Chapter 10
I don’t allowmy wife rest.
I’m on her morning, noon, and night, fucking her into the mattress relentlessly as she cries out, sometimes in pleasure, other times in pain.
Even as Ivy eats, I’m on her, licking between her soft thighs as she struggles not to choke.
I give her no relief, because my mind cannot rest around her, and the very thought of leaving her room is pure torture.
It takes a full twenty-four hours before I exhaust, because even with a wife as enticing as mine, a man can only fuck for so long.
Pulling out of Ivy, I climb up the bed and rub the head of my cock across her plush lips.
“Suck.”
For all of a moment, she looks offended. Then, she resigns herself to pleasing me, moaning obscene sounds when her flavor hits her tongue.
My balls swell and I throw my head back, trying like hell to stave off my release because her sinful lips feel so damn good.
But my resistance is futile, and not a minute later, I release. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t resist.
She takes every last drop.
As I pull out of her mouth, a string of cum trails from my cock to her lips.
“What a fine web we spin,” I whisper.
Her eyes flicker with anxiety, but I give no indication that it meant anything more than the quick observation it was. She’ll wonder all day about it, no doubt.
I push off the bed and collect my clothes, hoping there’s still time left to put out the fires that have inevitably sprung up in my absence.
Ivy turns onto her side, watching me with curious eyes as I pull on my boxers. A golf ball sized, dark purple bruise on her butt cheek contrasts her typically creamy flesh, a result of her fertility medication. A stab of guilt needles me, which is absurd considering what she intends for me.
“I’ll make sure Jade leaves your door unlocked, but you can’t leave this floor,” I tell her, seeing no reason for her to kill me now.
“And my phone?”
“That you’ll have to earn.” I wink.
The door opens, and in steps Jade with a tray full of food. Her lips curl up in a sneer as her gaze falls upon Ivy, who is now scrambling to cover herself. Why she makes the effort is a mystery considering that we’ve already been walked in on three times.
“Leave the door unlocked,” I call as I exit the room and head downstairs to my suite.
This whole marriage business has taken entirely too much time away from my work, though admittedly, yesterday’s absence was entirely my fault.
I hadn’t planned to stay with her the entire night, or the whole day after.
But every time I told myself it was time to leave, I needed her one last time.
What is it about my wife I find so alluring? I’m not one to take unnecessary risks, and yet I’m giving her the run of the penthouse, knowing she wants me dead.
After dressing, I head to my office, where a mountain of papers is piled on my desk. You’d never guess my granddad actually wanted me to procreate with the amount of work he’s sent over, but with the failures of my father, he decided it was best to keep me busy.
At least three times as much work is waiting for me in my inbox, but more important than that is a message from Lance.
Mateo,
As you requested, I dug up all known victims of The Web, finding politicians, celebrities, and even members of various royal families. No one knows when the organization first started, but it’s safe to say they’ve been in operation for over one hundred years.
Along with the records, I’ve attached all that I could find about your wife, which admittedly isn’t much. There is a picture of her attending the funeral of her mother’s second husband, who was not her father.
Lance
I open the first attachment, finding the file for a famous race car driver that died two decades ago, when he was rounding a bend on a mountain. He left behind a wife and two children, though there are no pictures of them, and when I try to Google their names, every image is of a different person.
Which is clever.
The next attachment reveals a famous opera singer who succumbed to a bad heart at the age of forty-seven, six years ago. He left behind a wife and toddler. Again, I’m unable to find a picture.
Skipping to the bottom, I open a file marked: Ivy.
Her father, Orson Eggleton, owned various businesses around Florida, but hidden behind the glamorous exterior of his life was an insurmountable amount of debt. If I had to guess, I’d say Ivy’s mom didn’t know about that.
A few years after his marriage to Ivy’s mom, Orson died of a heart attack on a golf course, with no one suspecting a thing.
The attached picture is of Ivy when she was six, standing at a grave in a black dress. Her mother hovers over her like a wraith, and I wonder if even then she was soiling her child’s mind.
I sit back in my chair and stare at the picture, wondering what Ivy’s childhood was like. She claimed she didn’t have any friends, and even though I know her persona is a facade, I believe her. Especially now that I see her as more than just the beautiful temptress bent on murder.
I stare at the image a minute longer, anger flooding my veins.
Ivy wasn’t born a heartless killer.
She was made into one.
By a heartless mother whose only ambition is to use her.
I could throw her out now, annul the fuck out of our marriage, and move on. But we’ve already consummated it, taking away that option.
And the possibility exists that Ivy could be pregnant.
A divorce could be long and drawn out, especially if my wife’s little Web decides to step in and assist. Every move has risk for me. If I’m not careful, it could end up dead.
If only I could have a do-over, I’d pick the pretty blonde whose only ambition was to be a trad wife.
Except that’s a lie.
Because as poisonous as my wife is, I’d pick her every damn time.