Page 37 of Wicked Sinner
She’s wearing something I bought for her.
“That looks nice on you.” I set down the breakfast tray—scrambled eggs with Havarti cheese, blueberry sausages, orange juice, and a side of fruit—and try not to let my eyes drag over her the way I want to. It feels almost impossible. Her long, smooth, toned legs are on display, lightly tanned. I can imagine running my hands down them, gripping her calves, her thighs, spreading her legs open for me again. My cock twitches and thickens, and I clear my throat, noticing that the shopping bags are empty and folded next to the chair, and the garment bags are gone. “Did you put all the clothes up?”
Bridget draws in a breath and nods.
“I could have had someone do that for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” Her voice is crisp and cutting, without an ounce of emotion in it. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, Caesar.”
“I know you can.” I run a hand through my hair. “That doesn’t mean you have to.”
She looks at me without saying a word, and I can feel the tension building. Every time I'm in the same room with her, the air crackles with electricity. Every touch, every heated exchange only serves to remind us both of what happened between us that night in her garage.
Even right now, I can see that she’s trying not to look at me for too long, trying not to let me see that she wants me. I can see her breath catch, see the flutter of her pulse. I’ve seen the way her eyes linger on my mouth for a moment, even when we’re arguing. But she hates herself for wanting me—as much as she hatesme, maybe—and that self-hatred only makes her more determined to resist.
I let out a breath. I don’t have the energy for another fight this morning. I have a dinner to go to tonight, one that will involve the women that Konstantin has put in front of me as options, and I’m exhausted. But even so, looking at Bridget, I can feel the coil of arousal up my spine, my body instantly reacting to her.
She sits there, unmoving and unspeaking, and my jaw tightens. Before I can say something that will set her off again, I back out of the room and close the door, retreating to my own bedroom with a near-painful erection just from being in the same fucking room as her.
I close the door with a groan, shedding my clothes and heading for the shower. The tip of my cock brushes against my stomach, leaving a trail of pre-cum against the taut skin, and I wrap my hand around it as I turn on the hot water, unable to go without touching myself for even another moment.
It’s fucking hell, having her in this apartment and not being able to touch her. Knowing every night that she’s a few feet down the hall, waking in the morning aroused and wanting her, and having to fuck my own hand instead of her. I could find someone else to ease it—but I don’t fuckingwantto. It feels like nothing could compare. Like any woman I could take home from a bar would pale after what I experienced with Bridget that night.
I’ve never come so hard. Never felt lust like that, or pleasure so intense. Whatever there is between us, I crave more of it—and yet now that she’s closer to me than she’s ever been, I can’t touch her without making myself into a monster.
The irony is painful.
I run my hand over my cock, thumbing the piercings as I groan through my teeth and step into the shower. I should bring someone home, I think bitterly. I should bring a woman back here and fuck her until she screams, let Bridget hear what she’s missing. Remind her of what it felt like to have my cock insideof her—I run my thumb over the piercing in the tip, playing with it as my arousal builds, and I remember her tongue against it, teasing.
A throb of pleasure races up my spine, my climax suddenly looming before I’ve even barely begun, and the thought of fucking anyone else feels abhorrent. I want Bridget. I want her tongue playing with me again, her fingers exploring me, her perfect, tight pussy wrapped around my length. She was so fucking wet for me that night—I can imagine that if I slipped my hand between her legs during any of our arguments, she’d be just as wet.
My cock throbs, pre-cum spilling from the tip, and I stroke faster, harder, the metal piercings rubbing against my palm as I brace one hand against the tile and fuck my fist the way I want to fuck the woman in my guest room. The way I fucked her that first night?—
A hiss of pleasure escapes through my teeth, a groan rumbling in my chest as I feel that white heat snake up my spine, twisting as my balls tighten and I feel the rushing pleasure of my climax hit. My fingers curl against the tiles as my cum spurts against the shower wall, throb after throb of release drawing a moan from between my clenched teeth.
It feels good—but not as good as she did. Nothing is ever going to feel as good, I can’t help but think, as I run my hand along my softening length. She’s ruined me for any other woman, but I think I ruined her, too. IknowI did.
Iknowthere’s no other man on earth who can make her come the way I did, and I know she knows it. She just doesn’t want to admit it.
If she admits that there was something between us, she’d have to admit that we could have a future together. Something that could make us both happy. And she’s too angry at me right now to even consider giving that a chance.
I sigh, tipping my head back under the water, and try to push Bridget out of my head for the time being. Nothing is going to get accomplished today. She yelled at me endlessly before, and now she’s trying the silent treatment.After the doctor comes to see her, I’ll try to discuss this all again, thenI'll tell myself. It’ll be a couple more days, and then, after the doctor’s appointment, it will all feel more real to her. Maybe then it will be easier to get her to talk about the future rationally.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dried off and dressed, and head downstairs to work on getting through some of the paperwork stacked on my desk. I ask Marco to take Bridget her lunch, and he reports back that she didn’t throw it at him, which seems like progress. Between that and her actually wearing one of the outfits I purchased for her, my mood lifts—enough that I’m not as irritable by the time I need to get ready for dinner tonight.
Dinner is at Le Jardinier, a Michelin-starred restaurant that Konstantin has reserved private tables for us. I’m escorted back by the hostess, where I see that Konstantin and Tristan are already seated, with both of their wives sitting next to them. They’re both utterly gorgeous—dark-haired women who look at me with an expression that says neither of them is all that impressed. Isabella and Catherine are already seated as well—Isabella is wearing another red dress, this one shorter and tighter, and Catherine is wearing slim-cut black trousers and a cream-colored silk blouse with a bow at her throat.
I sit down across from Konstantin, and a moment later, the third woman is escorted in—Elisa. She’s wearing a blue sundress that’s long enough to be appropriate but flatters her beautifully, and I can feel the rising tension in the room as the three women look at each other, and Konstantin looks at me.
The weight of expectation in this room feels almost crushing. I’m no closer to finding a solution to evading this, and I knowKonstantin is using this like a chessboard, trying to maneuver me into a position that suits both him and the other bosses best.
I’ve never been one to be easily maneuvered, though. And I don’t appreciate being used.
Konstantin introduces his wife, Valentina, and Tristan his, Simone. There’s small talk among everyone for a little while, as wine is poured and appetizers are brought in—the dinner was arranged ahead of time, with a tasting menu from the chef. I hear Simone discussing an upcoming gala with Isabella, and Valentina talking about real estate with Elisa. I glance over to see Catherine looking at me, and force a polite smile onto my face.
“Are you staying in Miami for the time being, then?” I ask, remembering that she said her family was based in South Carolina. She nods, delicately piercing a roasted cherry tomato with her fork.
“My father headed home yesterday. But I’m here for a while, staying in a lovely hotel room.” There’s nothing inviting in her tone—she’s not suggesting that I come visit it—I can tell that much. This is a woman, I think, who is too intelligent to do anything but keep her future husband’s lust in check until she has him locked down. “I’ll be here for a couple more weeks, I think.”
