Page 114 of Bad Bishop
Was it healthy for me to spend a few hours each night dedicated to the sole purpose of making my wife scream with pleasure? Doubt it. But it was fun. And fun was a concept foreign to me before Lila brought her sweet little cunt into my life.
“You gonna sulk much longer?” I momentarily tore my eyes from the road so she could read my lips. Her gaze was fixed on her window, and I knew she saw me in her periphery and decided to give me the silent treatment.
Was it nice that I denied her an orgasm this morning? No.
Was it the end of the fucking world? Also no.
Lila started making demands I never agreed to fulfill. Like giving her a full report of where I was, when, and for how long. Not only was it not in my nature to accommodate this kind of fuckery, but it wasn’t safe for her to know the details most of the time.
Granted, there were nicer ways to get my point across than leaving her high and dry.
Too bad I wasn’t feeling very nice at all. Especially when I was reminded of the baby in her belly.
Her pregnant stomach stood between us at all times, reminding me someone else touched what was mine, spilled his seed inside her.
We drove through mundane traffic and arrived at the Ferrantes’ gated community. By the heavy patrols and snipers, I gathered the Keatons were already here.
I parked at the fountain, surrounded by bulletproof vehicles the size of a house. I rounded the vehicle to open the door for my wife, who ignored my outstretched hand and strutted out on three-inch pink bottomed heels. Her bum was magnificent, her hair so soft I wanted to be buried inside it, and I resisted biting my fist as I followed her, swelling inside my slacks.
Servants opened the doors for us, and we were led to the candlelit drawing room, where champagne glasses were clanking. Antique furniture bathed in soft golden hues. Classical music floated from the surround system. Yet another luxury Lila couldn’t enjoy.
I detected President Keaton sitting with Vello and Luca in the far corner of the room, engaged in conversation. Francesca, his wife, was draped across his lap. It was a tacky look for a president and a first lady. And yet it was clear the Keatons didn’t spare one bleeding fuck what the world thought about them.
Chiara stood with Enzo. Achilles, Tierney, Sam, and Sofia were on the opposite side of the room.
I assessed Aisling Brennan. She had long black hair and sharp, elfin features. She was by no means a great beauty, but I suppose with her being a doctor and one of the richest heiresses in the States, Sam could swallow the disappointment.
If he felt such disappointment at all. He stared at her as though she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
Which, of course, couldn’t be true, because my wife walked in a few moments ago.
Speaking of,wherewas my little silvery moon?
I turned my head to watch her make her way to her mother with confidence I knew she didn’t possess. That never stopped Lila from facing her problems, though.
She signed to her mother, “Happy birthday,” and handed her the gift I’d purchased earlier in the day: a hand-painted majolica ewer dating back to 1870 Naples. It was beautiful and rare and obscenely expensive, just like my wife. Much like her, it was obtained in a less-than-kosher way.
I could’ve gotten my mother-in-law a piece of expensive tacky jewelry. But if her relationship with my wife was salvageable, I wanted to try fixing it.
Chiara thanked her coolly and turned back to Enzo. Luckily, the latter had the good sense to gather his sister in a warm hug.
I watched as his hand rested on the small of her back, a burning sensation slithering up my spine.
I knew he was her brother.
I didn’t care.
I did not like people touching my things. And I especially didn’t like it when said thing was my wife.
I contemplated saving Lila from the awkward conversation with her mother—or at least redirect any hostile fire my way—but then remembered I had my own pressing matters to tend to and sauntered over to Brennan instead, plucking champagne from a server with a silver tray on my way there.
“Callaghan.”
“Brennan.”
“Meet my wife, Aisling.”
“Pleasure,” I lied. I didn’t shake her hand. I was fond of my wrist and had an inkling Sam, like me, wasn’t a fan of others touching his woman.
