Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

R uby

I want to die.

My husband is staring at the fingers he pushed inside of me so violently, so deliciously painfully, forcing an orgasm through my body that shattered me like glass—and now he's sitting here, staring at the evidence of my innocence.

He's quiet behind me. So quiet.

I hadn't thought he'd tear through my virtue with his fingers. If I'd thought such a thing were possible, I never would have allowed what happened just now, to happen.

And the blood—God, the blood.

My belly flips.

He's so still.

Is he angry? Oh, God, please don't let him be angry.

Unable to sit like this any longer when he's so still behind me, my blood-streaked arousal on his fingers, I close my thighs together with a wince and begin to push away from him.

I don't get far. His free arm bands around my waist, pulsing once in a silent command to stay .

My breath lodges in my throat. A dizzying ring sounds between my ears. My heart is a thunderclap in my chest, the blood in my veins striking like lightning.

My eyes burn. There is a stinging itch in my nose.

I think I might cry.

Please don't cry.

"Do you have something you'd like to tell me, wife?" I flinch when he finally speaks, shame flooding me when he parts his two fingers, the string of my arousal dancing in the flickering light of the television before he snaps them closed again.

"I think it's obvious."

He grunts. And then my vision blackens at the edges, because I watch as he brings his fingers closer. My eyes slam closed as, over my shoulder, he takes the very fingers he'd had inside me—the fingers coated in the blood of my innocence—into his mouth.

Holy. Sweet Jesus.

He groans. I whimper. "Kirill—please."

He releases his fingers with a pop . My stomach is a coil of too-tight emotions.

I can't believe this is happening. That this is my life.

That men like him—like my husband—exist.

"I want more," he growls, a feral sounding thing, before I'm no longer in his lap.

A shriek escapes me as I'm momentarily airborne, and then my back hits the bed. He's on his knees between my legs, his hands gripping the band of my sweats a moment before they're just gone .

I know what's coming because we've been here before. But this is different. I've bled. He's torn through my innocence, and shattered me with an orgasm that has left me achingly tender. I try to close my legs, but it's no use. I'm laughably weak next to his brawny strength.

I can do nothing but cover my cry with my hand as he covers me with his mouth. It's hot, unbearably so. The flat of his tongue against my oversensitive, overstimulated clit, is both wonderous and agonizing. My thighs quiver and sharp breaths invade my lungs like spears as pleasure zaps lightning bolts into my core. I am the pinnacle of sensation. The embodiment of stimulation. Every nerve ending within my body is alight with life. This dark man has ignited all the sleeping parts of me, awakened the thing within me I think would have been better off eternally dormant. Because now, my body weeps for more of this wicked wonder. My body climbs the rungs of this pleasure, even as my mind fights it.

But even my mind is no match for this man. My husband shows me no mercy as he circles the bud of my pleasure with his hot tongue, sucking it into his mouth only to release it with a gentle scrape of sharp teeth.

The sounds I make are nothing short of scandalous. My breasts heave, my nipples taut as yet another coil of need constricts inside me, the pressure mounting. He releases my throbbing clit to dip lower, his tongue lapping at all of me . Shame and humiliation, horror and desire, clash violently inside me. I want more, I just want to flee. With my heels in the bed, I attempt to shove away from him. A moment later, I sink my fingers into his thick hair, pulling him closer as my hips roll.

I moan.

Oh, my goodness. I'm riding his face.

I think he realizes I've come to that very realization, because his laugh is a dark rumble I feel in the very core of me, before he spears that core with his tongue. White light bursts behind my vision as the coil of—whatever it is—erupts. My legs shake. My fingers tighten in his hair. The sound I make is wild. My body shudders and twitches. My soul feels untethered, a balloon gusting in the wind.

And he—he murmurs a pleased, "Good girl," that nearly sets me off a third time.