Page 88 of The Rejected Wife

"Wow," she breathes.

I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling doors that open onto the pool. Lowering her until her feet hit the floor, I slide the doors open, and the wall between the inside and the outside disappears. The scent of frangipani blossoms drifts in on the warm breeze. The muted sound of waves in the distance adds to the impression of paradise. The polished teakwood floors are cool beneath my feet, while woven jute rugs add a touch of warmth.

"This is gorgeous." She sighs.

I pull her close, and she leans into my chest.

"Thank you for bringing me here."

I kiss the top of her head. "I’m glad you like it. How about a dip in the pool?"

* * *

I lean back against the side of the infinity pool. The water is just the right temperature. My wife, on the other hand…is smoking hot in the white bikini I bought for her. I reached out to Karma West Sovrano’s team at her atelier. She was one of Europe’s most famous designers, until she passed away three and a half years ago.

Of course, there’s some mystery surrounding her death because Michael, her husband didn’t let anyone see the body. Nor did he hold a funeral. He then whisked away his children to Italy and has since turned recluse. Summer was—and still is—heartbroken. She lost her sister and her sister's children, all at once.

There have been reports in the media that Karma is still alive, but that’s probably wishful thinking. All the speculation has added to her mystique and contributes to the label’s popularity. Because of my relationship with Summer, my needs were prioritized by the atelier.

I gave them Cilla’s measurements, then told them to deliver everything she’d need for our honeymoon. They delivered it to the plane, and it was delivered to our room without Cilla's knowledge. She was shocked when I had her open the trunk—which she was convinced had been mistakenly delivered to the wrong room—and she saw all of the goodies inside. When I saw the bikini, I insisted she wear it, and I have to admit, her curvy figure in that bikini puts my most erotic dreams to shame. It also turns up my need to a fever pitch.

She swims slowly toward me. At the last moment, she changes course and heads toward the edge of the pool a few feet away. She leans back and looks at me from under her spiky lashes. "You’re staring" she says in a low voice.

"You’re beautiful… And a coward."

"A coward?" She scoffs.

"Come 'ere." I crook my finger at her.

"Oh no." She bites down on her lower lip, and of course, my cock wishes her teeth were digging into a completely different part of my anatomy.

"Like I said. Coward." I tilt my chin up in her direction.

"No, I’m not." She frowns.

"Then come on over." I allow a smirk to curve my lips.

She seems entranced by it, then shakes her head. "No, thank you."

She steps up and out. I watch her squeeze the water from her hair. Her bikini sticks to her body. It's one of those barely-there bikinis: triangles of fabric held up by insubstantial ties. She’s a wet dream… Literally.

My dick lengthens, and a pulse springs to life in my balls. Fuck. It’s as if my brain has descended to my cock. When I’m with her, I retreat to the most basic of my instincts. I haul myself up onto the ledge of the pool. When I straighten, the water pours from me and splashes to the ground.

She looks at me over her shoulder. Draws her gaze down my chest to where my cock tents my swimming trunks. Her cheeks turn pink, and it’s not just from the sun. I stalk toward her…slowly…slowly.

She lifts her gaze to mine, and whatever intent she sees in them has her drawing in a sharp breath. She slowly lowers her arms, and her thick, auburn hair falls in ropy strands down her back.

I stop when I’m less than a foot away from her by the sun lounger. I pick up the bottle of sunscreen and take another step in her direction. She freezes. Her lips quiver. Wearing an almost transparent bikini, she resembles a pagan sacrifice.

My muscles tense. My nostrils quiver as I draw in a breath, the scent of her mixed with that of chlorine from the pool and the sunscreen lotion. Hunger digs its claws into my belly. And it’s not for food.Her. I must have her.

Something in my stance must make my intentions clear to her, for she straightens and sets off for the villa.

43

Priscilla

He hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t need to. The tension radiating off him hits me like a blowtorch—raw, searing, impossible to ignore.

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