Page 182 of Vicious Intentions
I hate my husband.
Hate him with the power of a thousand suns.
These last three days up here in the Hamptons have been the happiest in my life. I’ve never felt more free, more alive, more myself than with him at my side. And how I hate Matteo for it.
He has made me come in almost every room of his father’s over-the-top beach house, but not once has he made love to me. Oh, he makes me writhe and shout out his name from the top of my lungs plenty of times, but he never pushes for more.
What kind of man professes his undying love for a woman but never tries to sleep with her? By this rate, we will be celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary, and I’ll still be a virgin. Argh!
It’s unsettling how much restraint the man has. I have none compared to him. Every time I’ve tried to push for more, he just takes two steps back, ending whatever little game we were playing. And he usually ends it by making me come on hisfingers or tongue. That stupid, wicked tongue that has me seeing stars.
I hate him.
I. Hate. Him.
Matteo’s refusal to sleep with me feels like some cruel punishment. That must be it. He’s punishing me. For Rafe. For being my father’s daughter. For not loving him back. But even as I think it, I know I’m grasping at straws.
Maybe the reason he doesn’t want to sleep with me is simpler than I’m making it out to be. What’s that phrase Mamma always says? That men are simple creatures. If that’s true, then maybe the reason my husband refuses to consummate our marriage is that he doesn’t want me. Not truly. Not like I want him.
In this little silent battle of the wills that we have been fighting for over a month now, he somehow got the upper hand. Here I am, desperate for him to ravish me, while he’s perfectly content to leave things as they currently are. What kind of monster does that? And what does it say about me wanting that same monster to claim me as his own?
“You’ve been quiet all night,” he says behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, as we wait for the fireworks to begin.
“Maybe because I don’t have anything to say,” I quip back, unlatching his grip from me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, pulling the shawl tighter around my shoulders, needing the barrier between his chest and my back.
“Are you cold?” he asks, stepping beside me, already shrugging off his jacket to drape it over me.
“I’m not cold,” I snap, stopping him from taking it off.
“Apparently not, but youareangry,” he accuses, his luscious lips thinning into a fine line. “Now will you stop acting like a brat and tell me what’s wrong?”
“I am not a brat,” I seethe, even though, to be fair, I’m giving a very convincing impression of one.
“No. I said you were acting like one. Not that you are one,” he muses with a flirtatious smirk. “And you only act like one when your horn—”
I place both hands over his mouth before he finishes the word.
“There are children here,husband.Careful with what you say next,” I chastise, eyeing the busy pier with families and kids roaming along it, eager to see the Fourth of July fireworks display.
I only slip my hands off his mouth when I’m sure he won’t finish his sentence. But when he leans into my ear, his tongue licking the shell and his teeth biting into my lobe, making me squirm, I see that I’ve miscalculated how devious my husband can be when he sets his mind to it.
“Nine orgasms, wife. I gave you nine today, three of which, just before we even came here tonight, and you’re still greedy for more.”
Heat rises to my cheeks at his words, and how I wish they didn’t make my heart flutter and my core drip. I place my hands on his chest and push him away while taking a step back.
“Take me home. I don’t want to see the fireworks anymore.”
Matteo’s brow furrows in confusion, but he nods all the same. When his hand settles at the small of my back, I slap it away, drawing a few curious glances from nearby onlookers. But they don’t stare for long. Not when Matteo gives them his best glacial glower, the one that promises death and destruction.
The drive home is silent, thick with everything neither of us says. One thing is for sure, I’m not the only one in a sour mood anymore. After the fireworks display, he told me he wanted to take me out dancing since I’ve never done that before. He hadthis whole night planned out for us, and I ruined it because, in his words, I’m acting like a brat.
I hate that he can do these little heartwarming things to make me happy, but refuses to give me the one thing that I want. Why?
When the car pulls up to the house, I’m out before it fully stops, not even waiting for him to open the door. I slam it behind me and cut along the side of the house, heading straight for the dune that slopes down toward the back. The sand drags at my steps, the incline stealing my momentum, slowing me down. By the time I reach the top, I’m already slipping off my heels, tossing them aside before running down the other side.
