Page 77 of Spark
“Okay,” I promise.
“I don’t want you to go into town unless one of the Barnetts or Knight takes you and brings you home. I don’t know the ranch hands that well, and I don’t trust them to keep you safe.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats.
“Okay,” I agree again.
“Marry me, Verity. Be my wife.”
My eyes fall closed as I cowardly hide from him. “I can’t,” I whisper.
I feel him move seconds before his lips slam against mine. It’s not a sweet, soft kiss. It’s a brutal, angry, hurt claiming because I’ve rejected him. I could pull away, I could say no andhe’d stop, but instead I accept his punishment, because I deserve it.
This man is everything good in the world, and I’m hurting him, and I deserve to take his pain and anger, just the way he told me he wanted to take all of mine.
My lips feel raw, my body is tense and needy, and I know he’s done this deliberately. He’s leaving for four days after making me promise that I won’t touch myself. But I won’t fight or disobey him. I’ll embrace the discomfort and needy longing because this is my penance.
“I love you, amore mio. The same rules as last time apply. Carry your cell with you at all times, answer my calls, reply to my texts.”
“I will,” I promise.
“I’ll call you later.”
“Bye, Warrick.”
Tears drip from my eyes the moment he leaves the room, and I curl up into a ball on my side and let them fall.
I must fall asleep because the sun is bright and high in the sky when I open my eyes. My body is sore and sticky, the remains of his cum dried and uncomfortable between my thighs. Without him here, the house feels too big and too empty, the air stagnant and thick.
Slowly climbing out of bed, I head into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Once the water is warm, I step beneath the stream and let the heat soothe away some of my aches. Grabbing the shampoo, I lather it into my hair, digging my fingernails into my scalp and trying to replicate the way Warrick does it when we shower together.
Rinsing the suds out, I smooth conditioner into my hair, then leave it while I grab the soap and clean the sweat, cum, and sadness from my skin. Rubbing my soapy fingers through myfolds, I accidentally graze my clit, and a zing of pleasure tingles to life.
Freezing, I rip my hands from between my thighs like I’m going to get caught. But I won’t. I’m alone. Only I promised Warrick that I wouldn’t touch myself, and I won’t break my word, especially when I know how much I’ve already hurt him by refusing to marry him.
Letting the water wash the conditioner from my hair, I turn off the shower and climb out, wrapping myself in a towel as I try to imagine what our life would be like if we got married. Warrick is a good man. The best man, and our life would be wonderful. But the disparity between what I bring to our relationship and what he brings is so wide it’s practically a chasm.
He has a job and a house, money, and friends. I have me and a twenty-year-old body that won’t last forever. Warrick wants to take care of me, but I’d like that to be because he wants to, not because he needs to, and right now, I need him a lot more than he needs me.
Pulling on some of the new underwear and clothes he insisted on buying me the other day, I drag a brush through my hair, then strip the sheets off the bed and carry them downstairs under my arm.
Taking them straight into the garage, I put them into the washer, then add detergent, and hit the start button. Sighing, I leave the garage, close the door behind me, and pat my pocket to check my cell phone hasn’t fallen out. It’s not there.
Rushing back into the garage, I scan the floor, but I can’t see it anywhere. Sprinting back into the house, I run up the stairs then crumple to the floor in relief when I find the cell phone still charging on the bedside cabinet, right where Warrick put it for me last night before he dragged me on top of him and had me ride his dick before he sprayed his cum all over my tits.
The memory of the way he manhandled me, and moved me like a doll fills my mind, and my sex twinges and pulses with excitement. It’s the first time he’s come on me, instead of inside of me, and I found the depravity of being branded with his release incredibly arousing.
Forcing my eyes open, I work hard to push the memory away. I cannot be this turned on when I’m not allowed to do anything about it.
Unplugging my cell, I carry it downstairs, open the refrigerator, and stare at the ocean of stacked glass Tupperware containers that are full of the meals he took the time to cook for me. Each of them has a sticky label with what’s inside of them written on it, and I pull out the one labeled as a breakfast casserole and put it in the microwave to warm.
Checking my messages, I find two from Warrick.
Warrick: I’m hoping you managed to fall back asleep and you dreamed of how perfect our life will be when we get married. I love you. Speak later.
The second was sent thirty minutes ago.
