by Stella Gray
The scent of whiskey, his wrinkled clothes, and the bright red lipstick stain on his collar say it all. I fight back tears. Damn, Luka. You really went through with it.
“Sleep well?” he mocks as he steps out of his shoes and socks and kicks them to the side.
I lift my chin and don’t respond as he makes a half turn, taking in the room.
“What’s this, no room service leftovers? Couldn’t work up an appetite last night?” His grin is cold as he goads me. “I never imagined you with bags under your eyes, darling. I have to say, it’s not a good look on you.”
Even if I could think of a suitable retort, I wouldn’t let it out. Nothing I say will cut through him the way he’s doing to me. I catch a whiff of heavy floral perfume underneath the whiskey. His drinks had been strong, his fuck buddy, cheap.
I’m angry, but not enough to fight back. Because more than anything else, I’m hurt. And besides, part of me clings to the hope that we can ride this out. It’s the mantra I said to myself all night long. On the other side of my betrayal—and now, his—is the hope that we can get back on track. We have a contract. We said vows.
Luka pulls his shirt from the waist of his pants and begins angrily undoing the buttons. I can’t stop watching those long fingers working the small buttons free, noticing how deft they are in their work. Remembering how much pleasure they can bring.
His shirt finally falls open, and he peels it off his spectacular torso. His eyes narrow as he sees me ogling him, his voice going icy cold once more. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of a divorce, Brooklyn. Oh, no. You’re not getting out that easily.”
I feel a senseless flicker of hope. He doesn’t want to get rid of me. Maybe underneath his anger and bitterness is the desire to hang on to what we were trying to build together. To start over again. That means there’s still a chance for me to convince him that I never meant to hurt him. That in the end, I wasn’t capable—despite what it looked like from the outside.
“What do you want, Luka?” I ask, my voice coming out husky from the exhaustion.
His eyes narrow. “What do I want? I want you to remember that you signed a contract. You’re still my wife, and you’re going to act like it.”
He comes at me, shirtless, glorious in his form-fitting pants. His tan skin gleams in the muted light, the muscles of his abs tightening, calling me to run my hands over them. I hate that another woman touched him. I despise that he put his lips, his hands on another woman’s body.
But I still want him.
I swallow as he stops inches from me, bathing me in the scent of that drugstore perfume. I have the urge to push him away, to feel my hands make physical contact with his body as I drive him back. But I know if I do touch him, it won’t end anywhere else but him on top of me.
He hooks a finger and slides it beneath my chin, lifting my face the way he’s done before when he’s about to kiss me. “I plan to enforce all the areas of our contract, wife. I’m still going to make you famous. You’ll still get the best gigs. And me? I still get to use your body for my own pleasure whenever the hell I please. Starting now.”
A hard shiver goes down my spine. I suddenly feel flushed and exposed in just my thigh-length tee shirt. I can feel my nipples pebbling, tingling as they peak against the fabric. His eyes stray to my breasts, his expression going serious and dark.
“Are you going to argue my claim on your body, Brooklyn?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
“Good. I don’t trust myself to fuck you yet—I’m too pissed off, and I can’t promise I won’t get too rough. So instead of fucking you, you’re going to pose for me while I fuck myself. Take that damn shirt off.”
I’m quivering from head to toe now. His rough, raw words scrape over my body, teasing me, making me crave him. I don’t dare say that the thought of him getting a little rough isn’t a deterrent, that I want him to take his anger out on my pussy. This is his game and I’m going to let him set it up. I’m just a pawn, after all. I’ve created this, and all I can do is ride it out.
It’s obvious he still wants me. And I still want him.
And if he’s this sexually fired up…maybe nothing happened last night, after all.
I shut down the flame of hope that gives me and tug my shirt up and over my head, getting it tangled in my hair. Luka gives it a pull, grabbing my hair with it in the process. A pleasurable sting assaults my scalp and darts right between my legs. My breath comes quick and fast as he takes my hand and leads me toward the chair. He turns as if he’s going to sit.
“Take my pants off.”
I don’t meet his eyes as I work the button and take down the zipper, but I can feel his cold glare trained on me as I slide his pants down his hips. He’s commando and his thick, hard cock springs out at me as I lower on my haunches to pull his pants all the way to the ground.
Heat spills off his cock and radiates against my face. My pulse picks up. He’s going to demand that I suck him off. I know it. My body tenses, my mouth watering in anticipation as I wait for him to say the words. But then I feel a tug on my bare shoulder, urging me to my feet.
He’s swathed in the faintest, soft golden light and I swear he looks like a perfect Roman statue with his developed musculature, the strong lines of his body, the spear of his cock in his hand. I shift my weight as desire and lust pour through me. Luka holds my gaze while running his fist slowly up and down his length.
“Go stand by the window with your ass against the glass. I want everyone on the street to see you when they walk by for their morning coffee.”
Pulling my hair over my shoulder, I move to step back, but he stops me.
“First…I need some assistance. Come here.”
I do as he asks, stopping at the arm of the chair. He sweeps me with a look hot enough to make me come, I swear.
“Are you wet, Brooklyn?” He pumps himself with more intention. Small beads of precum wet the head of his cock, and he takes care to spread it down and over himself with a little groan.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. Spread your legs.”
My body goes tight as I move my legs apart. He cups my pussy with his hand and runs his fingers between my lips, not quite making contact with my clit even though I jerk into him at the contact. He moves his fingers back and makes two quick pumps inside me. I grip the chair arm as pleasure erupts inside me. I need more.
Instead, Luka removes his hand and slides my wetness over his cock, sinking into the chair with his eyes shut.
“Window. Now.”
Now I’m strung even tighter, my body demanding the release only he can give me. Hope builds and crests as I watch him pump his cock. There’s still a chance for us. There is.
Following his orders, I press against the glass with my legs spread, my ass on display for anyone below to see.
“Play with your nipples,” Luka growls. “Get them nice and hard for me.”
He watches intently as I follow his command, my head tilting back and my eyes fluttering. He reaches up and runs a hand down my belly, then cups it between my legs. “You’re not going to come, do you understand? You don’t deserve it, do you, Brooklyn?”
He’s pumping himself faster now, his grip intent on forcing release. I’m shaking, so needy, wanting the same for myself so badly.
“No,” I moan as I squeeze my breast. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Spread your legs. Wide. Wider.”
I do. I’m so wet, I can feel the air turning cool against the slick inside of my thighs.
“How’s it feel to have your pussy on display and not have it touched? You want me to touch it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
His chest rises and falls with hard, shallow breaths. His cock swells in his hand and all I can think about is having that rod ramming into me right now.
“Yes, I want your cock in me, Luka,” I say, locking eyes with him. “I want you fucking me, right now.”
His eyes close and he groans softly as he explodes over his hand. He’s being quiet on purpose, denying me the deep, throaty sounds I love so much.
Fuck, that was hot.
I stay exactly where I am, too consumed by my own desire to move. Luka blinks and rights himself, then grabs my shirt from the floor and cleans himself up. He stretches with a yawn as if we’d just had a leisurely fuck and are preparing to go back to bed.
Then he tosses the shirt at my feet and sweeps me with an indifferent look. My desire immediately fades, the sickening, sour feeling in my gut coming back.
“By the way, thanks for the heads-up on Elite’s plan for a takeover. Now that I have the upper hand, I know exactly how I’ll deal with that.”
My heart is breaking but some part of me is smiling inside at his words. Because no matter what happens between my husband and me, I want Danica Rose to come out on top.
He strides into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a definite punch of force. Essentially slamming the door in my face.
Hugging myself, I move away from the window and curl up in the chair. It’s still warm from his body, and I cover myself with a blanket, tucking my legs up underneath me.
Still clinging to hope.
Brooklyn
Chapter 5
“Merci et au revoir!” the porter says, wheeling a trolly packed with our luggage to the private car idling outside the hotel doors. “I hope you have enjoyed your stay with us.”
“Yes, we have, thank you,” I lie, forcing a big smile as Luka presses a few euros into the porter’s gloved hand.
The truth is, I’ve never been so happy to see a limousine in my life.
Our honeymoon is finally over, and thank God. I never thought I’d regret spending two weeks alone in Paris with my new husband, but this whole trip has been a nightmare, possibly the worst experience of my life. I can’t wait to get back home to Chicago. Even though I’m not sure what going home means for us anymore.
Luka has been nothing but distant and aloof. He hasn’t touched me since our naughty moment by the window, except for the few times we stepped out to walk around our arrondissement and we had to hold hands to keep up appearances. But as soon as we’d get back to the suite, he’d get all cold again and keep himself out of my way for the rest of the day.
We get into the back of the car and pull away from the hotel. Luka keeps plenty of space between us, his hands folded loosely between knees spread comfortably apart. He’s ensuring no part of him touches me while he does it. Always needing to be in control.
I’m learning so much about my husband’s personality, and not the kinds of things I thought I’d learn on our honeymoon. He looks out his window, saying nothing, but I don’t let it sway the persistent hope that we can fix this somehow. I caress him with a subtle look. He’s always so magnetic, and even with the constant tension, I can’t stop feeling drawn to him. I know he still wants me too, and I need to nurture that and use it to narrow the divide between us.
Despite not touching me at the hotel, he often left his door open just wide enough to watch me dress. One time he made me watch him in the shower, glistening and naked, jacking off into his hand just to torture me. I admit, despite it being intended as a punishment, it was pretty hot. That said, it’s obvious he still wants me. And I may have tried seducing him a little, on my part. Baring a shoulder, moaning with pleasure at our room service meals, walking around in my thong. Slowly unclasping my bra while he watched. Not that any of it worked.
Not yet, anyway. But I know I can wear him down. I’m not above using seduction to manipulate him, if it means fixing our marriage in the long run. My plan won’t be that hard to pull off, really. He loves sex. I love having sex with him. He’ll cave. All I have to do is lure him back with my body. Give him anything that he wants in bed until he trusts me again and lets me in enough so that I can explain myself. Then he’ll remember how good we are together.
The worst part is, I can’t even talk to anybody about all of this—not even my besties. Over the past few weeks, every time I’ve gotten a text from Mateo or a call from Tori or Emzee, I’ve upheld the lie that Luka and I have been feeding the rest of the world: that we’re enjoying the perfect Parisian honeymoon and we can’t keep our eyes (or hands) off each other. Even my parents think we’re madly in love and having the time of our lives. No one would ever guess how far from a fairy tale it’s really been, how fraught our time together has become.
I let out a sigh and glance out the window, perking up at the gorgeous view of the Seine. There are boats out in the calm blue waters, and a picturesque bridge arches over the river. I let myself soak up the last images of the city, and it feels like the first time in days my mouth hasn’t been in a hard line. If only this trip had gone differently. I imagined so much more for us.
Soon we’ll be boarding our private plane. A plan starts to take shape. There’s no reason I can’t start the seduction game once we’re in the air. A blow job at thirty-thousand feet? No man in his right mind would turn that down. Especially not Luka.
I hold my head high for the rest of the short ride to the airstrip, ready for action. My middle clenches with excitement at the thought of stripping off his pants and taking him in my mouth. It’s been an eternity since he’s touched me. I need the release so badly, I could scream.
“Welcome aboard,” one of the flight attendants says by way of greeting.
I barely notice her as I contemplate where to sit, then make my way to the back where we sat on the way here. But Luka doesn’t follow me.
“Candy!” he says, pulling her in for a close hug. “It’s been ages! You look amazing.”
Instead of joining me, he stays near the front of the plane with Candy, his head bent low as they laugh quietly about something. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my gut churns with jealousy. Swallowing hard, I settle into my seat and pull out my phone.
The PA crackles and then the captain chats pleasantly about our flight path and the weather over the speakers. We’re just about to taxi down the runway when Candy finally tells Luka he needs to take a seat and buckle up. He does, his hand lightly slapping her ass as she walks away. My blood goes cold.
What the actual fuck is he doing?
“Luka,” I hiss.
He doesn’t turn to look at me. In fact, he doesn’t acknowledge that I’m here at all. The slow burn of jealousy and hurt starts to heat to pure anger in my blood and I try to temper it by scrolling through my social media pages with my jaw clenched hard. By now I have a million notifications asking about the honeymoon, begging for pictures and details.
It’s a good thing social media is ninety-nine percent fake, because every photo of Luka and I together might show us smiling and in love, but behind those forced grins is pain and anger, and that’s not the kind of content my followers want to see. We pulled off the happy couple image like pros, of course. No one will ever know what went on—or didn’t—behind the closed doors of our luxuriously romantic Paris hotel.
Except maybe for Candy.
She’s back at Luka’s side now, bending low to hand him a drink. Her breasts nearly spill from the unbuttoned top of her uniform blouse. His arm twitches, as if he were going to touch her but managed to stop himself. They laugh again, and this time he does reach up toward her. My stomach drops as his fingers brush the dip of her back. She leaves again, swaying her curvy hips and giving a coy glance over her shoulder.
This is a different flight attendant than we had coming here, and she and Luka obviously have history. She’s also much less professional and way more brash, with her hair teased big, her huge fake lashes, her lips a seductive glossy pink. I’m sure the cleavage on her uniform probably isn’t standard…it’s almost as if she dolled herself up on purpose.
Well, if she’d hoped to get Luka’s attention, it worked. He tilts his head slightly and keeps his eyes glued to her as she works in the small galley area at the front of the plane.
She’s prepari
ng a snack and making a big show of it, turning just right so her breasts are angled for Luka’s viewing pleasure. Dropping something so she has to bend over and retrieve it. While she’s at it, she fusses with a strap on her shoe, making slow work of it, running her fingers over her ankle and lightly up her calf while chatting with Luka in a low purr.
Now my face flames hot. Fuck this. I’m about to get up when Candy glides from the galley with a tray in her hands. Her friendly smile does nothing to hide the fire in her eyes. She knows what she’s doing and isn’t afraid to hide the fact that she’s after my husband.
“Sparkling water, cucumber sandwiches, vanilla cinnamon-coated dates?”
I don’t move. I simply look up at her. She bats her lashes and gestures at my tray table.
“Shall I just leave your plate right here, then?”
All I can do is glare. “Go ahead.”
She sets down the plate and glass and the folded cloth napkin with zero fanfare. No giggling, no boobs in my face. With a final blink, she spins and heads back to Luka, almost immediately going low with her cleavage near his arm. The plane makes a hasty bump and she grips the back of Luka’s chair, falling into him. Of course, his hand goes around her waist to steady her, then runs slowly to the rise of her ass. And out come the giggles.
Enough’s enough.
He might have gotten away with fooling around in Paris, on our honeymoon of all things, but this is too close to home. And who knows, Candy might even be the type of person who’s eager to sell their dirty celebrity gossip to the highest bidder. We’re trying to improve our public image, not muddy it even more.
I whip off my seatbelt and go to Luka, coming up behind him and sliding my left arm over the back of his chair as I bend to speak in his ear. He looks at me with a slight jerk, as if I’ve taken him by complete surprise. Candy doesn’t have the good sense to get off my husband and I’m inclined to push her, but I don’t.
“Honey,” I croon next to his ear. “You’ve had your fun, but it’s time to stop now.”
