Page 70 of Bitter Poetry
No message notifications sound. Only silence broken by the whisper of her unsteady breathing.
CARMELA
His fingers leave my throat. I miss them and the erotic thrill of subjugation they represented. They slide downward, pausing between my breasts like he’s savoring the wild beat of my heart.
“All you have to do is say stop.”
Strangely, I believe him, that he would.
And I should tell him to stop—this is madness, and one of us needs to find our wits.
I don’t.
And I won’t.
I’ve disassociated before. This is not that. Instead, I remain willfully complicit as his palm slides over my stomach and thighs until it reaches the hem of my gown.
He pauses, waiting to see if I will tell him to stop.
My heart drums inside my ears, but my lips remain sealed.
He uses both hands to slide the silk material up over my knees before pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate movement that kicks off a sweet clench in my core. The material goes higher still, gliding over my thighs until it pools at my waist.
I’m drenched. Saturating the silk of my panties. Throbbing with arousal, heightened by the sense of danger and the taboo nature of what we do.
I’m still letting this happen—willfully complicit.
Here on my marital bed, I step out of time, floating in another plane of existence.
The darkened room.
The sound of my breathing.
His fingers pressing the silk of my panties against my heat sucks me back into my body.
He makes a tutting sound, rubbing lightly against the slick material. “You’re very fucking wet for a married woman being touched by a mere soldier in your husband’s employ. This is not for my eyes. He would kill me if he knew. Slowly. Tell me, is that why you’re so filthy wet? Do you get off on violence, Mrs.—”
“Don’t say that name,” I hiss.
His teeth flash in a smirk. “Tell me to stop. I dare you.”
I shake my head frantically.
He continues his slow teasing torment, pressing his fingertips deeper into the entrance to my pussy, forcing the material a small way inside, sending my breathing choppy, and then tugging it away.
There is a moment of resistance as the material clings shamefully to me before it comes free.
“These are filthy, your ladyship. No choice now. They are going to need to come off.”
He peels them down my thighs, leaving a wet smear in their wake, and drops them carelessly to the floor.
I want to blame this on shock, but really, it’s not. He just told me bluntly that he hates me, and I believe him.
I want to hate him too, my jailer, the man my husband pays to ensure my life plays out to his exacting standards—the one whose brother rocked my world and then walked away.
Maybe I do hate him. Maybe I hate the way his rough knuckles glide over my thigh before he brushes them the length of my pussy.
That’s right. I hate this. I hate every glorious, heart-pounding moment that delivers me into joyful, destructive sin.
