Charming Husband

by Celia Crown

  I want to kill him for many reasons; he didn’t make her cry, but he has made no attempt to stop it—I would have broken every bone in his body. He also has the fortunate chance to see her cry, and that is unacceptable.

  “Turn the car around and bring her home.”

  I will be dealing with him later, but my concern is only Malia.

  If she thought I was going to give her up, then she is sorely wrong. I may have given the impression that she was not worth fighting for, and I will repent that mistake, it was a momentary weakness.

  There is another glaring change in me that I did not notice before.

  As I toss my phone on the crooked desk, my butler knocks and comes in when I give permission. He bows his head. His hand is holding a box of first-aid, I hold out my hand wordlessly, and he gets to work on tending the wound.

  His hands are swift and breezy; it’s almost as if he is cutting through the air with his precision. When he is done, I tell him to excuse all the staffs of the manor until further notice, including him.

  He doesn’t complain or ask questions; he knows better than to question me. His loyalty lies in the family name, and I can have him easily replaced with a snap of my fingers, but he does a remarkable job at maintaining and running the manor.

  He has not done anything unsatisfactory. Therefore, I have no reason to fire him.

  I don’t wait to see if he follows directions because I know he will. He is good at that, and it is one thing keeping from taking a lick of this immense flame of fury.

  Whether this will settle or not, there is only one way to find out, and the solution is returning home to me.

  This manor will be on lockdown, no one in or out for the remaining time that I need to convince that foolish, little girl that she belongs to me.

  I did not have to wait long for the car to drive up the eerily haunting manor; there is only me remaining, and I will lock her in with me.

  The windows are tinted, but I recognize one of my cars from the plates and the driver in the front as he steps out of the door. I put my hand up and signal for him to return to his position and take the car with him when he leaves.

  I swing the door open and gaze down at the sobbing girl.

  She is such a little thing.

  The sudden light into the car doesn’t bring her out of her tears, but she is startled when I wrap one big hand around her arm to pull her out. I don’t let her feet take the ground and haul her up into my arms. She scrambles for purchase as I walk back into the manor while the car behind me reverses out of the vicinity.

  “K-Kace?” she says, meek and frightened with a touch of breathlessness as if she cannot believe her eyes.

  Then she better believes her sense of touch when I press her supple body to my harder and stronger one.

  “Silence,” I hiss through clenched jaws, “You will not speak until spoken to.”

  I do not wish for her to see this side of me—this hideous, tyrant, and heartless side of the man that loves her with everything he has got. I will bring this side out of me if she still wants to leave; it will stop her with force and with fear.

  I do not care which, as long as it does its job of chaining her to me.

  My bedroom door slams shut, sealing her escape and her fate in my hands as she cannot call for help no matter how loud she screams.

  I toss her on the bed, careless and deliberate to watch her red hair splaying around the flat covers that have been made.

  “Have I not been honest with you?” I say; it’s a rhetorical question that does not need to be answered.

  I know I have been perfect for her. I never let this sadistic side of me come out when I am near her, but this is one of those occasions where she needs to learn that I am the one in control.

  She listens to me and follows every command that I make, but they will always have her wellbeing’s in mind.

  “I have made my intentions very clear. I want you. I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife.”

  Malia hiccups; her teary, brown eyes blink through the haze of new moisture.

  “But—” she stutters.

  I sneer unkindly, “But, what? I have courted you, made you fall in love with me, and I have clearly shown what I desire through my actions.”

  I loosen my tie around my neck while watching her cry softly into the back of her hands, that beautiful sight burns into my memories as I toss the fabric away.

  Next, the buttons are unhooked to expose my chest to the cool air. My eyes run down her shaking body, the slight trembles from her sobs ride her dress up to her white panties.

  The symbolic innocence and purity.

  Not for long.

  I am going to take her virginity, fuck her sweet pussy, and breed her fertile cunt to make her understand what this obsession is doing to me.

  “What else do you want me to do?” I ask, short and clipped with the irritation rolling on my tongue.

  “No…” she murmurs through a hiccup, rubbing harshly on her eyes and refusing to meet mine.

  I slide the belt out of the loops, and the clinking gets her attention, but she only freezes for a moment before resuming to getting herself under control.

  “I cannot understand you,” I snap harshly, and she’s startled with a whimper.

  Maybe that was the problem. We were not on the same page and assumptions on both our sides led to this inevitable shift in our relationship. We haven’t had a talk to communicate our thoughts to each other; we do not know what the other is thinking even if I credit myself for being able to read the emotions on faces.

  “I can’t…” her voice grows steadier, but it’s still feathery light.

  My eyebrows knot in confusion at the conflict in her voice. The shirt falls off my broad shoulder, the muscles underneath ripples as I go for my pants. The zipper is loud, and it reaches her ears. Malia peeks from between her fingers.

  I get a glimpse of her glistening eyes, and she gets a look at my hard body, covered in black ink and intricacies.

  Her name will be tattooed across my heart soon.

  “Can’t or won’t?” I ignore the squeak of embarrassment as I stand in my tight briefs.

  My cock is hard and thick, a direct result of her vulnerable tears and frightened demeanor.

  “I don’t know,” she answers vaguely.

  “My love,” I croon at her; the tangible silence presses further when she squirms as I rub her bare knee.

  “I cannot understand you if you do not tell me.”

  I am a businessman who understands politics, but I am also a man who is aware of the invasion of personal boundaries. I learn to read the air and dissect the situation, and I can see where her breaking point is when she has a limit.

  I have to push her.

  “Please.”

  Even it sounds warm and disarmingly manipulative to my ears. It would not be the first time I use this tactic on her, but I don’t use it to hurt her as it is one way to make her relax near me.

  “I…” she chokes as I climb on top of her, with my cock hanging free and drooling obscenely as it drags across her tender thigh.

  She doesn’t notice. Of course, she doesn’t, Malia is the embodiment of innocence.

  “You have a wife,” she admits finally, though it was not what I was expecting.

  I thought she was not ready, frightened even, and if I torture myself; she might have a significant other or another man who has her heart.

  “What?” it comes out much incredulous than angry.

  “It’s cheating,” she murmurs, rubbing the remaining tears from her eyes.

  “I can't do that to her. It’s not fair.”

  I spread her thighs and settle between her legs while my cock gives an enthusiastic jerk at the whiteness of her panties.

  “I do not have a wife,” I tell her.

  This is not the time for politeness or charm; the perfect gentleman act will push her further away if she connects this side of me to the false information in her heads.

>   “I am not married.”

  I want to drill that fact into her head that I am a single man with no desire for a family until I met her. She’s an angel sent to put light into my sinister soul for all the crimes that I have committed and all the lives that I have carelessly taken.

  She peers out between her fingers and catches my sincere green eyes. “You are.”

  “I would know if I were married, my love.”

  This ridiculous notion came from somewhere in her head, and I want to know where.

  “You said that the wine that I broke is your anniversary gift to your wife. And then the ring in the room, it’s your wife’s with the anniversary date on it. Or the wedding date, I don’t know.”

  That last part was a grumble, but it’s so adorable that I cannot help but smile.

  She sees this, and her tears are coming on again.

  I am not mocking her, but I’ll keep that to myself for now as I want to make her cry. She is beautiful and tiredly susceptible to my manipulation.

  I never claim to be a good man.

  “That was for you, my love,” I say with a chuckle.

  The flash of the confusion comes on, “It’s not.”

  “It is your engagement ring with the day we met.”

  Malia coughs with a wet sniff, “It’s not.”

  That denial is breaking slower than I anticipate, “I am sorry, I should have spoken to you before I put something this important on your shoulders.”

  “I’m confused,” she whines as she tries her best to dry her tears.

  It is time to put her doubts to rest with that invading insecurity of hers.

  “I am not married, and that bottle was meant to be my anniversary gift to you because you have not taken your attention off of it the moment you saw it.”

  She protests, defending with a meek voice. “It had gold flakes.”

  That was a special bottle that I had made to attract foolish, wealthy individuals with their young companies. The women are more likely to be taken by the beauty of the outer appearance than the wine flavor itself.

  “I knew the moment I saw you that I wanted you to be my wife, and that bottle was going to a gift for our anniversary after we get married.”

  Malia swirls her fingers, face flamed at my nakedness. “Y-you can’t know that.”

  “We will be married,” that is the truth that I know, and this misunderstanding is from a misspoken remark that I couldn’t help but play with her.

  This was my mistake, and I plan on atoning for it.

  “So, no wife?” she asks, eyes wide with pleading hope.

  I smile, “No.”

  My hands fist the silk dress, and it falls apart with my strength. Her stammering yelp gets muffled when I crash our lips together, tasting a hint of blood from her lips as I sneer out a command for her to be quiet.

  Like a good little girl, she silences herself with a hiccup and big, teary eyes.

  Her bra is easily ripped, and her pretty tits bounce at the rough treatment. Malia tries to cover up, but I pin her hands down with a glare.

  “This is your punishment,” I warn coldly as her skin breaks out in shivers.

  Those rosy nipples call for my lips, and I don't wait for her consent to wrap my lips around while pinching the other with my fingers.

  She cries out, bucking her hips and dragging her clothed pussy to the underside of my cock. The satin fabric is too rough on my sensitive cock; it’s been dripping with cum and the need to feel the tightness of her cunt.

  I have been waiting for too long.

  One nipple is red and wet while the other one is perky in crimson, but it’s time to move on with little patience of mine slipping away.

  I know I will do things that I will regret if I don’t get her pussy now.

  Grasping her panties, I rip them apart as a display of my strength and a warning to her. She will think twice of what I will do to her if she denies what is rightfully mine.

  “No…” she mewls, closing her legs around my hips as I take the ruined fabric away.

  It’s beyond repairable, but I will buy her more.

  “No?” I snap, a growl resonating as I glare down at her with my green eyes.

  The green hues that she loves looking at. It’s a switch from my charming and kind one to this sadistic and wicked personality; Malia doesn’t know how to process it other than accepting it with a shaky breath.

  “Dirty girl,” I snarl with a crude hand gathering her slick juices from her leaking cunt.

  Her hips jolt in surprise as her eyes fly wide open; a moan tumbles out of her red lips.

  Her folds are soft and pliable when I spread them, rocking her clit to a rough tempo under my thumb. She smells so sweet, and my mouth waters at the memory where I have had a taste of her pretty, virgin cunt.

  Not now. My cock needs relief, and this is supposed to be her punishment. I will be very kind to her after, but she must understand that this is not for her pleasure.

  I wrap my hand around my thick cock, the head dripping with cum as it slicks with her tiny hole. The head breaches in and her muscles remember me; that brings an exhilarating bliss to my spine, knowing that I have come inside her pussy before.

  My lips turn into a sneer when I no longer feel my cum in her, but she will have more given to her soon.

  “Kace!” she squeals in shock as the head breaches her tight hole; the strain of her small slit hugs my shaft as I push in.

  I savor the tightness and the hot flare that wraps around my cock like a glove. My cock is big inside her, too big for her to take at once and she’s too full to take all of me.

  That doesn't stop a terrible man like me from taking her however I want.

  I bring her hips down with my hands around her waist hard enough to draw out a bruise. I sink deeper and feed every inch of my fat cock in her defiled cunt.

  She gasps out, the word barely making it to my ears from how breathless she is. Malia tears up, most likely overwhelmed and scared at the sensation.

  This pure tightness is heaven; it’s an out of the body experience with every pulse of her silken walls.

  “I-it hurts, Kace!” she shakes her head, tears tumbling down her eyes as she cries.

  “Please, wait!”

  Her small hands come across my neck, searching for a place to hold when I lean down and kiss those trembling lips.

  What an experience.

  Those tight muscles coil around my unmoving cock as I want her to know the shape of my girth that stretches her tiny cunt. She will be familiarized with me by the time I’m done with her.

  It’s the humid, burning heat of my spine that makes me reach down to pinch her hard clit between my fingers. My lips muffle her scream as I insist on feeling her pussy pulse through an orgasm first before I take her.

  She’s a virgin who just took her first cock, a cook too big and too long for her small body to take and yet she does suck in my cock to the root.

  “Good girl,” I purr quietly against her lips as she cum.

  That instant clamp of her muscles and the low thrumming of my hand on her clit brings her out of her pleasure; she screams with wild buckles and tearful pained hiccups.

  Her back arches, pressing her tits to my chest as she hugs me as a repercussion of her orgasm.

  The hot pressure expands, thickening with every pulse as she milks me with her upset expression.

  I cum with a roar, throwing my cock deeper into her warm cunt as vicious spurts of pearly white paints her quivering walls. Her thighs shake violently at my sides as her greedy folds close around the base of my cock, taking my cum, so nothing leaks out.

  Letting her get a breath in before I straighten my back, I hold her thighs in bruising grips and start to move with vigor.

  The rolling of my spine gives me leverage to pound into her swollen pussy, and that sweet, sugar-coated moan sparks a poisonous ache in my heart that wrings desperation in me to breed her.

  I have underestimated how long I can hold out
, but the creeping edge of my orgasm hovers over the laughter of the demon in my head. It’s unholy in the way I think of her when she is filled with my cum, her red pussy and gaping hole dripping with my seeds.

  She cums first with a cry of my names as I pummel heavily in her squelching folds; I fuck her through it. It’s not gentle lovemaking; it’s a ravaging need to breed her with a primitive thinking process that struggles to leave when after I came the first time.

  I lose a second of the rhythm, my breathing ragged and uneven as my hips catch something deep in her that makes that keening noise.

  She cries again, tears rolling down her eyes and lips begging for me to stop because she is too sensitive that it hurts.

  I can practically hear her say through a cooing that I put into her ear. Malia listens like a good girl and lets me chase my orgasm with thrusting motions that pull unidentifiable, raw sobs from her raspy voice.

  The pull is too much, but I hold on for the sake of watching sensitivity drag fire across her hot skin.

  She begs and begs with such pretty words that I cannot help but bully her, “Please, Kace. I can’t—too much, it’s too much—oh! So good…”

  “This was meant to be a punishment for you, my love,” I breathe out, breath catching in the back of my throat as I rock into one last time.

  My cock throbs strongly, our juices soak my balls and drench them in the slick cum. I angle my hips down and crush her small clit with my pelvis; cum splashes inside thickly from the amount that I give.

  There is too much as it begins to leak out from where she is stretched taut with my fat cock.

  “You are my wife.”

  It is not an argumentized statement, but the truth is strangely personal and dangerous.

  “Yeah,” she murmurs rather drunkenly, “I want Kace.”

  It’s not the exact conformation that I want to hear, but it’s the thrill of her willingness to stand in my possessiveness that stirs another level of obsession.

  Epilogue

  Malia

  One Year Later.

  Ever since the FBI had knocked on our door, Kace has been a little bit too busy these couple of weeks.