She was back to avoiding me, refusing to make food for me even if she was cooking for herself, and stubbornly falling asleep on the couch, making me carry her back to bed every night. While she hissed and scratched and demanded I put her down.
“It’s not fair, that’s all I’m saying,” Dawson griped as he made himself a cup of coffee.
See, Isabella had let her resentment spread outward, getting pissed not only at me, but at all my brothers and guards who she saw in complicit as her “imprisonment.”
So she wouldn’t talk to them anymore.
And, which was what was upsetting Dawson right then, she wouldn’t cook for them anymore either.
I didn’t really care that much about Dawson’s problems, but I was starting to get some real concerns over the way Isabella was isolating herself even more.
I knew a surefire way to lift her mood was to let her sister visit again. But I also knew that if I let Mira come over, I would be in a world of shit with the Costas when they got wind of Isabella being in lockdown.
It was a lose-lose for me.
So even though it would have been good for my wife—and an increasing part of me was constantly preoccupied with what would make her life better—I had to hold myself back.
“Is she really not going to come out of her room?” Dulles asked, glancing up toward the master bedroom.
It was almost eleven. My brothers had shown up around six, before Isabella had even gotten a chance to come down for her morning coffee.
She had to be dying for it. And starving too.
But she was too damn stubborn to willingly walk around by my brothers or me.
“She’s really not,” I said, walking over to the coffee machine and making her a cup.
Maybe she hated me, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. And while I did firmly believe I was doing what was best for her, I didn’t like that she was so unhappy.
Women, I figured, appreciated small gestures.
Even when they were being fucking stubborn asses.
So I was going to bring her some coffee since we were still waiting for Vissi and Terzo to show up, so we could discuss some possible threats.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, motioning with the cup.
To that, I got nods as I made my way upstairs, surprised when I didn’t find her in the bed.
Curious, I moved through the cracked door to the bathroom.
And promptly froze.
Because there she was in the shower, half-bent forward, her face in her hands, sobbing.
Sobbing.
I wasn’t a gentle man.
I wasn’t soft when it came to emotions.
I’d never been moved by the sight of a woman’s tears before.
But something about the sight of her right then, crying in the shower to muffle the sounds, yeah, that shit got through to me.
I didn’t even stop to undress, just placed the mug on the counter, then moved into the shower enclosure, grabbing the back of her neck, and pulling her against my chest before she could register that I was even there.
She stiffened immediately, not wanting to accept comfort from someone who was the cause of all her tears, but I wrapped my other arm around her back, keeping her crushed to me as she put up a bit of a fight before just melting into me, burying her face in my chest, and letting out a choked sob.
“I’m sorry you’re so unhappy,” I murmured, arm tightening around her as my other hand massaged the back of her neck. “That was never my intention,” I added. Hearing her snort, I couldn’t help but feel my lips twitch. Even crying into my chest, she found it in her to be annoyed with me. “It wasn’t. I’ve tried to give you a good life here, Isabella. There are just some situations that are out of my control. And I can’t put you at risk.”
“Heaven forbid your little white flag gets killed and voids your peace treaty,” she grumbled, sniffling hard, trying to pull herself together.
“It’s not that.”
“Of course it is that.”
“Isabella, it’s not,” I insisted, my hand moving from the back of her neck to her chin, yanking it up so she had to look at me. “You’re my wife.”
“It’s a sham marriage,” she insisted through a quivering lower lip. Her eyelids were swollen, and the whites of her eyes bright red. Like she’d been crying for a long time before I happened upon her.
“It’s not,” I insisted.
“Bullshit. You’re not a real husband.”
“Not a real husband,” I repeated as I pressed her back against the wall, holding my hand on her shoulder, keeping her in place. “Do I not provide for you like a husband should? Do I not give you a home and food and anything you want to buy? Do I not protect you?” I asked, feeling my anger start to bubble up at the defiant look on her face, knowing she was going to say something snarky, something that was going to set me off, then set her off, and it was going to blow up in our faces.
Yet again.
“Do I not please you like a husband should?” I added, my voice dropping low and suggestive, watching as the surprise, then the rush of heat filled her eyes.
“You don’t—“ she started, cutting off when I suddenly dropped down on my knees in front of her, grabbing her knee, yanking it up, and pinning it to the wall as my tongue traced up her cleft, feeling the way her thighs shook at the unexpected contact.
My head angled up, eyes watching her as my tongue moved out to trace over her clit. I watched as she tried to erect those walls she wanted to keep between us, but then also as they promptly tumbled as she took a slow, deep breath that ended on a little mewling noise as my tongue continued to work her clit.
Knowing she wasn’t going to try to push me away, I ducked my head and focused, licking and sucking her clit until her hands slammed down only my head, holding me tightly against her as her hips rocked impatiently.
I pressed two fingers inside her tight, hot, dripping pussy, trying to keep the focus on her, not what it would feel like to be buried inside her once again.
She was quick, though. Just a moment after her thighs started to shake and her walls tightened around my fingers, the orgasm was slamming through her system, leaving her crying out for me.
I couldn’t be the good, selfless guy right then.
Hell, I could barely get my cock out of my pants in my desperation to feel her around me again.
Her eyes opened as a gasp escaped her, surprise and pleasure fighting for dominance on her face.
“If you tell me you don’t like how my cock feels right now,” I said, jerking my hips upward into her, “I will stop,” I said. Even if it would kill me, and it almost felt like it might.
“I… I…” she started, breath fast and erratic as soft little sounds escaped her.
“You can’t, can you?” I asked, jerking up into her just a little harder. “You fucking love how this feels, don’t you?” I asked, my hand going around her throat, not cutting off any air, just holding there.
“I…”
“Say it,” I demanded.
“Yes,” she said as her fingernails sank into my shoulder as she held on.
“No, lamb,” I said, shaking my head. “Tell me you love my cock in your pussy.”
A whimpering sound escaped her. “I love your cock inside me,” she admitted, as if there was any way she could deny it as her hips started to drop down on each of my upward thrusts.