The orgasm uncurled in the pit of my stomach, warm and sweet. It slithered down to my legs, up to my chest and arms. Desire licked every inch of my flesh. My muscles tightened. Then he let out a harsh growl, grabbed the back of my thighs, and began plowing into me so hard and fast, I thought he was going to tear me apart.
“Cillian,” I cried out, clawing at the marble. He flattened me against the surface, threw my legs over his shoulders, and pounded into me harder, penetrating me deeper, the hand that lay dormant on my breast trekking up to my neck, grabbing it in a vicious hold.
Finally. Out of control.
He invaded me like a Roman army with a ruthlessness that robbed me of my breath, his hold bruising my neck, his hatred toward both of us at that moment scorching my soul.
I felt his hot cum shooting inside me, the violent ripples rolling through his muscled body between my legs.
His head flopped down, his face nestled by his shoulder, turned away from me like a wilted rose on a stem. I let my head drop back to the granite, laughing drunkenly.
I did it.
I made him feel.
Pleasure at the very least, but also anger and frustration and disgust.
A cold whoosh of air stroked the damp spot between my legs. I popped my eyes open, realizing my husband was no longer in the kitchen.
He left.
Straightening up and sitting down, I blinked.
“Cillian?” I looked around.
Mortified, I tied the back of my dress, put on my jacket and panties, and stumbled out of the kitchen, hunting for my husband.
His house was massive, boasting curved hallways, dozens of doors, and a stairway leading to a second floor. It was only my second time inside. Naturally, I’d never gotten an official tour.
I spotted Petar by the entrance, talking to a guy in khaki pants and a blue hoodie with a maintenance company name on it. They were heading toward the kitchen. Feeling like a thief, I tiptoed up the curved stairway before Petar spotted me. The second floor was wide and tall like a cathedral. Cillian’s house, much like his parents’, was more old-world luxury than the modern, kitschy pads you saw on Selling Sunset.
I worked my way through the rooms, pushing each door open halfway until I reached a pair of double doors that were presumably his room. I pressed my palm over the oak, not wanting to intrude, but hating to leave without a sense of closure, either. This was huge. We just had sex.
“Kill?”
No answer.
“Are you okay?”
It occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I pushed him too far, too fast.
Maybe you shouldn’t have laughed like a nut.
Pushing the doors open, I wandered into the room. It was gorgeously designed with off-white floors and beige walls covered with fantastic art. A balcony bled into an elaborated reading area and an office space with a strategic view of the back garden.
I noticed another set of closed doors. The bathroom. I walked over to them.
I was about to call his name again when I heard it. Pounding. A different kind of thrashing. Nothing like the pounding that happened downstairs, in the kitchen, with both of us sweaty and angry and desperate.
It sounded like a head smacking against the wall rhythmically. Labored breaths seeped from the crack under the doors.
Pressing my forehead to one of the doors, I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“I’m sorry I pushed you,” I croaked. And I was. But I was also thrilled that I’d managed to pull something out of him that wasn’t indifference.
There was no answer.
“Would you like me to get you a glass of water? Maybe call Petar?”
The tap-tap-tap stopped. A second later came his voice.
“Leave.”
“I don’t want to leave like this.” I wringed my fingers in my lap. “Your friends are about to be here, and I—”
“Leave!” he roared like a beast.
Taking a step back, I glared at the closed doors. In the eight years I’d known my husband, he’d never raised his voice to anyone. Not even once.
He threw the doors open, stalking outside, looking like the devil himself. His eyes were dark and hard, the snarl on his face making chills roll down my spine. He had a busted lip, blood gushing out of it.
Since he didn’t let me touch him—kiss him, embrace him—I deduced I wasn’t responsible for it.
He did that to himself.
He hit himself.
He advanced toward me, quick and efficient. I tripped, nearly falling twice while trying to escape him.
“You got what you wanted. Now get out of my house and don’t come back until I call for you. If you don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, I’ll assume you want to see your husband’s true colors and get fucked in front of my friends on the poker table, slowly and all evening, while they watch.”
He stopped when I was cornered, flat against his wall. We were so close I could smell the sex on both of us. Cillian grabbed my neck. I felt the tender rings that had already formed around it from when we had sex.
“You think you escaped a bad relationship by marrying me.” He flashed me his Lucifer smirk. “You have no idea, Flower Girl. I pay them because fucking me is not a pleasure, it’s a job. Now”—he leaned close—“run.”
I did.
I fled before he caught me and did all the things he threatened to.
Bolting down the stairs, I took them two at a time. I crashed into Petar on my way out, clutching his shirt breathlessly.
“Can you call me a cab? Please?” My fingers shook around the collar of his shirt. “I’ll get the driver.” His eyes bulged out.
He was surprised and a little flustered by my state, shoving me out the door as though he, too, was afraid my husband would get to me.
It was only when I was tucked in an Escalade on my way back home that my heart slowed and my mind started working again.
My husband had a deep, dark secret that could ruin him.
Something he was ashamed of.
A weakness I’d almost unveiled.
And tonight, I got very close to finding out what it was.
I tossed and turned in my bed for the rest of the night, going through every emotion in the feelings book. I was angry, scared, worried sick, and vengeful. I hated Cillian for acting the way he did, but I also knew I played a big part of it. He’d always been mean and snarky with me but never cruel. I pushed him, and he felt hunted.
An injured animal thrown into fight-or-flight mode.
A text message lit the pitch-black bedroom. I reached for my nightstand, grabbing my phone. It pained me that I didn’t even consider it could be from him.
Hunter: Your husband is an asshole.
Me: Tell me something I don’t know.
Hunter: All polar bears are left-handed. Bet you didn’t know that.
Hunter: Also, and relatedly, your husband is an asshole who checks his phone every five seconds. Are you guys texting?
Me: No.
Hunter: Weird. He always logs off during poker nights.
Me: Can you do me a favor?
Hunter: What kind? I’m a married man. I know Kill is nowhere near the realms of my perfection, alas, you missed the train.
Me: A—delusional. And B—not even if you were the last man on earth.
Hunter: What’s the favor?
Me: Keep an eye on him. See that he is okay.
Hunter: And you care because…?
Me: He is my husband.
Hunter: I thought that was only on paper.
Me: You thought wrong.
Hunter: Other than the phone shit, he looks like the same old Kill to me. Chain-smoking, drinking devil who needs a good hug and a great fuck.
Me: Night.
Hunter: Obvs, silly. x
Cillian had managed to overcome whatever it was that happened to him in less than an hour. That was peculiar. And alarming. But at least I knew he was remorseful enough to check his phone for a message from me.
Guilt was a feeling, after all.
Unless he is checking it for work-related stuff.
When dawn broke over the sky, I padded to my terrace barefoot, relishing the heated floorboards and extravagant French doors. Looking outside, I spotted a lone cloud sailing north.
“What do I do, Auntie Tilda?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer.
I picked up my phone to type my sister a text. Ask her if she remembered the days when Auntie took us to the carnival. How delirious with joy we were.
To my surprise, there was a message waiting for me.
A message from a number that had yet to answer all twenty-seven text messages I had sent it while I planned our mutual wedding.
Cillian: It won’t happen again.
Even though I knew exactly what he meant, I decided to press where it hurt. Lure him out of his cave a little more.
Me: The sex part, or the part that came after it?
Cillian: The part I’m not proud of.
What was he doing awake at five? Maybe he had trouble sleeping after last night, like I did.
I sat on a recliner on the balcony, rubbing at my forehead.
Me: Still doesn’t answer my question.
Cillian: My outburst was out of line.
Knowing he’d been pushed far enough—I’d never heard my husband apologize to anyone—I changed the subject.
Me: My Auntie Tilda, the one who chose my name, told me that every time I see a lone cloud in the sky, she is watching me. There’s only one cloud outside now.
After putting my phone on the table by the recliner, I stood and went about my morning. Brushed my teeth, curled my hair, and got dressed, knowing there was no chance my husband was going to grace me with an answer.
When I returned to the balcony table, after flicking the coffee machine on, I noticed my cell screen was lit with an incoming message.
Cillian: Are you on drugs? Sobriety was not a part of our contractual agreement only because I assumed it was a given.
Snorting out a laugh, I typed back.
Me: Look outside. Do you not see it?
Cillian: Your dead aunt on a cloud? No.
Me: She is not ON it. She IS it. Let me send you a pic.
I raised my phone to the window, snapped a picture of the perfectly fuzzy cloud, and sent it over to him.
Me: Well?
Cillian: Nice to meet you, Persephone’s aunt. You two look nothing alike.
Me: Who is being cute now?
Cillian: Me, apparently.
Me: Don’t worry, I know you’re incapable of anything good and moral. Having a sense of humor won’t tarnish your wickedness.
Cillian: Is that a hint?
Me: What do you mean?
Cillian: The Arctic drilling.
Did I hate the idea of him drilling holes inside the Arctic to see if he can find oil, ruining an already fragile part of the world? Of course I did. It made me sick to my stomach, to think the man I loved and directly profited from did that. But I also recognized talking about it with him now, when we were starting out, wouldn’t make him move an inch. If anything, he’d probably drill in a few more places just to spite me.
Me: It’s not a hint. I think my position on the matter is clear.
Cillian: Batteries over SUVs.
I grinned, remembering the sex toys innuendo he’d made at his office yesterday afternoon.
Me: Correct.
Cillian: Look at your garage, Flower Girl.
I made my way downstairs to the building garage.
Sure enough, there was a brand new red Tesla sitting on my apartment’s allotted spot.
He bought me a car.
An electric car.
The type of vehicle that was supposed to put him out of business eventually.
Not missing what it meant, I typed my husband a reply with shaky fingers.
Me: Thank you.
Cillian: Batteries are for pussies.