Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I love it,” she says, back arching, “oh, fuck, oh my god, I love it.”
I rip into her as she comes. It’s the most sexual thing I’ve seen in my life: her muscles shaking, her mouth open, saying what I want, covered in my blood. I keep going as her pussy clenches down, and I can’t take anymore.
I fill her to the brim. I fill her to the core. I finish inside of my wife, and when I’m done, I make her lick my cock clean.
“Say thank you,” I whisper. She’s glassy-eyed, and her pussy’s beautifully swollen. “Go ahead, baby. Say it for me.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“That’s a good girl.” I kiss her gently, leaving another smear of blood on her cheek.
Then I head into the bathroom to see what I can do about this broken fucking nose.
Chapter 15
Karine
I’m aware that I’m a mess.
I mean, I’m pretty sure anyone that breaks their husband’s nose, and still has sex with him while it’s actively bleeding all over the place, must be pretty screwed up.
And yet I kind of don’t care.
Because it’s beyond the best sex of my life.
The way he wants me to fight him while also making sure I have some of the most soul-crushing orgasms of my existence is deeply satisfying on a primal level.
It’s a kink I didn’t know I had hidden away in me.
But apparently, I have a dark streak.
Which is worrying. I think about that a lot on the way over to Mama’s house. Anton’s driving and there are another two cars each filled with soldiers escorting us. Valentin’s sitting beside me, looking dour. He’s got a black eye and his nose is still crooked from where he tried to reset it himself and did a shitty job.
I think about who I come from. About the revelations around my mother’s brother. And about how I apparently like to fight, to be degraded, to be fucked and dominated and controlled. And now, apparently, to be bled on.
“You have one hour,” Valentin says as we approach the front door. “No more and no less.”
“I might need more time. This isn’t exactly an easy conversation I’m about to have.”
He holds up a hand. “One hour. If you’re not out, I’ll come in to get you.”
“Can you just be reasonable for once, please?”
“This is not a debate.” The car stops at the curb and he leans across me, pushing open the door. “Clock starts now.”
I’m tempted to break his nose a second time, but I suspect that won’t go as well.
Instead, I unclick my belt and refuse to look at him as I hurry up the stoop and into my house.
No, my old house. I have to remind myself that I don’t live here anymore.
“Mama?” I call out. The living room was cleaned and put back together. It’s missing a few things—some of the art that was destroyed, small decorative statues that couldn’t be repaired—but looks more or less the same.
I notice that the TV is new, and I’m not sure how she could’ve afforded that.
“I’m back here.” Her voice comes from the kitchen. I find her at the stove making khashlama, a traditional Armenian stew, usually prepared on special occasions. Papa cooked it for birthdays and holidays, but now that Papa’s gone and Luka’s not home, the preparation has apparently fallen to Mama.
“It looks good in here,” I say, honestly surprised. It’d been a total wreck the last time I saw it only a few days earlier.
“I’ve been busy.” She’s in an apron over jeans and a sweater. Her hair’s down, like usual, and I don’t notice anything off about her. I linger for a moment, feeling uncomfortable, but she turns and smiles. “I’m glad you’re back, Karine-jan.”
She wraps me in a big hug and I squeeze her back, thinking about the last time I saw her, collapsed beside the bathroom tub and racked with fear and guilt.
I sit at the table and she busies herself bringing over food and drink, chattering about the changes she had to make to the house and how Valentin has been very generous with buying her whatever she needs. Which explains the new TV and the dishes in the cabinets.
“You know already, don’t you?”
She wipes her hands together and tries to smile, but it’s strained. “I should be congratulating you.”
“Mama—”
“It’s okay, little one. It’s completely okay. I understand.”
Those words trigger me. I lean forward, tears boiling into my eyes and I fight not to start sobbing. I expected her to fight and rage, to beg me to leave Valentin, but instead she seems worn down and broken. This isn’t the Mama I grew up with, not even when Papa was at his worst, not even in those dark days after he passed. She might’ve pulled into her grief, but she was still strong. She was still the head of the house.