Broken by Silence, page 29
I rub firm, tight circles there, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. “This is mine,” I snarl in her ear, my voice barely recognizable. “This tight, perfect cunt. It belongs to me. You can marry a hundred men, but you will always remember who owns this. Who fucks you like this.”
“Elijah!”
Her body begins to tighten around me, and I drive into her one last, final time, so deep I fear I might hurt her, and I hold myself there as her climax crashes over her. Her inner walls convulse around my cock, milking me, pulling my own release from me in hot, pulsing waves.
I spill into her, my own groan lost in the sound of her shuddering breaths.
We collapse together over the gravestone, spent and panting. Slowly, I pull out of her, turning her limp, pliant body in my arms to face me. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen from my kisses. She looks well and truly fucked.
Mine.
My Wife.
My Lottie.
I look down at her, at this beautiful, intoxicating woman. A possessiveness, darker and more profound than anything I’d ever felt, surges through me. I need one final thing.
The final seal on my ownership. “Open wife,” I command.
I gather a small amount of saliva in my mouth, and my eyes lock on hers. Her breath hitches, her gaze flicking to my lips with a knowing smile. She glares, but there’s no heat in it, and she obeys.
I lean down, my mouth hovering just above hers, and I spit directly into her open, waiting mouth. She swallows, accepting it, accepting me, in the most primal way possible.
A slow, wicked smile spreads across my face. “Welcome back from the dead, wife.”
Chapter 42
Roman
It’s been two days since the wedding.
Two days since she said ‘I do’ to us idiots and smiled at me like she meant it.
Two days since her name stopped existing, replaced by a single word that feels too small for what she is to me.
Wife.
Reyes is my wife, and that’s all I can bring myself to call her now.
She’s curled by the window when I find her, one of my shirts hanging off one shoulder… one of mine. She’s in my clothes… There’s a blanket draped over her legs, and a cup of coffee in her hand. She looks up when I step closer, eyes still soft from sleep, lips parting slightly.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice still rough from sleep… but dangerously sweet. I shouldn’t feel like this. Two days married, and I’m addicted to every breath she takes. Every move she makes feels designed to ruin me.
I reach for her, fingers brushing the fabric of my shirt where it slides off her shoulder, and she shivers.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
“Just thinking,” I lie… well, partly, because how can I tell her that I’ve somehow become more obsessed with her than I was before?
“About what?”
“Are we okay?” The words are out before I can stop them, rough and raw. My heart is a clumsy, heavy thing beating against my ribs. I can’t look at her, so I stare at my own hands.
Lottie doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches. I hear the soft rustle of her blanket as she moves, and then her bare feet appear on the floorboards in front of me. Her big toe, painted a pale, delicate pink, nudges against my boot.
“Look at me, Roman.”
It’s not a request. It’s a quiet command, one I’ve spent a lifetime learning to obey. I force my head up, my gaze traveling the familiar path from her slender ankles, up the gentle curve of her calves, past the way my t-shirt hangs off of her, to finally, finally, meet her eyes.
Brown. Flecked with gold and honey. The same eyes that used to watch me with fear, then with a cold, impenetrable wall of hatred. Now, they’re just… soft.
She studies my face, her gaze tracing the lines she knows by heart. The lines I got for her. My pulse hammers at the base of my throat.
Two days. It’s been two days since I stood and vowed to love, honor, and cherish her, and made her my wife.
The word still feels foreign.
Forbidden.
But every moment is overshadowed by the ghost of my father. Of what he did to her. Of what I did afterward. The bullying. The cruel words I parroted from him, trying to shove her away because her pain was a mirror I was too cowardly to look into. I was just a scared kid, trying to survive him, but that’s no excuse.
It never will be.
And now, standing before me, she’s seeing it. Her eyes trace the largest serpent, the one whose head rests just beside my eye. Her hand lifts, and I flinch. An old, involuntary reaction. Her fingers stop, hovering an inch from my cheek.
“Can I?” she whispers.
I can’t speak. I just give a jerky nod, my throat too tight for words. Her fingertips are warm. They brush against the ink, tracing the tattoo. A shiver, hot and cold all at once, racks my entire body.
Her touch feels like absolution and judgment all at once.
Do you feel the shame seared into me? I want to ask. Do you see the penance? Do you see how sorry I am? How much I love you?
She doesn’t say anything. She just feels the raised skin, the permanent reminder of my past, of our past. Her thumb gently strokes the spot under my eye, and I have to close them, overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.
“You asked if we’re okay,” she says, her voice so low it’s almost part of the evening quiet.
I can only nod again, my eyes still squeezed shut, braced for the blow.
“We’re more than okay.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My eyes fly open.
She leans closer, her breath warm against my cheek. “The past is over, Roman. You’re not him. You never were. And I don’t see him when I look at you.” Her voice drops to a whisper, a secret just for me. “I see my husband.”
Husband.
The word, in her mouth, aimed directly at me, breaks something open. A dam inside my chest I didn’t even know was holding back an ocean. The ache I’ve been carrying for years—for her, for us, for the kids we used to be—finally cracks. A single, traitorous tear escapes, tracing a path through the ink on my cheek.
She doesn’t wipe it away. She just watches it fall.
I reach for her, my hands finding her waist, and she doesn’t hesitate. She slides into my lap, a fluid, natural motion that steals the last of my breath. Her fingers thread through my hair, not gentle now but possessive, and she presses her forehead against mine.
“Lottie,” I whisper, the name a prayer. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe not,” she teases softly, and I can feel her smile against my lips. “But you’ve got me anyway.”
And when I kiss her, it’s not like any kiss we’ve ever shared. It’s slow. A grounding, sealing kiss that tastes like forgiveness and the faintest trace of forever.
Her hands drift down my chest, and my heart stumbles against my ribs, trying to get closer to hers. Every scar, every mistake, every moment that’s led us here—it all fades until there’s only this. Only the weight of her in my lap. The warmth of her mouth.
Lottie.
We break the kiss, her breathing as unsteady as mine. Her eyes are dark, the gold flecks glowing.
I stand, lifting her easily into my arms, and she wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, still kissing me like she can rewrite every memory we both wish we could erase. I carry her the few steps to the bed and lay her down on the soft white duvet, her hair fanning out like a dark crown.
I hover over her, bracing my weight on my arms, just looking. Taking her in. My wife. I can’t stop reciting it in my head.
Her hand comes up, her fingers gently tracing my lips. “Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I breathe back.
Her smile is everything.
My mouth finds hers again, and a low hum of pleasure vibrates in her throat. The sound goes straight to my cock, which is already straining unbearably against my pants. I rock my hips against hers, a slow grind that makes her gasp into my mouth.
“Roman,” she sighs, and the way she says my name, all breathy and full of want. It unravels me.
I hook my fingers under the hem of her T-shirt. “Off,” I murmur against her lips.
She arches her back, helping me pull it over her head. I toss it to the floor, and my breath catches. She’s wearing a simple cream lace bra, and her skin is flushed a beautiful pink beneath it.
God, she’s perfect.
I lower my head and press an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of her breast, just above the lace. Her back arches off the bed.
My fingers find the clasp at her back. It gives way with a quiet snick, and I peel the delicate fabric away. And then she’s bare to me. Her breasts are full, her nipples tight and begging for my mouth. I don’t make her wait.
I take one taut peak into my mouth, sucking gently, and her fingers plunge into my hair, holding me to her. I circle my tongue, flicking and teasing until her hips are shifting restlessly beneath me. I move to the other, giving it the same devoted attention, and her quiet whimpers are the only music I ever want to hear.
I kiss a trail down her stomach, my hands skimming over her bare skin. She’s completely naked beneath me, and I sit back on my heels, just drinking her in. The smooth plane of her stomach, the tempting thatch of dark curls in the middle of her thighs. She watches me, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a faint blush spreading across her skin.
“You’re staring,” she whispers, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice.
“I’m worshipping my wife,” I correct her, my voice rough with need. “There’s a difference.” I lower myself between her legs, spreading her thighs wider with my hands. I press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, on the sensitive skin of her thigh. She trembles.
“And I don’t think I’ve grovelled enough quite yet. Do you want me to worship you, wife?”
“Please,” she begs.
I don’t make her beg twice. I lower my mouth and taste her.
Her back bows off the bed with a sharp cry as my tongue finds her clit. I circle it slowly, savoring the way she jumps and quivers against my mouth. So sensitive. I slide two fingers inside her, and she’s so wet, her hips lifting to meet my thrusting fingers.
I build a rhythm with my hand and my tongue, relentless, focused entirely on her. I want to know her body better than my own, the exact pressure she likes, the spot just inside that makes her see stars.
I curl my fingers, pressing against that sweet, rough spot, and her whole body tenses. “I’m… I’m going to…” she gasps, her hands fisting the sheets.
I don’t let up. I suck gently on her clit, my fingers pumping, and I feel her come apart. Her thighs clamp against my head as she lets out a long, broken moan. I ride it out with her, gentling my touch until she’s lying boneless and spent beneath me.
I kiss my way back up her body, tasting her on my lips. Her eyes are glazed, a sated smile playing on her mouth.
“Your turn,” she slurs, her hands already fumbling for my belt.
In one swift movement, I have my shirt over my head. She undoes my belt, my button, my zipper, and shoves my jeans and boxers down my hips. My cock springs free, hard and aching. Her small, cool hand wraps around my length, and I groan, my head falling forward.
“Lottie…”
She strokes me once, twice, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture at my tip. The sensation is almost too much. I need to be inside her… Now.
I capture her mouth in a searing kiss as I position myself at her entrance. I push inside, just the head, and we both gasp into each other’s mouths.
“All of you,” she whispers, her nails digging into my shoulders. “I need all of you.”
I sink into her in one slow, seamless glide, burying myself to the hilt. The feeling is absolute perfection. She’s so tight, so warm, clenching around me like a fist. I stay there for a moment, completely sheathed, my forehead pressed to hers, just feeling the connection. Home. This is home.
I begin to move. A slow, deep rhythm that has her moaning with every thrust. I slide almost all the way out, teasing us both, before driving back in, hitting a depth that makes her eyes roll back. “Roman,” she moans.
“Husband,” I correct her.
My pace quickens, becoming more urgent. Her legs wrap tightly around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I lose all control. I’m pistoning into her, chasing my release, driven by her breathless cries. I feel her begin to tighten around me again. “Come with me,” I grit out, my voice strained. “Come for your husband.”
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit, and circle it in time with my thrusts. That’s all it takes. Her second orgasm crashes over her, a silent, breathless scream on her lips as her inner muscles clamp down on me like a vice. The intense, rhythmic squeezing pulls my own orgasm from me, a blinding, white-hot surge of pleasure that roars through my veins. I pulse inside her, my own cry muffled against her neck, spilling myself deep inside her.
I collapse on top of her, spent, our hearts hammering against each other. I’m still inside her, and I never want to leave.
After a long moment, I shift my weight to the side, pulling her with me so we’re tangled together on the rumpled sheets. I brush the damp hair from her forehead.
She nuzzles into my neck, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry for crushing me.”
A low laugh rumbles in my chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” I pause, the words feeling more significant than anything. “I love you, wife.”
She tilts her head up, her smile soft and genuine. “I love you, husband.”
Her eyes flutter closed, her breathing evening out. I watch her for a long time, memorizing the curve of her lip, the sweep of her lashes. The peace on her face is something I will guard with my life.
Epilogue
“So you’re married to six men?”
“Five. Six would be far too much,” I chuckle, and Emma returns it. I’ve come to think of her as a somewhat friend for the last three years, and I know that I can tell her anything since Claire and she are actual friends in real life.
“And Lorenzo? The man who raped you, he’s dead?”
“Mmhmm,” I nod. “And Tracey.”
“Sounds like an eventful week. How do you feel?”
I think for a moment before answering, spinning the diamond ring on my finger, then finally look at her. “Relieved, like I can finally move on and be happy. I’m not delusional enough to think that I’ll always be okay. I’ll still have nightmares and setbacks, but I know deep down I’ll always have my five husbands to be there for me when things get tough.”
She studies me for a moment, as if she’s seeing me properly for the first time, and maybe she is. I feel like a weight’s been lifted from me since they died. Shadows that can no longer chase the new me. “You sound certain of this new life you’ve built for yourself,” she says, “It’s refreshing. When I met you, you were mute. You thought silence was safer than being loud, and now you’re sitting here, smiling, and your eyes… they look lighter. Full of life.”
“I am.” And I am. It’s strange, hearing the words out loud and realizing they’re true. “They’ve seen every version of me,” I continue. “The broken parts, the violent parts, the ones that still wake up screaming, and they stay. Every time.”
“So what now?” Emma asks, a smile on her face.
“Now… we go on our honeymoon. Crew was adamant about going to the Maldives, but I think Oscar strong-armed him into going to somewhere in Greece. Archer, Elijah, and Roman are just excited to get away somewhere warm.”
“Sounds like it’ll be eventful. How is Roman coping with the death of Lorenzo?”
“Honestly? About the same way I feel about Tracey being gone. He’s arranged to take over his father’s contracts, something he never wanted to do, but now that it’s there, he wants to do more with it. Build an empire of his own, with the other family’s backing.”
We sit in silence for a moment, letting it stretch between us. “You look happier, Lottie.” Emma finally says.
“I am.”
“I can’t believe you got married without telling us—and now you’re off to Greece!” Angel whines dramatically over the video call.
Zara, sitting beside her, rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe she’s insane enough to marry five men.”
I shrug. “What can I say? They make me happy. Plus, I was technically kidnapped and all that, so it’s not like I had time to send out invites.”
“Still.” Angel’s bottom lip wobbles in exaggerated heartbreak. “I was supposed to be your super-hot maid of honor.”
I laugh. “You’re one of my super-hot best friends. That counts for something, right?”
“Fine,” she sighs, dramatically defeated. “Anyway, go have fun. I’ve got a date with a certain Mr. Stalker tonight.”
“Pacheco?” I wince, already pitying him. “Poor guy has no idea what he’s in for.”
“The one and only,” she grins. “He’s taking me somewhere fancy.”
“Well, I’ll pray for him—and I’ll bring you both back a souvenir. But we’ve gotta go. Love you guys.”
“Love you, bitch!” Angel blows me a kiss.
“Love you!” Zara waves.
The plane lands just as the day begins.
Roman steps off first, sunglasses in place, that quiet protectiveness radiating from him even here. Crew’s already joking about who gets the biggest room, and Oscar’s halfway through signing a story that has Elijah rolling his eyes. Archer lingers by me, one hand at the small of my back, steadying me.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself breathe.
