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I glance down at my empty place, then lift my gaze to him just as he spears a bite of short rib with his fork and blows at the steam curling off it. He smiles pleasantly as he looks up at me.

“So, what are you having for dinner?”

God.

Damn.

It.

“I mean,” he sighs, “I didn’t want to assume and step on your toes by doing anything for you.” He grins as the steam from his fork curls around his sharp eyes. “I learned my lesson with the coffee.”

Mother. Fucker.

He takes a bite and groans around it, his eyes closing in ecstasy.

“I would point out that there’s peanut butter and jelly in the pantry,” he adds, neatly cutting another bite of short rib. “But far be it for me to interfere with your journey to complete independence.”

Well.

Welcome to married life.

27

BELLA

Apparently, sexual frustration can make a person homicidal. Feels slightly redundant in my case, but here we are.

Or rather, here I am.

Sitting alone by myself in the cottage living room, telling myself I’m reading my Abnormal Psychology textbook when I’m actually letting flat-out lurid fantasies involving Damiano’s big hands around my throat and his even bigger cock fucking me into the very couch I’m perched on invade my thoughts.

It is now night four in our “marital cottage”, and I’m beginning to wonder if female blue balls are a thing.

Blue ovaries?

Acute clitoral neglect?

Well, that’s not totally accurate. I’ve been getting myself off via my vibrator. Or at least attempting to. I mean, I get off, but it’s just…lame.

Because I’ve had the real thing now. I’ve had that man with his absurdly good genes, growly voice, gorgeous cock, and the sexual prowess of a god. And now I’m supposed to make do with my fingers and some double A batteries?

Please.

It’s like going from perfectly aged wagyu to fast food burgers.

It’s ridiculous. I have this hot, fuck-god of a husband. But he’s apparently decided to hold sex over my head like a treat until I cut open my veins and let him see the worst, darkest, most broken parts of me.

I wanted to talk to you about the basement.

It’s come up twice since the hospital. Apparently, Dame had a camera in that basement room he locked me in, which means he saw the way I basically had a psychological breakdown in there before I finally got out.

And he wants to know why.

But that’s not fucking happening.

I scowl, squirming on the couch before I force my eyes back to my book.

I swear, my libido these days seems to have dialed itself up to “ultra-horny turbo-slut” mode. I can’t concentrate in class. I was super weird and even a little snappy at Ari earlier. I haven’t even been able to finish off Mr. Hands, who is still hanging somewhere between life and death in my kill room.