"Your clothes. They bother me. 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐨𝐟𝐟."
~
Marriage was not for love -it was for business. It was a strategic move that one had to make wisely. For the Lombardis and the Morettis, this marriage was the most calculated, showstopping...
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He can't sit still.
It's been two fucking days since he's seen her and he's having withdrawals.
He's easily agitated. He can't think properly and his skin itches. He gets random muscle spasms. He swears that one touch or even one inhale of her scent will make everything better. He's convinced that one minute will solve all of his problems.
He wants to punch Manny, the teenager who ran off with a girl for a weekend and made him fly almost nine hours to find him, for making him leave her. He hasn't told her he's coming home because the stupid wifi on the stupid private jet wasn't fucking working.
He's speeding home the second he's off the plane, knee bouncing as his mind goes to the gutter.
What would she be wearing? Maybe one of her little sundresses? Maybe a skirt? He hopes it's something flowy so he doesn't have to waste time ripping off her clothes. What color underwear would she be wearing? Pink --his wife was a big fan of pink.
Or maybe it was blue; he liked blue because it made her eyes pop. What was she doing right now? Was she working or reading? His mother had told him that she does a lot of reading. He's going to have to get her new books soon since she's probably read every last one in the study.
He adjusts himself, hips flexing as he turns off the car and rushes out. He's not even sure if he got the car keys but it doesn't matter. The past two nights have been hell. The last time he had a wet dream was twenty fucking years ago and he's had some back-to-back without her. His cock fucking ached.
He's bursting through the doors, basically running down the hall and up the windy staircase. He's throwing open the doors to their bedroom and she's not there but the room smells like her and a shiver shoots down his spine.
He's checking every room and every hall and it's just his luck that she's in the very back of the house, in the sunroom.
He shoves the doors open like a madman and she instantly turns around to where the sound came from.
It's her graceful, bright smile that has his knees buckling like a teenager.
"You didn't tell me you were coming back today," she smiles, walking up to him and he's already meeting her halfway. Her electric, crystal-blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight, and her pink, pillowy lips are stained with the cherries that are in a bowl on the table.
He can't take it. He can't fucking take it.
He's pressing his mouth to hers, holding the back of her neck as the other wraps around her middle, securing him tightly against him. She's moaning on impact and he feels like he might die. She tastes tarte and sweet like cherries, invigorating like mint from the infused water she drank earlier.
He can't fucking breathe.
He drags his tongue over the soft seam of her lips and she lets him in, warmth and electricity coursing through their touch.
