Page 25 of The Hitch
Apparently, a mind-blowing orgasm isn't enough to calm her down. She's back to blinding rage as she scampers across the floor, away from me, but all I can see is my cum dripping down her thighs. I've no idea what happened to the bodice of her dress—it must have been torn away in the frenzy. She's goddamn gorgeous, though, and I have to convince myself to stop blatantly staring.
"Exactly what I said, love. You signed a contract. The contract includes bearing me an heir. Thus, I need to breed you. Did you… not know whatheirmeant?" I cock my head to the side and rake my eyes down her soft figure. Even in the moonlight, she's absolutely stunning. Her heavy breasts splay atop her heaven-soft stomach, leading down to the full curves of her thighs.
"Youdruggedme! Of course I don't fucking remember what I signed!" Melody barks at me, yanking the charcoal gray duvet from my bed and wrapping it around herself.
"Semantics, love." I shove my cock back into my pants and stand, holding out a hand to her. She looks at it like I might strangle her. The thought has occurred to me, of course, but I don't think any good would come of it now. "You've had a long day. Why don't you come to bed with me, hmm?"
"Oh, fuck that. I saw all the bedrooms you have—if you're forcing me into this, I'll take one of those." She wraps the duvet around herself tighter and throws her head back, glaring at me with those beautiful brown eyes.
"Force is such an ugly word. I prefer the phrase,strongly encourage." I smile. "But no, you will not take one of those. I intend to havemywife inmybed."
"I'm not your fucking wife, dickhead." She grabs a lamp from my dresser and tosses it to the floor.
"Legally, you are. You are Melody Isabella Lyons, and I am ahappilymarried man." I inspect my nails as she works throughher rage. If anything, I might need to give her a little space in the basement. Somewhere for her to take out her frustration on inanimate objects thatweren'thand-selected by the best interior design team in the state.
I whip out my phone and shut down all the locks in the house. If she can fight her way to another room, I'll let her sleep there… tonight. Tonightonly.
And it seems she's taken full advantage of my distraction. Melody whips by me in a blur, sprinting down the hall. I sigh and send a text to Roman.
Trouble in paradise, my friend. Medical intervention required.
ETA three minutes.
I rub my forehead. It seems she's a little more feisty than I bargained for.
Roman arrived within two minutes because he's a goddamn professional. With Melody successfully subdued, he gives her a once-over in her undressed state and raises an eyebrow at me.
"It was worth it, I assure you." I grin, and he huffs out an exasperated breath.
"I mean no disrespect, sir, but will this be a regular thing? Will I need to be on hand for further… requirements… every night?"
I ponder the subject. "Hmm. No, I don't think so. Not if you teach me the proper technique, of course."
He nods and whips out his phone, no doubt texting the rest of the team for further supplies. I take one last look at Melody, peacefully sleeping in our bed. She looks so innocent like this.Like she didn't just destroy half of the luxury furnishings of my home. Don't judge books by their covers, or whatever the saying is.
Together, Roman and I head to the living room and settle into our usual spots. He flicks a shard of broken ceramic from the shoulder of his suit.
"So, whatisthe plan, now?" he asks.
"Same as it has been. Get what I need from her. Assume my rightful place. And, once there's a living child—or the three years is up—dispose of her." I reach for the whiskey glass and pour myself a healthy inch. Roman grunts appreciatively as I do the same for him.
"Just like that?" He reaches for the glass.
"Just like that."
Melody
Iwake with a start, wrapped in buttery soft sheets. The faint scent of sandalwood and sage tickles my nose, and I reach up to rub it, but my hand smacks me in the face. Mother fuck. I hiss in annoyance, and something beside me stirs.
Wait, what?
Beside me is that asshole in a suit—except he's not in a suit. The gray duvet is tossed aside, wrapped around me, and his torso is on display. And what a fucking display it is. I've neverdated a gym rat, but I imagine his body is what they aspire to. Lean muscle and six—six!!—abs, all covered in his weird tattoos.
Faces. So many faces. All of them slightly distorted, as if someone ran their hand through a wet oil painting. Men and women of all races, shapes, sizes. His neck is nearly blacked out with thin tendrils toward his jaw. I rake my gaze down to those skeletal hands, a rich black between each and every outlined bone. He looks like the fucking Grim Reaper if the Grim Reaper had to take a job in porn.
I flick my gaze back up to his face and scrunch my nose. I never noticed it before, but he has a tiny smattering of freckles. They're very light, just a shade or two darker than his minimal tan. All in all, he looks… sinfully good.
And then it hits me.
