Arranged(36)

What on earth was I thinking when I picked her out? What a short-sighted thing to do, marrying someone that I wanted to fuck this badly. I hated myself for it, but I hated her more.

I glared at Bradley but he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at my too gorgeous for her own usefulness wife.

My jaw clenched as I saw her face relax into happy lines. Not a fake smile for the cameras. Not a photo shoot. A genuine, candid smiling moment. It wasn’t something I’d been privy to personally. I didn’t like it. She was even more beautiful when she smiled like that, and it was already fucking enough.

Flashes from our wedding night came to me, as they tended to do at odd moments even when I wasn’t this close to her. Her lean, luscious body lying sprawled on the bed, long legs spread, blood and cum on her thighs. The perverse pleasure of feeling her virgin cunt squeezed around my bare dick. Skin on skin, Jesus. I’d never fucked without a condom before that night, and I’d certainly never had a virgin. The idea was still appalling, but the sentiment was shallow. I hadn’t lasted thirty seconds once I was inside of her. The feel of her gripping me like I was her last lifeline was too much. It had flat-out done me in. I hadn’t gotten off so fast since my first time inside a woman. That’d been twelve years ago. I flinched as my mind made that connection, while I’d been fourteen at the time, the woman had been older than my wife was now.

That night at least I’d had an excuse to touch her. Consummation was a nonnegotiable part of the deal.

What I had no excuse for was the rest. I never should have felt how wet her sleek cunt could get with just the barest brush of my fingers. I never should have let her wrap her lush lips around my cock. Never should have fucking tasted her. Never discovered how wet and hungry her smooth little pussy was.

She was setting a worse trap for me than my father had, and I couldn’t even tell if she was doing it on purpose.

The more I watched her, the more a dense fog of desire enveloped me. My balls were so fucking heavy I didn’t think I’d last ten more minutes let alone the rest of the night.

Resolutely, I turned to the bar. I wouldn’t so much as glance at her again, I decided. Out of sight, out of mind, out of fucking myself to death distance.

“Hopefully the women weren’t too rough on her before we came by,” my friend Preston spoke as he moved in beside me at the bar. He was the sweet, caring one of the group. He and Millie were perfect together. “Millie says it was a bit tense. I don’t know what that even means, but I hope they didn’t scare her off. Sorry, man.”

I shot him a glance. He was turned the opposite way of me, facing the room.

I shrugged both of my shoulders. It was a restless motion, more for me than him. “She’s a grownup. She can fend for herself.”

“I hope she didn’t have to is all I’m saying,” he remarked.

I didn’t respond to that. I didn’t know what I hoped for. Nothing I felt lately made any damn sense.

“What do you see when you look at her?” I asked him. I had my back to her, but I knew he was staring at the incomparably gorgeous creature I was married to.

My best friend appeared distinctly uncomfortable. “Your wife.”

I laughed, and it was actually amused instead of bitter. “Look deeper. And get rid of that stick up your ass. The question wasn’t a trap.”

“A beautiful woman.”

“Look deeper.”

“Unbelievably beautiful. A bombshell. A modern day Brigitte Bardot.”

“Deeper.”

“When I look at that woman, I see the best sex of your life, you lucky bastard. How’s that?”

It was my turn to look uncomfortable. We’d always been honest with each other. It was one of the reasons we’d stayed friends since childhood. “Yes, of course she’s beautiful. An irresistibly attractive shell on her part was a condition of our union. But do you know what I see what when I look at her?”

“What?”

“My ruin. My own self-destruction strutting around on killer legs. Chaos. The ruination of my peace of mind. The way I react to her looks is the death of my principles. The way I respond when I feel her pussy is the vindication of a tyrant.”

“The tyrant being your father, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“Who the hell cares?” he said harshly.

“Excuse me?”

“Who the hell cares what your father thinks? You’ve always been at war with that man, and it’s got nothing to do with that poor girl. Yes, your father can be a tyrant, but she’s not.”

No, she was a whore, I thought, but I didn’t say it aloud. It was one thing for me to think it, but no one else got the privilege.

The thought made me freeze. Hell no. I would hold nothing sacred about her. About us. “She’s not a tyrant,” I agreed. It surprised me how much effort it took me to muscle the next words out. “Tyrants have brains, and voices, and choices. She sold off all three. You know what she is?”

He was staring at me with wide eyes, giving me a look that said, what are you even thinking, man?

I answered my own question. “She’s a piece of art that my father bought for me to fuck on the regular. An expensive blow up doll. A gorgeous fucking cum dumpster. She’s my own private whore.”

“Banks, stop,” my best friend said in a very careful voice.