“How’s your wife doing this morning? I bet she was horny as hell after watching me fuck Melanie.” Isaia leans closer, a huge-ass grin on his face. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Next time you allow my wife to watch you fuck, at least have the decency to call me so I can join the fun.”
Isaia laughs, then turns his attention to the egg omelette on his plate. There are a million and one other things I should be thinking and worrying about, but since walking out of Leandra’s room last night, I can’t stop thinking about her face—the sheer ecstasy that painted the sharp edges of her expression, the pure desire that crafted every shadow with a seductive mix of innocence and a wicked appetite that made her lose control.
It was fucking beautiful, exhilarating to witness her come undone. She’s quite the enigma it seems, her innocence framed with a razor-sharp edge of sin. Seduction. Sex.
I saw it in her eyes, the hate that burned with a kind of lust that consumed her, something she’s afraid of and wants to keep caged. And now all I want is to help set it free.
Last night, I returned from the mess that goddamn cross psychopath left us, and Isaia stopped me in the hallway to give me Leandra’s shoes, a huge fucking grin plastered on his face as he told me about my Peeping-Tom wife. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t thrill me, thinking of Leandra watching them fuck, her cunt dripping while she craves the same experience. It wasn’t until I found her in the bathtub pleasuring herself that I realized exactly how much it thrilled me. Silently, I watched her, drank her in, the way her lips parted and the sound of her heavy breathing made my cock hard in fucking seconds. In that moment while the water hugged her petite frame, I saw a woman, I felt attraction, and the fire in my veins forced me to act on it.
Now and then, her hips would buck, and the water would ripple around her, giving me a glimpse of her firm breasts and hard nipples. She was the epitome of erotic enticement, a woman who gave in to her desires, listening to her body and not a man who demanded it from her. The girls at the club satisfied my every goddamn fantasy—but only because it was mine and because it was expected of them to act like they fucking liked it, too.
But while I stared at Leandra with her hand between her legs, knowing she was turned the fuck on by watching others fuck, I wanted to jerk her out of the tub, tear through the barrier of her virginity, and claim her against the goddamn bathroom wall.
Just thinking about it is giving me a goddamn hard-on right here at the fucking breakfast table. Thinking of her moans, how she so easily submitted, and the sight of my cum on her cheek—it fucked with my head ever since I left her room.
It’s still fucking with me, and it’s impossible not to think about it.
“I think this was just a one-time thing, and everyone needs to jump off this serial killer train.” Caelian’s voice drags me from my thoughts, and I glance at him as he picks up his coffee, leaning back in the chair. “For God’s sake, there’s only been one murder. This was probably some psychopath with a love for theatrics who wanted to live out this sick fucking sex fantasy, jerking off while slitting Alicia’s wrists, and then went back to his filthy fucking apartment to kill himself.” He shrugs. “I’m telling you, his corpse is rotting somewhere with Alicia’s eyeballs in his hands.”
“Jesus, Caelian,” Nicoli blurts.
“What? I’m serious.” He places his coffee back on the mahogany table and takes a bite of toast. “All I’m saying is let’s not get carried away. It’s not a serial killer with a taste for prostitutes yet. If there’s another murder, then I’ll agree with you about the fact that we’re fucked.”
“We are not fucked,” I say, tapping my finger on the white napkin next to my plate of food that I haven’t touched yet. “We will find this guy,” I glance at Caelian, “dead or alive, although I would prefer the latter so I can cut out his goddamn eyes and replace them with his balls.”
Isaia walks in. “Company,” he warns, righting the collar of his leather jacket, followed by Mira walking in soon after.
“Good morning, boys. Have I ever told you how I just love it when you all go so damn silent whenever I walk in?”
“Good morning, Mira,” I greet politely, sipping my coffee before placing it down.
Her black heels click across the lacquered floor, and she takes a seat next to Caelian. She shoots me a sly grin while placing the napkin on her lap. “I should probably stop referring to you as a boy now that you’re all grown up and married. Speaking of, I went by Leandra’s room, and she wasn’t there.” Mira’s green eyes dart around the room. “I assumed she was already here having breakfast, but apparently not.”
“She wasn’t in her room?” I shift in my seat.
“No. Which reminds me, shouldn’t you two be sharing a room?”
Immediately, I’m on my feet, ignoring her last remark and stomping out of the dining room. The early morning sun slices through the glass windows, scattering beams of light against the walls, touching the elegant gold frames of my mother’s art collection. Since I can remember, she’s had an obsession with landscape art. My dad forbade her from buying another portrait until she got rid of some of the ones she already has.
My feet barely hit the floor as I rush up the stairs. It’s only been one fucking day, and already she’s pissing me off by not having the decency to be present at the breakfast table. She’s probably in bed, crying and sulking, hating herself for giving in to the demands of her body while having the devil ignite her desire.
I knock and wait two seconds before slamming my fist against the door. “Leandra, open the door.”
Nothing.
“Leandra.” I grab the doorknob, but it’s locked. “I swear to God, I will break this motherfucking door down if you don’t open it right now.”
Still nothing.
“Leandra, I—”
The lock clicks open, but the door remains closed, and I jerk it open, storming in. “We need to talk about your motherfucking manners. Why the hell are you—”
My feet come to a screeching halt, and I swallow my words, staring at Leandra standing across from me by the open window, the morning breeze ruffling through her hair. There’s no stopping my gaze from wandering down, my brows pulled together as I take her in. The cream, solid-colored dress flows down her body—the deep V dipping low between her breasts and the fabric hugging her chest tight before it curtains into a flare around her waist. Her calves are accentuated with nude heels, the seam of the dress draped below her knees. I’m a lot of fucking things, but I’m not a man blind to beauty. The woman standing in front of me now is not the girl I took from that shitty apartment. It’s not the girl I brought here and watched soak in the riches and wealth of my life that is a thousand lightyears away from hers.
And all I can think about now is ripping that dress off so I can give her what I know she really wants. My cock, and to be my pretty little plaything…and a complication I don’t need right now.
I slip my hands inside my pants pockets, hating that I find her beautiful, and determined to remain indifferent to the change I so blatantly see.
“You’re dressed.” I state the fucking obvious. “Mirabella’s?”
She nods then brushes her finger through the soft tresses cascading down her shoulders. “I should look the part, right? I don’t think a pair of tights and sneakers is what a Del Rossa wife would wear.”
“Yesterday, you wore a wedding dress worth thousands, and yet today you look…different.” Confusion makes me frown. “Why is that?”
She simply shrugs, the deep pools of amber liquid in her eyes luring me closer, and my cock stirs, making it hard to pretend like I’m detached and un-fucking-interested. I inch close enough to smell her familiar scent—annoyed by the fact that I’m relieved she didn’t change her perfume as well. I tilt my head, and for a second, I watch the vein in her neck beat like crazy before my eyes flit up to meet hers. “Did the fantasy of me fucking you suddenly turn you into a woman?”
Her pink lips part, and I smirk, reaching up and easing the back of my hand down the side of her face. “Or is it the ribbons of my cum I shot on your cheek last night?”
“Fuck you,” she spits out between clenched teeth, and all her words do is thicken my cock.
Leaning my head to the side, I study her angered expression. “Did you expect me to come in here and tell you that you look pretty—like the perfect fucking husband I’m supposed to be?”
“I’m trying to fit in.”
“You will never fit in.”
“Then why did you pick me?”
“I picked you because you have nothing. You’re all alone in this fucking world, and should you disappear today,” I inch closer, “no one will miss you.”
I expect to see tears in her eyes, but surprisingly, the only emotion I see is anger as my threat laces around her throat.
“Be a dick to me all you want.” She crosses her arms. “But the fact is you picked me, and you need me. So the way I see it is you have two choices.”
I smirk. “Do I, now?”
“Yes. You do. Either you start treating me like a goddamn human and not some stray dog you dragged in, and I will play the most perfect fucking wife you and your family have ever seen.” The breath of distance between us evaporates as she steps up to me, forcing me to slant my neck down and look at her. “Or keep on treating me like shit, and I’ll make sure I embarrass and humiliate you every goddamn opportunity I get by acting like the stray you insist on treating me as.”
I smirk, finding her sudden ballsy outburst amusing. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course it is. We’re married, Alexius. There’s no turning back now.” She squares her shoulders. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some breakfast.” She shoulders past me, and I close my eyes, savoring her sweet vanilla scent before turning around.
“Make it fast.”
She pivots, and her dress flares around her calves. “Make what fast?”
“Breakfast.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going out.”
“Where are we going?”
“You can’t keep wearing Mira’s clothes for the next six months.”
“You’re taking me shopping?” Her dark brows knit together, and I nod, anticipating her reaction.
“Mirabella can take me.” She places her hand on her hip. “I’m sure you have better things to do than go on a shopping spree with a woman you hate.”
“No.” I bite my lip as I absorb her by letting my gaze drift down her body, admiring the charge of confidence she exudes, dressed to fit the role she has come here to play. “I’m taking you.”
“You don’t—”
“It’s un-fucking-negotiable. Be ready in half an hour.”
There’s an unmissable tension in the room as I walk out, almost like there’s a flicker threatening to ignite into a fiery blaze. It’s in my bones, and I know she feels it, too. Last night was proof of that, the way she played our little game so perfectly, not because I told her to, but because she wanted to.
The girl from the other side of the tracks. My wife.
