Page 18 of Wedding Contract
Chapter Fourteen
WICK
Belle has moved all but one box of her belongings into her bedroom already. I heft the last one into my arms and hear a few things clink together. Belle comes over and peaks inside. Her arm brushes against mine, and that small contact fires me up. I curl my fingers into the cardboard, glad for the cover so I can hide my obvious physical reaction to her. She kissed my hand. I kissed her hand. She’s married—but to me, so that’s not really cheating. I think. Or maybe it is. Does she think I’m a cheat, trying to take my boss’s wife to bed?
Why is she so alluring? Like a siren in the sea. Why couldn’t I have passed by her that day without noticing her? Why did I have to be caught in her web? Why did I do such a stupid thing as propose a blind, fake marriage instead of, I don’t know, courting her instead?
Now that I’m here, I’m going to have to make her fall in love with me. When she’s well and truly caught, then I’ll tell her the truth, and it won’t matter if Charlie and Wick are the same person. In fact, she’ll probably be thrilled.
“This one has things I’ve made, so I’ll put them in the bedroom. They really don’t belong out here.” She tries to tug the box from my arms.
I give her an incredulous look before nodding my head down the hall. “Lead the way.” My tone’s as even as I can make it as I’m trying not to show how excited I am to be inside her personal space.
It’s a large room with a large four-poster bed, big enough for my frame. I wrench my eyes away before I start conjuring up images that will make both of us uncomfortable, although for different reasons. A small round table tucked into a corner with windows on either side looks like a cozy place for breakfast. Under my feet, the dark green carpet feels plush and soft, which means you could kneel on the floor and not have bruised knees.
I place the box on the floor and stoop down to rip it open, desperately needing a distraction.
“Where’d you get this?” I hold up a piece of driftwood, polished and mounted on a round disc.
“I made it at a craft store that I worked at. It’s a jewelry stand.” She taps the end of one of the branches with her finger. “I added a few of these arms to the trunk. Funny thing is I don’t have a lot of jewelry, but I’ve always liked the piece, so I kept it.”
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “And don’t say that Mr. Wickham will buy me jewelry. I already feel indebted to him, and getting gold and stuff would add to that feeling.” She shudders like I poured something cold down the middle of her back.
I mentally cross off jewelry from my to-buy list.
“What about this?” It’s a bowl-shaped item made out of pottery and painted with birds at the bottom and leaves on the side. The sides are falling inward and are uneven. It wouldn’t be able to hold much more than a few grapes. “A nest?”
She snatches it out of my hand. “It was my first attempt at pottery. I made the walls too thin and uneven, and when they fired it, the sides collapsed.” She sets it on a long dresser that is pushed up against one wall.
She tells me the story behind each of her crafts. The framed cross-stitch with the phrase “Hold On Let Me Overthink This” in blue surrounded by white, blue, and yellow flowers on the border goes on the dresser next to the failed bowl. A puzzle box of Van Gogh’sStarry Nightgets placed on the small table. “You’ll need a bigger space than that for the puzzle,” I remark.
“Probably, but the light here is nice in the morning.”
“You put this together yourself?”
“No, but I will. I’ve a lot of time to do things this year.” The corners of her lips tilt up slightly. I stare at her lips a little too long because the smile fades in front of my eyes, and she turns away, pulling out a half-finished knitted scarf and a quilted bag she said she sewed at a workshop. Those go in the closet.
When she disappears inside the large walk-in, I find myself in front of the dresser staring at the pottery piece. I want that piece of pottery in my home, and I want her in my life, forever.
I manage to escape the apartment without tackling her. At home, I empty my pockets, placing the failed pottery piece on my nightstand next to the phone charger.
I undo my pants and take myself in hand. I imagine that we’re in that bedroom and the plush carpet is under my feet. I have her on her back on the bed. Her knees are closed, but they part easily when I palm them apart. Her body is flushed with her excitement, and when I place my hand against her pussy, her arousal coats my fingers. I lick her essence off each digit and then press a wet finger inside of her hot channel. She’s tight and moans as I penetrate her with one finger and then two.
I start my thrusts slow and shallow, allowing her virgin cunt to get used to the intrusion. She grips my wrist, but I can tell she’s not sure whether she wants to pull me close or hold me off. The sensations I’m pulling from her body are foreign. Because she’s never had another touch her like this.Only me, I think with a feral grin. I pump my own shaft harder.
Her body clamps around mine, sucking my fingers in deeper and deeper. I quicken the pace, driving into her until my palm slaps her pussy. Her heels dig into the mattress, and her back arches upward as her hot, narrow sex convulses around me.
“Charlie,” she says. “Charlie!”
I snap out of the fantasy and look at my palm filled with milky seed in frustration. My hand curls into a fist. Charlie is not the name I want to hear from her mouth. It’s Wick. I’m her husband, not anyone else.
Chapter Fifteen
ANNABELLE
Iroll over in bed, stretching. I slept like shit. Normally, sleep hasn’t been hard here. It’s been one of the rare comforts I have had. I might not have loved the place when I first got here, but it is quiet and safe. Plus, the bed is a pillowy cloud, and the ceiling-to-floor shades can make the whole room pitch-black.
I grab the pad off the nightstand and hit the button to make them partly open to give me fresh light. I sit up against the headboard, pulling my thighs to my chest.
