Page 22 of Hostile Vows
Gravity follows the weightlessness of movement, and he slams my ass onto the silver-veined marble countertop of a colossal entertainment-sized peninsula.
The effortless way he manhandles me into position to suit his whimsy mood rattles me to the core. I thump his chest in a pointless show of resilience. He snares my wrists quicker than a viper attacks and wedges himself between my knees.
“Tell me to fuck off one more time…” He secures my hands behind my back, which brings his solid torso closer. A faint haze of sandalwood cologne still clings to his skin. “… and I’ll bend you over this kitchen island, grease my dick with butter, and slide it into your tight little ass.” His voice slips to the darkest corners of the earth.
His carbon-colored eyes take on a life of their own, blending with enlarged pupils, so a haunting fluidity swirls like perpetual tornadoes.
“You’re disgusting.” The vertebrae in my spine lock, simultaneously brushing my traitorous nipples against the fabric of the enormous cotton t-shirt I’m wearing.
“And you’re wondering how good it would feel.” He uncuffs my wrists, a half smile denting his cheek in an erotic and utterly infuriating way.
“I am not,” I whisper-hiss, forcing conviction. “I’m actually wondering how far your ego stretches.”
On my last word, large hands lock on my bare skin, the expanse of his masculine fingers gripping my thighs like hooks. I flinch, swallow, and instantly look down at the designs coming alive as the veins on the tops of his hands protrude.
A blood-red signet ring hugs his pinky finger, looking out of place beside his diamond wedding band. The one ring that links me to him by vows.
I squirm in vain. It's impossible to break away from a man of his influence. “Can you give me some space?” I growl, tilting backward. “You're crowding me. It’s suffocating.”
But he has me trapped on the countertop, unable to snap my legs shut because his unmovable physique is glued in place before me. The naked, notorious criminal who runs organized crime circles has me cornered in his kitchen.
“You shouldn’t fight against me, Wifey.” The hoarse way he pronounces my pet name, with its singsong depth and gritty rasp, is downright filthy.
His expression strains, a grimace tightening those pillowy lips of his. “I’m trying very hard to be on my best behavior for you. As I’ve grown older, my patience threshold has drastically reduced.” The bite of his statement erases every trace of friendliness. “Because of our past, I’ll go easy on you. But if you refuse to think of this place as your home, I’ll fuck you in every room, on every surface, and in front of every single window until it’s imprinted on you. And there are a lot of windows.”
“You shouldn’t have married me.” I struggle against him, not ready to give up the fight. “You could have helped me get me away from Frankie and then sent me back to Ireland. Only that’s what the old André would have done. He wasn’t conceited. But, oh no… this version of you had to flaunt your authority like an evil drug lord.”
The tips of his fingers dig deeper, hunting for a reaction from me. I mentally count to ten, hoping it would serve as a distraction to the double-crossing flutters in my belly. “I see myself as…” he states, pausing to hum in thought for a split second, “… as a dark knight. The hero in your story as it happens.”
“A knight?” I roll my eyes. “You're the villain, Dré. The bad guy who would fuck his own ass if it was physically possible.”
He laughs—a dangerously dirty rumble from deep within his chest. “My dick belongs inside my wife. Women love villains. It gives them justification for a surrender.”
“I’m nothing like those pitiful, mindless women who want a dominating asshole and his moody temper. I just want to go back to Ireland—alone.”
“Are you trying to piss me off, so I’ll fuck the bitchiness out of you? Is that it?”
“Fu—” I stop myself short of telling him to fuck off, afraid of the consequences. If he forces himself on me, I’d never forgive him.
“Too late for regrets. It’s done,” he continues matter-of-factly. “We’re hitched. You’ll receive the same protection as any other Souza—unless we’re fucking, and then all bets are off.”
A chill whispers through my skeleton. The surface I’m sitting on suddenly feels unbalanced, and every wisp of oxygen I inhale turns glacial. Despite his quick-changing mood, when he flicks the tip of his tongue between his lips, the wintry atmosphere switches to solar-powered heat and my lungs hunt for a breath. My mouth dries, equal parts attraction to irritation. I’m not the type to wilt under a man, nor the kind of woman who’d let herself submit to him either.
I narrow my eyes, my glare flinty. “I’m not interested in fucking you. I’d rather not join the long line of… your ghosts of past fucks, and I certainly won’t become anyone’s whore.”
“Ghosts of past fucks.” His wicked laugh skitters down my spine, the sensation warm and tingly. “I’m not just anyone. I’m the baddest motherfucker you’ll ever get to know up close and personal. And the only man you’ll ever call your husband. Therefore, it’s only fair that you…” His chin lowers, bringing his whiskered mouth closer to mine. “… give me your submission when I command it.”
I’m painfully aware of the traitorous wetness blooming between my thighs, the arousal activated by this frustrating man.
My hands settle in place on the smooth skin of his imperial chest. “I’ll never be who you want me to be.”
“You already are.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, playing it cool even though I’m losing the battle to resist. “This isn’t real, Dré. We want different things. I’m not in love with you. I never will be. You're just like the rest of the merciless gangsters out there. Being a Souza doesn’t change that.”
Thick brows pinch together and his pretty lashes dagger in the direction of my parted lips. “I’m more powerful than any of those fuckers. I give the orders—everyone else obeys. That’s the difference. As for love, that nonsense has nothing to do with it. This is simply an alliance, made easier by the fact we used to be friends. The sooner you accept your role, the easier your life will be.”
I wrap my hands around his wrists and squeeze, hoping he’ll let go. Instead, the pain of his viselike grip intensifies.
