The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(88)

"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 sweatshirt—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.