Page 30 of Forgotten Vows

I imagine her coming with me, her body clenching around my cock, her nails digging into my shoulders, her voice breaking on my name as she falls apart beneath me. I picture her looking at me afterward with a soft, satisfied expression, like I've given her something she's been waiting for her whole life.

I imagine her loving me again.

The orgasm hits me like a freight train, pleasure slamming through me in waves that leave me gasping. My hand works methrough it, my cum spilling over my fingers and onto my stomach, soaking through my shirt in hot pulses. For a moment, there's nothing but the physical sensation, the relief. It feels so good to finally come, and I groan through gritted teeth, stroking and squeezing every drop out until my cock finally goes blessedly limp.

And then it all comes rushing back in a painful wave of reality.

I'm alone in my room, my hand covered in my own cum, my wife locked in a bedroom down the hall because she's too terrified of me to be trusted with freedom. Our son is sleeping in another room, confused and frightened, probably wondering why his mother married a stranger and why everything has changed so suddenly and violently.

And I'm here, jerking off on my wedding night to memories of a girl who doesn't exist anymore, trying to convince myself that this will get better. That once Adriana understands, once she sees that I'm trying to protect her and she remembers what we had, everything will be okay.

But what if it doesn't get better? What if she never understands or forgives me for taking her, never looks at me with anything other than fear and resentment? What if I've destroyed the only thing I ever wanted by trying too hard to save it?

I clean myself up, stripping off my clothes and tossing them in the hamper, then turn on the shower. The man in the bathroom mirror looks like a stranger—hard-faced, scarred, and dangerous. Not the boy who loved Adriana Santoro in a garden ten years ago.

Not someone she could love back.

Under the hot spray of the shower, as I scrub myself clean, my cock hardens again. I brace myself against the tile with one hand and reach for it, stroking almost mechanically until I come again. I know I won't be able to sleep otherwise. Hopefully two orgasms back to back will be enough to slake the near-painful desire I've felt since the moment I saw her again.

I dry off, pull on a pair of boxer briefs, and slide into bed. I'm exquisitely comfortable, but I can't sleep. I lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the penthouse, wondering if she's awaketoo. If she's lying in that bed thinking about me, and the fact that we're married now and there's no going back from this.

I want you to remember who I am.

But maybe that's the problem. Maybe she does remember who I was, and that's why she's so afraid of who I've become.

I barely sleep. By the time I nod off and jerk back awake, I see that the clock reads seven in the morning. I've gotten maybe an hour and a half, at most.

But it's time to get up.

I'm achingly stiff again, and I shower, jerk off to painful memories of the woman who is now my wife, and get dressed for the day.

I make my way down the hallway toward her room, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. I pause outside her door, my hand on the lock, listening. There's no sound from inside. She might be asleep, or she might be awake and trying to figure out how to get herself and Matteo out of here.

The thought makes my chest tight.

I unlock the door and push it open slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle her.

She's awake. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot in a pair of jeans rolled at the ankle and a camisole top with lace at the edges. When she hears the door open, her head snaps up, and I see the flash of wariness in her eyes.

"Morning. I see you found the clothes I had purchased for you." I motion toward her. "Hopefully they mostly fit."

"Lachlan." She ignores what I've said entirely. Her voice is hoarse, like she's been crying. "The door was locked."

It's an accusation. I take a slow breath.

"I know." I step into the room, leaving the door open behind me. "I'm sorry. I just—I wanted to make sure you were safe. And until we've had a chance to work out how we both feel about this, I thought it was better."

"Safe." She laughs shortly. I've never heard such a bitter sound from her before. "You locked me in a room. How is that keeping me safe?"

"Adriana—"

"Don't." She stands up. I can see the exhaustion and fear and anger radiating off her in waves. "Don't try to explain it. Don't try to make it sound reasonable. You locked me in a room, Lachlan. Just like Gio used to do. Just like?—"

She stops, her voice breaking, and I can see her fighting not to fall apart in front of me. "I want to see Matteo," she says finally.

"Of course. No one is keeping him from you." I step back, and I see that wary look on her face intensify, like she doesn't believe anything I'm saying. She gets up and walks past me without another look, hurrying down the hall in the direction of his room. I keep pace behind her, and unlock the door for her when she gets there.

She rounds on me instantly. "You locked his room, too?"