“No,” I breathe, running my hand down his toned arm. “You aren’t fine. Let me make it up to you.”

“You’ve never made shit up for me, Colette. Why do you want to now?”

“Because I need you to stay… at least for dinner. For me. Please,” I beg. God, I’m so good at this. I should win a fucking Emmy award.

Griffin looks me over, falling for my pleading doe eyes. He’s too weak. Too kind. He can never say no to me, not during times like this, when his cock is hardening and my naked body is so close to his.

Finally exhaling through parted lips, he rakes his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “Fine. Whatever.”

It isn’t enough. I need him to be enthusiastic about this. I need him to pretend to be jolly during dinner, not make it seem like we are having issues in our marriage.

We have to look perfect. We must. We have no choice of the matter. It seems now that Griffin has given up on me, and if he has, he will not care how he acts during dinner just as long as he gets it over with.

So, gradually, I run my palm down his chest and sink to my knees. I position my face in front of his crotch, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me with hot, whiskey eyes.

He doesn’t speak. He just waits. I bet he thinks that I won’t do it.

Well, I’m about to prove him wrong.

I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his slacks, and once his briefs are yanked down, my mouth closes around the smoothed head of his cock.

I take him in, inch by inch, his groan filling the room, the back of his head bumping against the wall.

He loves this. Always has. Griffin loves getting head. I mean, what man doesn’t? I’m pretty sure he enjoys this more than fucking sometimes.

His hand palms the back of my skull, and he pushes himself further into my mouth.

He is deep in my throat, and I gag, trying to pull back, but he doesn’t allow it.

He’s all in, and it hurts, but I don’t care right now.

As long as he stays.

As long as he doesn’t consider leaving.

My eyes flicker up to his, and when I realize that this is what he wants, to see me like this—owning me, finally controlling some part of me—I can’t help but feel myself clench with neediness.

He wants to see me suffer, my throat lodged around his thick, hard cock, and somehow that turns me the hell on.

Griffin… Griffin has never wanted to see me in pain. But right now, I’m sure he’s enjoying this.

Every bit of it.

He finally allows me some air, his hand easing up in my hair, but I don’t stay away for long. I slurp him back in, gagging so hard spit builds up and spills down the corners of my mouth.

He grunts and groans, fisting my hair, his hips thrusting.

And soon, he’s fucking the shit out of my mouth, my hands on his hips, pleased by it all. His body moves fluidly. I can feel his upper half tensing through his shirt.

Every single part of him is begging to be released, and when he finally does, I go still, trapping his entire cock deep in my throat.

His piping hot cum spills down, and I swallow as much as I can, still gagging. Still reeling. He spasms and curses beneath his breath.

“Ah, my sweet fucking angel,” he groans, and I beam around his twitching cock.

Wow.

He’s never called me that before.

Sweet angel. I must have just given some heavenly head.

I guess I am good at what I do.

Finally releasing me, I sit back, drawing in heavy breaths as I peer up at him. He’s looking down, studying my face, tucking his limp cock back into his boxers and yanking his slacks up.

“I’ll stay for an hour—hour and a half max, but that’s it. When I leave, they are your problem.” He steps around me, grabbing one of his suits out of the closet. Bringing it back to the bed, he lays it flat and says, “And stop planning fucking dinners here, Colette. I hate pretending to be something we both know we aren’t.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, pushing to a stand. “I fucking hate it too, Griffin. Just get dressed,” I mutter, making my way to the bathroom. “I’m going to clean myself up.”

I slam the door behind me, hearing him grumble beneath his breath.

He still despises me, but shouldn’t he feel good about knowing he can still control me in some sort of way?

That was… rare for the both of us, and still nothing has really changed.

Well, actually I take that back. Something has changed. When I look into the mirror, I realize I’m smiling.

I’m smiling because for the first time ever, after years of receiving his pity, Griffin hate-fucked me. He pummeled my mouth. Almost obliterated my throat with that rather large cock of his.

He proved that, in this, I wasn’t alone.

That I wasn’t the only one just going with the motions.

The only one that needed pleasure in all the worst ways.

God, that was so hot and, fuck me, I think I now want more of the husband I loathe.

SIXTEEN

Griffin

Dinner with the Potters is inane.

All Jacob Potter talks about are his investments and how they “saved his dealership from going bankrupt.” I call straight bullshit on that one, but I bite my tongue anyway.

Oh, and I can’t forget Missy Potter. All she can talk about is her plastic surgery. I love a pair of tits, but silicone has never done it for me.

“I’m telling you,” she hisses across the table to Colette like we can’t hear her. “The surgeon I went to is great. He even cut me a deal. I bet if I put a word in he’ll cut you one too.”

Colette’s mouth barely tilts. She doesn’t care. She’s not pleased either, especially by the way Missy looks her over as if she doesn’t have enough for a man or even a woman to look at.

I start to say something, but Colette speaks. “I think I am just fine with my body, Missy, but thank you.” I can tell she’s trying her best to avoid a clipped tone and clenched teeth.

Missy shrugs. “Suit yourself. It never hurts to keep it together.”

Me and Colette frown. “Exactly what are you implying, Missy?” I ask, sitting forward and meeting her eyes.

Hers swing to mine, bewildered. “Nothing at all!” she practically sings. “I just—well, I know Jacob loves my body even more now ever since the surgery. Men love being able to grab onto something, you know?” She forces a laugh, one that makes my skin crawl.

I glance at Colette and she’s squeezing the handle of her fork, but her face remains even. She’s going to burst any second now.

“Honey, why don’t you have Arianna get the cake, huh?”

She whips her head up to look up at me—probably because I haven’t called her that name in ages—and I reach for her hand, easing her off the fork before she ends up springing across the table and stabbing Missy in the neck with it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, dropping the fork and pushing out of her chair. “I’ll tell her.” Colette marches away in her stilettos, the anger clear in the swing of her hips.

Sighing, I look from Colette as she makes it to the kitchen, to Jacob who shrugs and picks up his glass of wine, and then at Missy.

Missy is looking in the direction Colette took off too, shaking her head with disapproval.

All right. So my wife may get on my fucking nerves, but I’ll be damned if I allow this plastic bitch to disrespect her or me under my fucking roof. Grabbing my glass of wine, I lean back in my chair and study Missy.

She’s completely artificial and it’s fucking hideous. Her face full of Botox. At least Colette still has that glow, her face free of wrinkles, skin clear and still youthful.

“Once we have the cake,” I say, my eyes boring into Missy, “you two can leave. No need for goodbyes.”