Chapter 52
52
Penny
"That’s my choice, isn’t it?" I hold his gaze, even though everything in me wants to punch him and tell him to wake up and recognize what we have here. I may not have been with any other man, but I’m worldly wise enough to know that if the sex is this explosive, and if the chemistry between us is such a tangible force that I can sense him anytime he’s in the vicinity, and that, despite the fact that he comes across as such an asshole, I can look past his persona to the man he really is inside, then—whatever is between us is worth fighting for. It’s worth trying to convince him that he loves me, too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.
He pulls out of me, then stays poised at my entrance in a way that builds anticipation and makes every part of me tingle and my nerves scream with expectation.
Gah, why does he have to tease me like this?
I push up my pelvis and try to take him in me, but he clicks his tongue. "You can’t top from the bottom, Little Dove."
"What?"
He glares at me, and my insides clench in anticipation. He looks a little mad and frustrated and as if he’s reaching the end of his tether, which means he’s going to do something I don’t like—but also like. A lot.
"You know what I mean," he growls.
"I have no idea what you’re talking about." I widen my gaze, trying to portray a picture of innocence.
His eyebrows draw down. "Do you know what happens to bratty girls who don’t know their place?"
"No, Sir," I say in a coy voice.
Instantly, his dick pulses, and this time, when I push up, the crown breaches me. I groan; so does he.
"It feels so good, I want more. Please, Sir. Please."
"You beg so beautifully. This time, I’m going to take you against my better judgement, but you’re going to pay for this, you feel me?" He lowers his head until his lips are, once more, so close I can feel his breath on my mouth. I lick my lips, and his shaft pulses.
"I feel you, I—" I cry out as he kicks his hips forward and slams into me. My entire body moves up the mattress. He cups the top of my head, so I don’t slam into the headboard, then he begins to pound me.
"Such a tight cunt you have, Little Dove."
Thrust.
"You take my cock so beautifully."
Thrust
.
"Such a perfect little receptacle for my cum."
T-h-r-u-s-t.
"Such a willing, obedient hole for me to take whenever I want."
He begins to slow down, and I pant. No, he’s not slowing down. He’s merely changed his rhythm to long, deep strokes, so each time he enters me, it’s like he’s sliding all the way up to my throat.
"Sir," I moan. "Sir."
"You look so good when you plead. You’ll look better wearing my cum." With that, he pulls out, grips the base of his dick, then straddles my chest and plants his massive thighs on each side of my face.
"Open your mouth."
I do.
"I’m going to come down your throat, and you’re going to take every single drop."
Before I can nod, he pushes his dick into my mouth. He hits the back of my throat, and I gag. A groan rips out of him. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead.
"Fuck." His nostrils flare, his cock pulses, and on instinct, I reach up and squeeze his balls. With a low growl, he shoots his cum. Some of it spills over the corners of my lips. There’s an expression of pain—or maybe, ecstasy— on his features as he squeezes his big hand around his shaft and drains every last drop. Then he pulls out.
"Show me," he orders.
I open my mouth. He scoops up the overflow and slides it onto my tongue.
"Swallow," he growls, then, wraps his fingers around my throat, feeling the liquid slip down my gullet.
He shifts down my body until, once more, he’s planked over me, and as if he can't stop himself, he presses his lips into mine. Without breaking stride, he rolls on his back, pulling me onto him as he continues to ravage my mouth. My eyelids shut, and I fall asleep with his tongue sliding over mine.
I wake up briefly to find he’s carrying me into the ensuite bathroom. "What are you doing?" I yawn.
"Shh, go back to sleep," he whispers.
I do. I float in and out of consciousness, barely aware he’s holding me up in the bath as he slides the washcloth down my body and between my legs. When I moan, he hushes me. His touch is so gentle, the thud-thud-thud of his heart at my back so comforting, the sound of his breathing is a lullaby. Once again, I fall asleep.
This time, when I wake up, I’m alone in my bed. Light pours in through the window, and I feel light, myself. I sit up and stretch. I’m a little sore, but I feel refreshed. When I throw off the covers, I find I’m dressed in a sweat-shirt—which is not mine. I raise the cloth to my nose and sniff. Sea-breeze and pepper overlaid with the scent of fabric conditioner. It’s his sweatshirt. He rolled up the sleeves, and when I stand, it falls to mid-thigh. I take a step forward and wince—okay, strike that, I’m very sore, but only in between my legs. I walk over to the ensuite, pee, and the water sliding past my abraded labia sends a not-unpleasant shiver up my spine.
Good god, now I’m aroused by peeing? Is it because he suggested I would feel the imprint of his cock while I did or is it because I actually do? A-n-d I’m not going to dwell on it.
I jump up from the toilet, flush, wash my hands, brush my teeth, then head into the bedroom and come to a stop when I see him. He’s standing in front of the bed, dressed in a fitted suit that makes him look like he’s walked out of the pages of GQ. He lifts his wrist, glances pointedly at his watch, then at me. "You have ten minutes to get dressed."
* * *
"You could have stopped me from oversleeping," I huff as I race after him to the car. I managed to stretch the ten minutes to twenty, okay twelve… But I wrangled two minutes more from the bosshole. That has to count for something.
"I went running. Adam was waiting for me, so I didn’t have the time to wake you up before I left." He picks up his speed, and by the time I reach the car door he’s held open for me, I’m panting. I scowl at him, but he merely nods toward the back seat. I slide in, he follows me, slams the door shut, and we’re off.
Of course, he buries his nose in his phone. The early morning sun slants through the window and bounces off the emerald set in my wedding ring. I raise my hand, take in both the engagement and the wedding rings. Whoa, I’m married. Not for real—he’d like to claim—but last night sure felt real. Also, he waited for me, and we’re driving to work together—like a married couple. Another point in my favor, I think. We travel in silence for another twenty minutes until my stomach rumbles loudly. I freeze and pretend I didn’t hear it. Only Sir Grumphole, aka my new husband, of course, hears it.
Without looking up from his phone he says, "Rudy, take a right up ahead."
"Where are we going?" I turn to him, but he’s, once more, lost in whatever he’s reading on his phone.
Rudy brings the car to a halt in front of a bakery, but it's not just any bakery. It’s the one near the office. The one where I buy the coffee and the croissants and my cupcakes.
I shoot him a suspicious glance, but he’s getting out of the car. I trail him inside and slide into the seat opposite him at a table by one of the windows.
"You’re going to be late," I murmur.
"No, we’re not."
I roll my eyes. "The food and coffee here are excellent, but the service is slow and—"
"Here you go Mr. Warren." A waitress places a croissant, another plate with two cupcakes—one with sprinkles and the other with chocolate chips on the frosting—a third plate with a cinnamon roll, followed by a fourth which is heaped with eggs and toast, along with fresh orange juice and a cup of frothy coffee, in front of me.
She slides a plate of eggs and toast, then a cup of coffee—black, of course—in front of him, followed by a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Oh, she also slips a piece of paper with her number scrawled on it under his plate.
"Anything else you’d like, Mr. Warren?" she asks sweetly.
A burning sensation cuts a hole through my stomach. I grip the edge of the table with my fingers.
Don’t say it, don’t say it.
"Darling, we forgot the condom again last night. At this rate, I’ll be pregnant before the month is out. Your father is going to be over the moon, don’t you think? Have you thought about a name for the little one? I have some thoughts, if you’d care to hear."
The waitress flinches and shoots me a venomous look. I wave my hand—my left hand with the wedding ring—in the air. "Shoo now."
She turns and walks off. I reach for the paper with her number on it, but he picks it up first. He holds it in between us. My breath catches in my chest. Then he crumples it and tosses it on the table, and I cough.
"Your coffee’s getting cold,
Darling
," he murmurs.
The last word is heavy with sarcasm, but I ignore it. I reach for the coffee, take a sip, then freeze. "This has cinnamon flavoring and a dollop of cream," I say slowly.
"Indeed." He reaches for his fork and scoops up some of the eggs. He brings it to his mouth, and I can’t take my gaze off of how he wraps his lips around the morsel and licks the tines clean. My pussy clenches, and my panties are wet—again. Jesus, I might as well start wearing diapers, at this rate.
He places his fork on the table and glances at me.
I flush, knowing I’ve been caught staring. "What?" I scowl.
"You’re not eating."
"Eh?" I take another sip of the coffee and the bitter-sweet taste of cinnamon fills my senses. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"
"I told the coffeeshop to get you your regular drink."
"And how did you get such quick service?"
"I messaged them ahead to let them know our order."
"Ah." I blink.
He nods toward my food. "Now, will you eat?"
"You ordered me cupcakes?" I ask, unwilling to let go of the topic. There’s something here that’s important, something I’m missing.
"And chocolate croissants and the cinnamon roll."
"All my favorites." I narrow my gaze on him.
"I told them to bring a selection of their best breakfast pastries along with the eggs and toast." He shrugs.
"Right, of course." I deflate a little. Guess it was wishful thinking to hope that he noticed what I liked to eat. I reach for the chocolate chip cupcake and take a big bite. The bitter taste of the chocolate and the silky softness of the frosting melts on my tongue. I close my eyes, focus on the tastes, and moan as I swallow. When I open my eyes, he’s glaring at me.
"Now what?" I mutter.
"You have something at the corner of your mouth." Before I can react, he reaches forward and scoops up the frosting.
"Open," he commands in a husky voice.
I do, at once. I part my lips, and he slides his finger inside. I lick his digit, and his nostrils flare. And when I bite down on his fingertip, his big shoulders flex. The air between us sizzles with so much chemistry, beads of sweat pop on my upper lip. He leans forward; so do I. Closer. Closer. Oh, my god, he’s going to kiss me. His gaze slides to my mouth.
That’s when the waitress places a jug of water on the table with two glasses. "How’s everything?"
Bitch.
* * *
"What a bitch," Mira huffs up at me from the phone screen.
"Right?" I toss my head. "I wanted to claw her eyes out. She knew we were married, but that didn’t stop her from all but falling into his lap."
I’m in the ladies’ room where I managed to peel off during a lull in the emails that have been steadily pouring in all morning. I skipped lunch—not that I needed any after the massive cupcake I inhaled. Despite the interrupted breakfast, he insisted we stay until I finish my food. But the cupcake had been so rich, I pleaded off the rest of the food. He had it boxed so I could carry it back with me. I told him I didn’t want to, because if I did, I’d eat it all. He looked at me, bewildered, and said that’s what one does with food. You eat it. I stopped trying to convince him otherwise and carried the decadent treats back with me. Then, I slid it to a corner of my desk and stared at it all morning. I am not going to sneak another of the pastries. I'm not, and so far, I’ve been good.
Then, when the temptation got to be too much, I snuck off to the restroom, where I called Mira and told her the entire saga… Leaving out the details of what happened last night, that is.
"He did crumple the piece of paper with her phone number on it," she points out.
"For a minute there, I thought he wasn’t going to," I huff.
"He’s married. Of course he would," she says with complete confidence.
Not that it needs to stop him, considering our vows aren’t for real. Not that I’ve told any of my friends, or even Abby, about the fact it's an alliance of convenience—on his part, at least. Funny, how it didn't trigger suspicions. Of course, they don’t know that he made me sign a contract stating that the marriage would last for not less than a year, during which time I'm contracted to stay with him. In return, he’ll pay all of the expenses for my mother’s treatment and stay at the home for the rest of her life. Of course, my monthly allowance is a million dollars. And if I get pregnant within the year, it’s another million. With another two million deposited in my account when the child is born. And then, for each year I stay married to him, I get a million, and for each child I push out, add on another two.
My head spins with all the zeroes that means. I've stopped trying to keep track of it. Also, I refuse to check my bank account because I’m not going to touch a penny of what he’s giving me. The only money I’m going to use is that which my salary as his assistant gets me. One I insisted I draw and which I’m using to pay fifty percent of the rent on Mira’s apartment. This way, I can keep my room there and have somewhere of my own I can go to… If needed.
"Penny, you listening to me?" she asks.
"Of course I am."
"Don’t blame you if you are a little distracted. I would be, too, if I’d spent the first night of my marriage with that irresistible masculine deity."
I laugh. "Haven’t heard that one before."
"That’s because I invented it."
"You did, huh?"
"I’m having my go at writing my own smutty fanfic."
"Ooh, is it Dramione?"
"What else?" she asks with an expression that implies it couldn't it be anything else but.
"I’m so envious you found your Draco. Now, if only I could find mine."
The door opens then, and Giorgina glides in on her six-inch, spiky heels. I glance down at my wedges. Damn. Why is it that I always feel so underdressed in comparison? I cup my palm around my mouth and lower my voice, "Uh gotta go, Bellatrix Lestrange walked in."
"Wh-a-t?" Mira chokes out a laugh. "Do you mean—"
"Yes, can’t talk, bye." I hang up, slide the phone into the pocket of my trusty pink jeans—because yeah, skinny jeans may be passé, but you’ll have to tear mine from my body when I die. Also, I’d paired it with a blazer, so the effect is very much Gen-Z. I wash my hands under the tap, then dry them. When I toss the paper towel into the wastebasket, I turn to Gio. "Hey, what are you doing here?"
"Had a meeting with that prick, Rick." She caps her lipstick and drops it into her handbag, then pauses. “Prick Rick has a certain ring to it, no? Maybe I should call him Prick, instead of Rick.”
I chuckle. “Not sure he’ll like that.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes gleam.
“You don’t like him much?”
“That’s an understatement. I’d have preferred not to have anything to do with him, but I couldn’t get out of this meeting with him and your husband.”
"My husband?" The words are out before I can stop myself.
She glances at my left hand and raises a brow. "Difficult to think of him as that when you’re not sure if he was serious about his vows. Not to mention, it’s the day after your marriage and not only are you back at work, but also you’re in the ladies’ room when, instead, you should be bent over his desk and—"
"Stop right there." I hold my hand up. "What gives you the right to pass judgment on my life?"
"No judgment. But considering your friends can’t see past the assumption that he has feelings for you—which he probably does, but I reserve judgment on that—fact is, you deserve better than how he’s treating you, girlfriend."
My gusts twist, and anger slams into my chest with such force, I gasp. I open my mouth to tell her off, then snap it shut. She’s right. I know she’s right. And only she has the sense to see through the rose-tinted glasses my friends seem to have pulled on. I lean against the counter and stare at my rings.
She blows out a breath. "I’m a bitch; ignore me. I’m also a little emotionally off-kilter, which is no excuse for taking it out on you. It’s me. I’m not good at sugar-coating the truth. And unfortunately, I can see through all the bullshit and cut to the chase and—"
"No, you’re good," I murmur.
She seems taken aback, then nods. "Sorry again, don’t mean to hurt your feelings."
"You didn’t. It’s good to hear someone else say something that everyone else is afraid to say. Or maybe, they just can't see it." I lower my hands to my sides. "What would you do if you were in my shoes?"
She tilts her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I’d march in there and demand he take me on a proper honeymoon, to begin with."