by R. K. Lilley
I sat carefully beside her sleeping form.
I bent over her, brushing her lips with mine, then slowly, slipping my tongue in her mouth.
She started when she woke, but quickly settled into the kiss. I moaned when she started sucking on my tongue.
I shifted, holding her face to mine as I swept my tongue across her lips. I pulled back slightly to look into her sleepy eyes.
I slipped my fingers down to her mound, rubbing them lazily through her soft folds.
She shifted, a flush rising to her cheeks.
I found her clit with my index finger and circled it. I felt it swell under my touch.
"Did you miss me?" I asked her, rubbing more firmly.
"Yes, and no."
"Both? Why both?"
"Yes, because of this." She gasped as I pushed a finger into her. "No, because I needed a bit of sleep."
I smiled. She had a good point. I'd been an animal, claiming her body in every conceivable way, day and night, since she'd become legally mine.
Speaking of which.
I stood up beside the bed, looming over her, wearing nothing but white linen trousers and heavy lidded desire.
"Sit up," I told her. "Take it out," I ordered, nodding down at the prominent bulge at the front of my pants.
She obeyed, looking dazed, eyes glazed with passion.
Her fingers fumbled with the ties, the side of her wrist brushing against my erection. I pushed it harder against her, clenching my jaw, holding back a groan when she freed it, and it jutted out at her, inches from her face. A whisper from her mouth.
Bianca took a deep breath, as though inhaling it.
I was fully erect, swelled to my full size, the broad head of my cock stretching toward her parted lips.
She licked those luscious lips and stared like she was starving.
My balls tightened, hard length jerking restlessly, then bobbing with the bounce of its own weight.
She gasped when a drop of pre-cum spilled out the aching head, glancing up at me, as though asking for permission.
I pushed my hips forward that last little bit. "Lick it," I ordered her roughly.
With happy sigh, she lapped at it with her soft pink tongue. The look of bliss on her face was gratifying, to say the least. She continued to lick it clean with slow, concentrated zeal until I told her to stop.
She pulled back, staring at my cock, another spurt of liquid rewarding her attention.
She bit her lips and looked up at my face, as though asking for permission.
I nodded. "Go ahead. Lick it clean again."
She obeyed with long, slow swipes of her tongue. I clenched my jaw, hands made into fists.
She pulled back, and more pre-cum dribbled over to tempt her.
"There's more," I said roughly. "Lick it all up. Every drop."
With a moan, she lapped it up.
"Good, love, now suck on the tip."
We both moaned as she slid her soft lips over my engorged head. Her eyes looked up at me as she sucked, her tongue stroking the underside of my tip with each hungry pull.
"Take me deeper," I gasped, "I want to feel the back of your throat."
Tipping her head forward, she slowly drew me deeper, her tight throat hugging my tip, her tongue moving busily along the underside of my shaft. We'd been working on her deep-throating skills. She'd come far in a short amount of time.
I shoved deeper, and she sucked greedily at every added inch.
I grunted and reached down to grab my base, squeezing hard, trying to hold back my release for a few more torturous, blissful moments in her mouth.
She moaned around my length, taking me still deeper.
With an instinctive jerk, I shoved myself down her throat.
She started to gag, and I pulled back, cursing out an apology.
"You can use your hands now," I told her, and she did, taking me back into her hot little mouth while her hands twisted and squeezed me until I felt my seed rolling up my shaft
I stroked her face and praised her as she milked a quick, powerful orgasm out of me and down her throat.
I pushed her down and knelt between her thighs, lapping at her, sucking at her little piercing, stabbing my tongue against her clit, until she came, screaming.
I climbed on top of her, taking her mouth, sliding my tongue inside with a low moan. We kissed like we needed it to breathe, tasting ourselves on each other's lips.
We were supposed to leave the island that night.
We said fuck it and stayed another five days.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MY MARRIAGE
Marriage isn't easy. It's not meant to be. It is picking a partnership over a solo venture. It is choosing to consider another person in every decision you make for the rest of your life, instead of just doing what feels right for you. It is choosing to be selfless over selfish.
And like all marriages, ours had its challenges.
Neither of us had ever even attempted to have a committed romantic relationship with another person before. I'd had copious amounts of sex with too many partners to count, but that in no way equipped me for a lifelong partnership with a woman I adored to the point of insanity.
We needed a learning curve, I figured. We deserved one.
And so we learned together.
There was more good than bad, much more, always, even at the hardest times. More things I loved than things that I couldn't bear, so many favorite things about her, about our life together that I couldn't pick even a dozen that were definitively ranked into the top spots of my hit parade.
I loved waking up next to her, pulling her naked body close, feeling it warm in sleep, then thrum awake in awareness as I touched her. And I loved touching her, in any way at all—sexually, chastely.
Possessively.
Covetously, tenderly, wonderingly.
Reverently.
I loved the way she looked at me. She devoured me with those gorgeous eyes, swallowing me whole, eating me alive, her loving soul peeking out at me with no filter.
The way she studied me like she was memorizing my movements. Watching me put on a suit was like Bianca-porn. With each piece I put on, she got more worked up. It was a wonder I ever left the house dressed.
She was completely taken with my looks, and I couldn't help but enjoy that.
"You have a perfectly even skin tone. I've never seen anything like it," she said one day, as I got ready to go in to work for a meeting. Her tone was thick with lust, her eyes on my naked torso just before I shrugged into a shirt. That distracted me. Her preoccupation with my flesh, her lusting for my person, always seemed to have that effect.
I was two hours late for that meeting.
I was late for a lot of meetings.
I loved dominating her sexually, craved it, needed it on a steady daily basis, even while I happily surrendered to her the total ownership of my soul.
I had so many things I loved, things I would not, could not, do without.
But of course, there were the things we could not take, could not stand, habits we both possessed that were hard to break.
What she could not take: If I kept anything from her, even something minuscule, just to spare her feelings.
And when I became so enraged that I grew cold towards her, and refused to touch her, it upset her nearly as much as it turned her on.
What I could not take: Her silent withdrawals. Her need for space.
And of course the worst of it, for both of us, was my jealousy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MY HATRED
I hated him. Hated. He wanted what I had, what I needed.
I could see it on him, smell it coming out of his pores, that want.
He couldn't hide it from me. He was taken with her. Smitten. Enamored.
Who but me could better recognize the signs of that?
Joseph. Fucking Joseph, the amiable security guy. Such a carefree smile, such soft eyes for my wife.
He'd been around to
o long by the time I realized it, and now I couldn't fire him for no reason without looking like a jealous maniac to Bianca.
Because she liked him. I knew she did. She was attached to him. He was her favorite bodyguard. She enjoyed his company, thought he was funny and 'a nice guy.'
He and Blake were always the ones she chose to take when she needed security to accompany her somewhere. Always.
But I hated him, and that hate went back a ways.
Two years, to be exact. I remembered the very moment. I could watch it in slow motion in my memories:
That night I'd carried her, scantily clad, from Stephan's house back to mine.
"Is she okay, sir?" he'd asked, something soft in his voice telling me even back then, when he'd barely met her.
And I knew he'd seen her like that, her beautiful, lush body barely covered, though he'd averted his eyes when I'd looked directly at him.
He'd fallen for my wounded angel from the first.
Why the fuck didn't I fire him right then and there?
If only I had, it would have spared me all of this impotent rage, this daily struggle to have to tolerate his presence.
Hate.
Raw, oozing hate when I caught him looking at her.
Acute, teeth-clenching hate when I knew he was home with her and I had to leave, or when he was out with her, when I couldn't go.
Bianca, who was normally too perceptive for comfort, seemed utterly oblivious to it.
And then, outrage of all outrages, I caught her painting him.
It was at the Vegas property. I'd come home to find her not in the house, searched and asked until I was directed to the large back patio, a spot where she often went to work.
I froze when I saw them, not quite believing my eyes.
It had been building up for a while, my hate, building up in every tender look he sent her way, every laugh I heard him draw out of her.
Years' worth of the build. Of wondering if I was crazy, debating whether it was my imagination, looking for signs, for evidence of it every time I saw him.
All of that hate came right to the surface, nearly spilling out of me as I observed what I was seeing then.
At least I wasn't crazy. There was some relief in that, though not much.
Here he was, not seeing me, and looking right at her, his heart in his eyes, so much longing there that I had to restrain myself from physically attacking him where he stood.
She, for her part, wasn't looking at him. Her head was down, her full concentration on the canvas.
My chest was moving with my heavy breaths. I loosened my tie, trying to drag more air into my lungs, feeling like I had heavily exerted myself, because in a way I had.
It was quite an effort, this restraint I was holding onto by the thinnest margin.
He just kept doing it, his eyes devouring her downcast head, moving lovingly over each strand of her loose hair, hair that he wasn't allowed to so much as touch.
But those looks were worse than a touch.
She worked standing up, as she usually did, palette in one hand, brush in the other, absolutely absorbed in what she was doing.
She was at her most beautiful like this, with those dreams in her soulful eyes, and I knew I looked just as lovesick as Joseph did every time I glanced at her.
She was barefoot, wearing a thin little white tank top with paint splattered on it and loose beige shorts. Nothing too indecent, but it showed off her legs, and hugged her curves. Her soft round tits looked positively fuckable under that thin material.
I approached behind her, and so he saw me first. Instantly and damningly, his expression became closed off, blank, neutral even, as he tried to hide it from me.
But I couldn't un-see what I'd just seen from him.
I fought not to curl my lip at him and moved my attention to her.
I studied her work in progress over her shoulder for a while before she noticed me.
It was a portrait of him from the shoulders up. He was smiling in it, a glint in his eye, but not the one I'd witnessed, which was something, at least.
The painting was good, of course, but very far along, almost finished.
This hadn't been their first session.
I caught his eye, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, just staring him down for a long time, not bothering to hide what was in my eyes, like he was.
Finally, she noticed me. She jumped a little, turning, the hand holding her paintbrush flying to her chest.
"I swear I really am going to get you that bell one of these days," she said, smiling at me, looking so happy to see me, no guilt or artifice in her eyes.
It loosened the awful grip around my heart a bit.
I didn't say a word, just moved close, pressing my body to hers, I gripped her head in both hands and started kissing.
I ran my tongue over her lips, then slid it deep into her mouth, moaning loudly at the taste of her.
She still held her palette and brush, arms out wide to try to keep from getting paint on my suit, body rigid against mine.
That was fine. I took it as a personal challenge.
I drew her tongue into my mouth, stroking it with mine.
My arousal hung heavy and conspicuous between us, even through clothes, and I pushed it against her hip persistently.
I deepened the kiss, thrusting my tongue against hers, coaxing her to suck it.
She shifted and acquiesced tentatively. She hadn't forgotten that we weren't alone. She was still aware of him.
I bit her lip, one hand sliding down her body to cup her ass, gripping a fleshy handful to hold her in place while I ground my hardness into her softness, probing, moving it from her hip to her groin, bending my knees until I was making direct contact with her most sensitive nerves, grinding hard enough that I could feel the little bud of her piercing against my seeking cock.
I pulled her hair, grabbed her ass, sucked her tongue, and circled my hips.
Both palette and brush dropped to the floor, her hands reaching to grip the lapels of my jacket like she was holding on for dear life.
I smiled and pulled back, eyes unerringly seeking out Joseph.
He hadn't left, or turned his back, as he should have.
Instead he was staring right at us with his untarnished eyes.
I took a deep breath and set her away from me.
She was dazed, eyes unfocused, lips parted.
And best of all, she'd forgotten all about him.
"Go up to bed," I told her, voice low and rough, but loud enough to carry. "Get yourself ready for me."
She nodded, breathing heavy, and obeyed.
I didn't follow her right away.
I tugged impatiently at my tie, loosening it, and then unfastening the first two buttons at my throat.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, shooting a malevolent glare in his direction.
He met my gaze squarely, still just standing there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue.
I stared him down for a solid five minutes, daring him to say anything at all, neither of us uttering a word for that long, awkward stretch.
Finally, I smirked, running a hand through my hair, still not looking away from him.
I shrugged off my suit jacket, finished taking off my tie. I started to unbutton my shirt, illustrating clearly what I was up to next.
"Don't wait up," I told him, my voice mocking, and turned away.
I stopped in the kitchen briefly with instructions for dinner, then moved upstairs, desire beating heavy through me.
I found her waiting on the bed for me.
She'd obeyed perfectly and wore nothing but her piercings and her collar.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on her knees, legs parted slightly, back arched, nipples pebbled to hardened peaks.
Even with her legs open, exposing her sex, I couldn't see if she was wet, but I would have bet that she was.
We'd had some work done on the house, as we'd taken to staying here mo
re often than not. The room next to this one had been renovated, and I'd had an adjoining door built in.
I went and opened it. I looked at her and lifted my brows. "The other bed," I told her with a wicked grin.
The adjoining room had been outfitted into an extensive playground of fourth floor proportions, and the space was dominated by a huge, caged bed.
She stood, and I watched her lush body as she made her way across the room.
I grabbed her wrist as she passed me, stopping her.
I turned her to me, fingers going to her nipples, pinching hard.
She arched her back and pushed into my rough touch.
I pulled her into the playroom, snagging her favorite nipple clamps. They were coral pink, a near perfect match for her nipples.
I latched them in two smooth motions, fishing in the same drawer for a very thin silver chain that had four ends, each with a tiny jewelry fastening on it.
She moaned when she saw it.
I attached it first to her collar, an end to each nipple. The other went to her piercing below. It was the perfect length to pull at each zone just enough to tease.
I stepped back, admiring my handy work.
"Go kneel on the bed, facing me," I told her, and shrugged out of my shirt.
I approached the bed, watching her, balls drawn tight.
As she stared, I pulled my cock out of my slacks, pushing my full length out, tucking the material under my scrotum. I gripped myself, one hand firmly stroking my shaft, the other my sac.
I watched her, debating what I wanted to do, what depraved pleasure would best calm the fiendish need that had its hooks in me.
I kept working my cock, jerking it hard.
Her eyes were glued to it.
"You like watching me jerk myself off," I observed.
She licked her lips and nodded, eyes still glued.
I went to another drawer, grabbing a finger vibrator, shaped specifically to stimulate the clit. I moved close enough to toss it on the bed next to her.
"Use it," I told her succinctly, immediately moving away. "Not to tease. I want you to apply it direct."
I was at the wall where all of the restraints hung, picking out a hogtie harness, when I paused as I heard her breath grow ragged.