My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(61)

I fell on top of her with complete disregard to her slight weight, reached for the nightstand, and shoved two mint gums into my mouth.

“There won’t be another time.” I rolled off her, my body sleek with sweat, my muscles calm for the first time in years.

“Sure, honey.” She plastered her tits to my arm. Beneath us, the sheets were soaked with everything we’d just done. “Just this once.”

But the temptation proved too much.

I ended up granting myself a free pass for the duration of our honeymoon. For an entire week, I fucked Dallas through her clothes at every opportunity.

And every night, I fucked her through a bedsheet, careful to always come on her face, tongue, and tits. I almost even fucked her bareback in the Louvre.

Then I ate her sweet little cunt at La Madeleine. A church of all places, because my troublemaker of a wife simply could not wait until we returned to the hotel.

She’d even begged me to finger her on the Dodo Manège. Which meant I also had to suck her tits under a coat I draped over her chest in the taxi back to the hotel.

The pattern was depressingly clear.

I married a woman with nymphomaniac tendencies and had zero desire to deprive her of what she wanted.

I was pussy-whipped. So pussy-whipped, I forgot to ask, to expect, to train her to return the favor.

I was so enamored with her cunt that I forgot it was a Venus flytrap, hungry for my sperm.

One thing was certain.

When we returned to U.S. soil, I needed to stay as far away from my wife as I possibly could. Being in close quarters with her would put me at a clear disadvantage in our psychological war.

It would take her a month. Two. Perhaps even an entire year. But I knew in my bones that she’d convince me to fuck her bareback. Filthy.

Until she filled to the brim with my cum.

Whatever Dallas Costa wanted—Dallas Costa got.

And what she wanted right now was my heir.





Romeo’s penis could cure depression.

Unfortunately, it could not cure hatred.

I still had that in spades.

I flung my period-stained underwear into the trash, reaching for a tampon. The disappointment that flooded me wasn’t because I’d expected to be pregnant so fast.

I just didn’t want a temporary pit stop in my quest to breaking some sort of Guinness orgasm record.

The jet jostled me like a snow globe. I perched beside the sink, waiting out the turbulence.

My sex was already sore, stretched to the max, and ready for retirement after just a week of employment. Each time my nipples brushed against my bra, the numbness axled into pain.

When the plane recovered, I returned to the main cabin in time to watch Romeo flip the page of his newspaper. My butt still tingled every time I caught a glimpse of his strong hands.

We’d spent our time in France either arguing or climaxing. There was a good chance I’d compromised not only my virginity, but that of my future spawn.

I plopped onto the plush couch, expecting Romeo to ignore me.

And he did.

In fact, the second we’d stepped onto the jet, he’d shown more interest in his emails than me.

Fine. Whatever.

I FaceTimed Frankie, Momma, and Sav, popping seaweed rice crackers onto my tongue, ignoring the cruel, overbearing ass.

When we returned home, I realized I’d forgotten to ask Hettie or Vernon to water the white rose on my nightstand.

Oops.

I bolted upstairs as soon as I remembered, leaving Romeo in the foyer with our suitcases, confused and—as always—displeased.

“You’re welcome for the 1.4-million-dollar honeymoon, Shortbread.” I ignored him, taking the stairs two at a time as he muttered to himself, “Anytime.”

I barged into my room, panting. Though my thumb veered black instead of green, I hated when flowers died.

They symbolized hope and strength. For after each winter, came the spring, bringing blossom with it.

A tended flower grew to its full potential. I liked to think about people in the same manner.

Could I, too, grow under my current circumstances?

To my amazement, the white rose appeared perfectly in bloom in its makeshift jar. Not one petal out of place.

Phew.

Had Vernon watered it?

I fell to my knees before it, noticing the greenish hue of the water it swam in. Nope. It looked like the rose had survived all by itself.

Well, what do you know? Maybe Vernon was right, and he’d created a rose sub-species that could survive as long as it took to fall in love.

“At least one of us is low-maintenance.” I fingered the thorny stem. “Thank you for surviving. You’re the real MVP, Rose.”

Did I just name my pet rose Rose?

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

“I see conversing with plants is another quirk I should add to your never-ending list of oddities.” Romeo leaned against my doorframe, looking like an ice statue.

I scowled at him. Now that the novelty of Paris’s romantic filter wore off and I could no longer shove his face between my legs, I remembered how much I disliked him.

Precise quantity: a ton.

“Aunt Flow’s in town, in case you’re here for your…er, snack.”

“Kindly refrain from reminding me you have any relatives. I have intense PTSD from every Townsend I’ve met so far.” He pushed off the doorframe, strolling into my room without an invitation. “As it happens, I’m not here to pleasure you, Shortbread. Believe it or not, my interests run a little deeper than your bed.”