I step back. “That’s Julia’s perfume.” It’s faint and maybe it’s the pregnancy that has amped up my sense of smell but, I’m sure. And something about it gets my hackles up.
He seems surprised by my comment and it takes him a minute to reply. “I ran into her when I returned your phone.” He walks around me to the door that connects our rooms, moves into his.
I follow him. “What do you mean you ran into her?”
He strips off his jacket and undoes his tie, tossing it aside. He unbuttons the top buttons and cuffs of his shirt before pulling it out of his pants and over his head. He tosses that onto the bed too, slips off his shoes and walks toward the bathroom.
“I mean, I went to return your phone and tell your brother there would be no more contact between you and them. But he wasn’t home. She was.” He switches on the shower and undoes his belt, turning to me. “You’re not jealous, are you? Is there lipstick on my collar?”
“Why would there be lipstick on your collar?” I sound defensive and angry. Or maybe that’s jealousy. I realize my arms are folded across my chest so I drop them.
He grins, satisfied.
I shake my head. “You dick. I’m not jealous. I just don’t understand why her perfume would be clinging to you.”
He raises his eyebrows and steps toward me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “She’s not my type. You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m not… Jesus! What is wrong with you?” I shove at his chest, but he tightens his grip.
“Besides, you’re my type. And you’re my wife. Not to mention you are carrying my child. You’re the only woman I’m interested in fucking.”
I shove again. “You’re welcome to go fuck every woman at the Cat House if that’s what you want. Just as long as you leave me alone!”
“I don’t think you mean that.”
“Oh, I do.”
“Shall I prove it?”
“Fuck off!”
He grins and, keeping his arm around my waist, reaches into the shower to switch off the water. He lifts me, carrying me into the bedroom where he deposits me on the edge of the bed. With a nudge of two fingers on my chest he has me on my back. He pushes my dress up and slips my panties off.
“What are you doing?” I sit up as he crouches down, his face at my sex.
“Eating your pussy,” he replies and before I can open my mouth to protest, he tugs me to the very edge of the bed, his mouth finds my center and I can’t think. All I can do is feel his wet, hot tongue expertly licking my clit. His hands spread my thighs wider as he slips two fingers inside, then closes his mouth over the swelling nub and sucks.
“Oh. God.”
He pauses to look up at me. “Jericho will do.” He grins, then nudges me back so I’m lying down again, lifting my thighs over his shoulders. It’s only moments before I’m gasping for breath. Before my fingers are knotted in his hair and I’m coming.
I’m limp by the time it’s over. He stands, looks down at me, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He strips off the rest of his clothes and I can see how hard he is. He sets one knee on the bed and takes his cock in hand, leaning over me, jerking himself off.
“See what I mean?” he asks, kissing me then pulling back, eyes moving over my body.
“I hate you,” I tell him.
“If only you meant that.”
With his free hand he shoves my dress up to expose my breasts clad in a lace bra. He’s rough when he takes first my right breast out of the cup and then the left, letting the lace collect beneath my tender, swollen breasts.
“Come here,” he says, cupping the back of my head. He lifts me to sit, coming close enough that I know what he wants. Or I think I do, until his fingers tighten in my hair and he’s tugging my head back. “Who invited Zeke?”
“What?”
“Who invited Zeke for cake?”
“I… Angelique.”
“It wasn’t you?”
I try to shake my head but can’t because of his grip in my hair.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He loosens his hold.
“Good. Because you’re not his. You’re mine. The sooner you understand that, the better.”
He releases me and I drop to my elbows. He draws back, looks at my spread legs. At my sex. I’m dripping because I want more than his mouth. I want him inside me.
“You want to come again, don’t you?” he asks.
I bite my lip in answer. I want to tell him I hate him, but I don’t. There’s time enough for that. Right now, I want to come.
He grins, grips my thighs and when he pushes his cock inside me, I grab hold of his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. The way he moves inside me, the way he makes me feel, I can’t think when he’s looking at me like this. When he’s fucking me like this.
“Come, Isabelle. Come on my cock so I can come all over you.”
I do. I hate myself for it, but I do right on command. He watches and he’s still hard, thrusting, so when my body goes limp, he pulls out, grips his cock and thrusts twice more in the palm of his hand before he comes. I watch it happen. Watch how all the muscles in his face and body tense before I shift my gaze to the tight grip on his cock. I can’t drag my eyes away as he marks me, my stomach, my chest, my breasts. He places one hand on the bed as he bends over me, squeezing out the last of his orgasm, his breathing ragged, eyes closed. When he’s finished, he opens his eyes, straightens, and looks at the mess he’s made. He sets the flat of one hand on my stomach and rubs his come into my skin, over my breasts, down to the V between my legs.
I watch him do this, watch him cover me with it, his scent, him. He’s marking me. As if the tattoo on my back isn’t enough. When he’s finished, he looks down at me. At what he’s done. He nods once and turns to walk back into the bathroom. A moment later I hear the shower turn on.
I lift to my elbows and look at myself. I’m his. His in every way. I get to my feet, my legs wobbly. I strip off my dress and follow him into the bathroom. He’s not surprised when I step into the shower. When I step right up to him.
He cocks his head to the side, studies me for a long moment before wrapping a hand around the back of my skull and kissing me.
There’s nothing tender in that kiss. It’s another marking. His. I’m his. And I want to leave my mark too. When I dig my nails into his back and drag them down, his body tenses momentarily but then he tugs me closer. He kisses me harder. When we’re done, when he’s done kissing me, when I’m done scratching my nails down his back, he washes us both and then switches off the water. He wraps me in a towel, then himself and without a word we walk out of the bathroom and get dressed. It’s like this strange moment didn’t happen when we go downstairs to have lunch and get ready to take Angelique to story-time at the bookstore, and then to a cake shop.
Like we’re a family. A family where my husband wraps his hand around the nape of my neck to remind me he is in control. To keep me within arm’s reach. As if I could ever forget that I’m his.
6
Jericho
For the first time in her life, we take Angelique to story time at a bookstore. Angelique sits on the carpet, Baby Bear on her lap, forming a circle with a dozen other kids. They’re all roughly her age. We’re in the children’s book section of a small bookshop. A Thomas the Tank Engine table stacked with toy trains in a village sits in the corner. We’re surrounded by the vibrant colors of stuffed animals, toys and books as well as an elaborate mural of a fairy tale world along the far wall. The children’s section is in the back of the bookstore. I hover at the arched entry between it and the rest of the shop. My mother and Isabelle sit near Angelique and listen to the woman reading the story.