital buildings. Well over a foot taller than her, it would’ve been normal to assume that she generally made her way over to him in the middle of the night, gravitating towards the mass on the opposite side of the bed. And yet, Sansone had opened his eyes many a day to discover his face pleasantly resting against her chest, his legs tangled with hers while her fingers curled in his hair. It was an unapologetic pull to her presence. Maybe a subconscious need to make up for all the time spent separately. He didn’t know. All he understood was that today had been no different. Aside from the fact that the moment his wife’s lids had parted, they’d narrowed and she’d looked interested in biting a portion of his forehead clean off. He’d quickly gotten up and gone far, far away before she could do so.

  Now he stood a safe distance out of reach, manning the careful making of jumbo lump crabmeat omelets. If nothing else, hopefully a good meal would calm some of her ire. Sansone grasped a small bottle of oil, intent on starting up the skillet again when he heard a slight creak just behind him. Smiling, he turned, skillet in one hand, oil in the other to greet Nyssa with all the cheer he could muster.

  “Buongiorno.”

  She eyed him from where she stood, a short silk robe riding high on her thighs, her twists in a fairly decent disarray and her face scrubbed clean. Then she grunted. Like a bear. Just a small chuff of air in his direction.

  Sansone motioned to the omelet. “Hungry?”

  Nyssa stared for a moment longer before her head tilted at an angle and she abruptly asked, “What’s your game, Sultana?”

  He blinked guilelessly. “Game?”

  A few steps and she had him boxed in against the counter. Her hands were on either side of his hips while she glared up into his face. “Yes. Game. When we arrived yesterday, you all but broke out into a flash mob dance about the joys of communion and friendship and affection in a marriage—”

  “I wouldn’t say it was a flash mob per se. Perhaps an all male review featuring only one male because I’m uncomfortable with sharing the stage?”

  “—And then because I don’t give you the response you’re looking for, you decide to withhold sex?”

  He rolled his shoulders and nodded slightly. “That sounds about right.”

  Nyssa’s hands slapped the counter. “The hell is your problem, man?!”

  Grinning, he tweaked her nose and answered, “You.”

  “Mi scusi?”

  “You heard me,” Sansone told her mildly. “You’re my problem at the moment. I’ve come up with a solution. One that would work if you would be so gracious as to shut up and get out of my way so I can implement it.”

  Her blink was slow. “I’m pretty confident that out of all the responses you could have given me, that was not the right one.”

  “Oh no, it was the right one,” he retorted. “It’s just not the one you wanted to hear.”

  She began to step back and he halted her with a hand at her waist. “You think. About good things. About bad things. About things that shouldn’t even be acknowledged. You consider and weigh and mull. Your head never empties, never quiets. Everything has to have a meaning, a reason. Everything has to have a reply.” Nyssa looked away and he allowed it. “Do you know why you couldn’t beg me?”

  Her head snapped back around and her brows drew together.

  “Because it would have been a mindless action with no purpose other than pleasure; something you seem to be incapable of allowing yourself now. You would have had to release control and hand over the reins. You don’t trust me to take them. You don’t trust me with much of anything these days.”

  “That’s not—”

  He silenced her with a brush of his mouth over hers. “It is.” Sansone played with a braid. “Submission isn’t a equivalent to weakness. Vulnerability doesn’t mean foolish. I thought we learned this lesson already.”

  Her shoulders dropped and he released her with a sigh. “Go get comfortable on the deck and I’ll bring out breakfast.”

  “Sunny—”

  He turned back to the task at hand. “Do as I asked.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Angling back, he returned her impatience with some of his own. “Then do as I demanded.”

  She stood there for a moment longer, the words ‘fuck you’ visibly hovering around her mouth. Without another sound, she spun on her heel and stalked out. Sansone tracked her movements out onto the back deck through the window, his gaze narrowed as she sprawled across a piece of furniture. When she turned onto her belly, hugging a throw pillow to her chest, he noticed that he was strangely, frustratingly, and unrelentingly hard.

  Right eye twitching, he managed to tear his stare away just long enough to point down at his crotch. “No.”

  His dick bobbed from behind his shorts as if arguing why it should be yes and nothing but yes for the rest of their goddamn lives. It even made some pretty valid points. All of which he listened to because they’d been together for this long and it hadn’t led him astray as of yet. Well except for that one time…

  Annoyed with himself and it, he put his energy into cracking eggs and ignored the aggressive twitch of his palm, shouting for him to smack both h
alves of his spouse’s ass maroon.

  “You don’t trust me with much of anything these days.”

  That wasn’t true. But he wouldn’t let her argue the point. It wasn’t him that she didn’t trust. It had never been him. It was moot now. All at once he’d shut down on her and Nyssa had received a glimpse of what it felt like to be closed out. She didn’t like it, had wanted to push him, but thought better of it. He would have only backed her into a wall and sent her on the defensive. They would have fought…again. Any and all energy to do so had been sapped from her. She wanted to fight with Sansone about as much as she wanted to swim naked through a pod of giant echizen. Resigned to being placed in what was essentially a time out, she’d stepped away.

  Here she sat with her face in her palms, kicking her feet over the deck, wanting to be released like a child who’d been directed to the corner. Now she knew why a great deal of her husband’s alabastrine people chose this as a form of punishment, it was torture. Waiting for someone to acknowledge you again.

  The door opened and she stilled, flicking a glance over her shoulder. The man in question strolled out barefoot, cut off gray shorts riding low on his hips and his hands full. A tray packed with omelets, fresh fruit and juice led the way.

  He placed it down on the small table and stood straight. “Come eat.”

  Nyssa stayed put. “I’m sorry, are you speaking to your wife or some unforeseen canine you came across recently?”

  Sansone regarded her for a moment and suddenly dropped down to his knees. Spreading his arms wide, he shouted, “Oh dear goddess of all good things, I—your simple man servant with the incredibly chiseled features—have slaved to bring you a worthy sacrifice. Would you bestow upon me you presence to partake in the fruits of my labor? And possibly…maybe…a hand job if you so wish?”