Page 81 of Hostile Vows
“But if I get pregnant, wouldn’t that keep everyone safe? You wouldn’t have to worry about him coming for us… or taking Miami.”
Every muscle in his body goes rigid beneath me. “He can come for Miami if he thinks he’s capable, but what he won’t come for is our kid. He’s not ourfamilia.Sapori has burned his bridges with the Souzas. And when I put a baby in your belly, it’ll be our decision, not his. I don’t take orders from anyone or bow down to threats. War is on the horizon, Sinéad.”
31
SINÉAD
Dawn transitioned into late afternoon.
I’d slept soundly for the first time since leaving Ireland. Upon waking, I wasn’t entirely sure if his strong arms had offered the sense of protection through those peaceful hours, or if it was sheer exhaustion that took over.
When I blinked awake, he was right there with his thick ebony eyelashes, swarthy soft skin, coarse, unshaved hairs on a strong jaw. His features were relaxed while he lay there. His dark eyes drilled into mine when my head tilted to study him. Perhaps it was the deep rest, or the sight of him, that made me feel more like myself again; nevertheless, I’d woken with a freshness of mind and only a dull, lingering headache.
After he had announced his plans for the day, which was making important calls in his office, one of which would be arranging for the doctor to check me over again, he disappeared, only to return with breakfast in bed. The rare smile he gifted me with is playful—but mostly erotic. I swear he’s thinking of all sorts of sordid and delicious ways to torture me.
Sitting on the big bed together, we eat messily divided banana sandwiches. Once I’ve finished eating, he gently places his hands around my skull, caging it with his long fingers and kisses me, hard. He pours all his dark desires into it, nibbling, sucking, and fucking my mouth with his wicked tongue.
The realization that I’m enjoying it, that I’ve never been a slave to a person's lips before, unsettles me. I crave André’s control, even if I never quite know how long the ground beneath my feet will remain balanced for.
When I let a hungry groan slip, I push my hands against his chest to hide the shameful desperation and show him that I can’t be manipulated at every turn. The man who kisses me like he wants to crawl inside of me and stamp his mark of ownership on every cell in my body revealed his lethal demon to me not so long ago. And that side of my husband troubles me.
He stills, considering whether to obey his urges or acknowledge my need to break away. His fingers capture the sheet covering my legs and just as I think he’s going to yank it off me, he lets go. I suck in a breath of disappointment, secretly wishing the hot-blooded impulses vibrating from his inked skin would cover me in ways I’ve yet to experience.
Tension mounts between us when he moves back and stands upright, his girthy arousal so very angry in its full glory. Sinewy legs stiffen where he waits, coiled with dominance as if he’s a heartbeat away from giving in to filthy whims. The sexy expression he wears darkens despite the sunlight kissing every dip of his muscular abdomen. He’s not angry that I pushed him away—he’s turned on.
Electricity prickles my skin. The entirety of his restraint fills the room with an unbearable heat. He’s holding back to prove the monster I’d met in his office can wear a leash.
While he masters his needs, to put mine over his, my core clenches and every inch of me aches for his rough touch. Wetness blooms between my thighs, verifying my own horniness. I crave the twisted shadows in his stare more than the power of his self-discipline.
His danger is my weakness, the chink in my morality, and the indestructible link from the chains we somehow assembled together in the pages of history.
I scoot across the bed and sit before him, my eyes in line with the throbbing vein winding its way up his shaft like a tireless lightning bolt.
“Your wife wants to taste your cum.” His nostrils flare and his throat works as he swallows. “And for the record…” My fingers skim the silky soft skin of his dick. “I don’t need your permission because this… this belongs to me.”
His eyes flash with violence and lust. Impure notions and dominance. I don’t get the chance to speak another word when his fingers delve into my hair, and he syncs our gazes—locked and starved.
He dips into my face, his spine arched and his timbre hoarse with maddening desire.
“You’re right. My dick is yours to spit on, choke on, and sit on as your queenly fucking throne.” Locks of messy hair tease his forehead and his voice becomes one with the brewing torment inside of us both. “Touch it. Suck it. Bite it. Fucking own it, Wifey.”
When he straightens, I cup his balls and squeeze hard, the tight skin so hot in my hand. He grits out a horny growl and a trickle of pre-cum escapes the smooth tip. Knowing exactly what makes my husband tick, my daring fingers ramble over the hairy sacks and wrap the base of his smooth shaft, each one of them forming a ruthless fist to twist and pump in our version of savage foreplay.
“What about your head… still sore?” he bites out. “I don’t want to fuck this pretty little mouth if you can’t handle it today.” A thumb sweeps my bottom lip, his searching eyes thoughtful.
“I’m a Souza, right? I rise after I fall. I can handle you, Husband.”
Predatory need tightens his features, and an unspoken emotion passes between us while I torture him. It’s an appreciation of something inexplicable and authentic. An undeniable awareness of this unique armistice we’ve somehow fallen into. Our acceptance of the fire that burns so deeply in me, meeting the flames that exist within him. Together, the blazing inferno births a lustful beast that neither of us can escape.
I continue to wring his dick, stroking him viciously, binding our gazes from under my lashes. He rakes five fingers through his damp hair and then seizes my wrist. “Suck it. Fucking suck it, Sin,” he rasps, on the cusp of impatience.
His hips thrust forward to bring the swollen head closer to my wet lips. The length of it forcefully injects past my teeth and drives deep into my throat. My nails claw at his hips when my stomach heaves and saliva leaks in stringy ribbons from around the edges.
His hold imprisons me in place, the snarl of his satisfaction charging through me. Tilting his head to observe me, he stops thrusting for a second and withdraws. I gasp for air.
We share a moment of heaving chests and contemplation. Beneath the complex lust living in his eyes, something else lurks—a hint of real emotion, implicit truths, and sentimental memories. Innocent echoes of this passionate duo before the world had ripped us apart.
After a heartbeat, he thrusts back inside my throat, deep and possessive.
