My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance
My Dark Romeo: Chapter 31

I tramped up and down Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, chewing seven pieces of gum, almost ripping my hair off my scalp.

Why the fuck had I taunted Shortbread with that toothbrush?

The stubborn little nymph almost went along with it, too. It was a dare on my end. One that exploded in my face in spectacular fashion.

She’d managed to make me curse.

And cuddle.

Sure, I could waltz right into a pharmacy and demand a pack of condoms. Double-wrap. Then finish the pack and top it off with another.

Then another.

And when one of the hundred or so—inevitable the next time Dallas wiggled her ass in the air, welcoming me to park inside her pussy—condoms broke, TLC could add us to the cast of 19 Kids and Counting.

Hard pass.

The pill and IUD had their disadvantages. First off, I couldn’t tell her what to do with her body. Second, I’d never trust her to take the pills or keep the IUD in. She obviously wanted children.

And finally, the snip. Vasectomies only had a 99.9% success rate. Knowing my luck, I’d be in that point-one percent.

After all, I was in that percent in every other aspect—intelligence, looks, tax bracket, and so forth.

An idea formed in my head. I entertained it, stomping up and down the sidewalk.

Shortbread begged to feel it once.

Just one time with my cock in her cunt.

Not too big of an ask. I could get it over with and move on with my life.

Before I had the chance to rethink it, I returned to the hotel.

I never actually expected Dallas to fall asleep. Not after the day we’d had. But I’d underestimated my wife’s laziness.

Not only was she fast asleep, she was also snoring with a half-finished scone plastered to her chest.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, moved the scone to the nightstand, and tucked locks of her wild hair behind her ears.

Oliver was right.

She was irresistible.

Somehow beautiful, innocent, and spirited at once. As exquisite and thorny as a wild rose.

I didn’t even hesitate before shedding my shoes and pants. In just my briefs, I kneeled between her legs and nudged my nose to her slit through her underwear.

She murmured in her sleep, wiggling her ass a little. A small smile formed on her lips.

I pressed my hot tongue to her center. She gasped. The cotton dampened from both my mouth and her body catching up with my intentions.

Through the thin fabric, I fingered her and sucked on her clit, teasing her.

Her nipples puckered behind her satin top, and her eyes fluttered open.

To my great pleasure, she was still half-asleep, not fully coherent. Perhaps she’d shut up for a change.

With a soft moan, she thrust her pussy in my face. “More.”

I sucked harder on her clit, releasing the pressure. Using both my index and middle fingers, I curled them all the way inside her pussy, straining the flimsy panties and finger-fucking her at the same time.

“Mmm. Good.”

Good?

I hadn’t touched a woman in almost half a decade. Good didn’t cut it.

Shortbread’s thighs quaked, bracketing my ears. Her fingers found my hair, tugging viciously.

I went harder, rougher, latching on to one of her tits through her top and pinching her nipple. Her eyes finally popped open. She blinked at me behind a curtain of innocent lust.

For a second, I thought I could get used to this.

Then I remembered Oliver’s words about her.

An arrow of possessiveness shot through me, triggering a third finger into the mix. I taunted her clit with the tip of my tongue, circling.

She jerked forward, gliding the bud across my nose.

“Fuck!” shouted my beautiful, gently bred Southern wife. “No wonder Daddy didn’t let us date. If I knew it felt this good, I’d have had sex with every guy in my grade.”

I almost choked on her panties. From laughter or outrage, I wasn’t sure.

“Yes. Yes. Like that, but maybe…maybe even faster.”

The childish glee in her voice racketed my pulse.

My heart battered my ribs. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt it working properly. Usually, it did the bare minimum of keeping me alive and not an ounce more.

She writhed and moaned beneath me, clamping her legs around my skull in a death grip, ensuring I didn’t go anywhere. It would take three armies and an entire apocalypse to nudge me away.

Dallas Costa was fine art. I wanted to frame her in this moment and return to the scene whenever the urge to devour her reared its ugly head.

She was so receptive. Brimming with genuine excitement. Nothing about her response to me was premeditated or calculated. She was ruthlessly honest.

Honest when she told me how much she hated me with everything she had.

And honest when I made her fall apart with my tongue and fingers.

Best of all, she was so different from Morgan Lacoste, who only let go and got off on my tongue when drunk, which was universally more frequent than one should be intoxicated.

Ruthless, calculated Morgan cared more about looking good during sex than actually enjoying the act.

“Yes. Yes! I’m coming!”

My little undomesticated pornstar pushed me so hard between her legs, my oxygen levels plummeted. She clenched around my fingers through her panties as an orgasm rolled through her in waves.

The gush of warmth soaked the cotton. I kissed her through the fabric, again and again, knowing tomorrow everything would return to its proper position—my boundaries, my limits, my hang-ups, my demons.

“Can I return the favor?” Dallas sat half up. “But not through your briefs. Men’s briefs always smell like old cheese that’s been sitting in a crockpot for days. I know because whenever my housekeeper went on vacation, we all took turns doing the laundry. And, well, I really shouldn’t say, but Dadd—”

Not wanting the moment to be ruined with a conversation about her father’s underwear, I pulled forward, shutting her smart mouth with a kiss that tasted like her sweet pussy.

At first, she pinched her lips and made a face, unsure what she thought about her own taste.

But when I dragged the tip of my hard cock along her slit through our clothes, she went wild and kissed me back, shoving her tongue so deep down my throat I thought she would fish out my dinner.

“Yes.” She wiggled against me. “Please, sir, may I have some more?”

She’d quoted Oliver Twist while getting fucked.

Truly, the woman was one of a kind.

Knowing it was idiotic, and dangerous, and deranged, I pushed my tip through her slit. She was tight—tighter, still, through the tattered, stretched cotton of her ruined panties—but wet and sleek, ready for what was coming.

The sensation, how warm and taut she felt, completely undid me. I thrust harder and deeper, entering her through our underwear, fucking her slowly with only flimsy fabric between us.

I tore my mouth from hers, eyes glued to my cock each time it sank into her. I could barely fit inside, she was so tight.

This was, by far, the best fuck I’d ever had.

She panted. “Is this what people call dry-humping?”

No.

Nothing about this was dry. I was basically fucking her through our underwear.

Only, explaining to her that this was full-blown sex with a side order of my issues was not in my plans for tonight. Or ever.

“Sure.”

Each push brought me closer to a climax.

From slow, controlled, teasing thrusts designed to drive her mad with desire, I quickly derailed to jerky, manic, need-to-be-inside-this-woman plunges. Of a man so hungry for human connection, for affection, for carnal needs to be met and satisfied.

My head grew dizzy. I’d taken into consideration the possibility that Dallas couldn’t come through penetration. It merely placed her in the same majority as most females on Planet Earth.

But she shook, clawed, and reached for me, looking ready to climax. Her tits bounced and jiggled each time I slammed into her.

Her mouth opened in awe, probably because this orgasm felt different from the first two. Deeper and more violent.

She clutched the lapels of my shirt, shoving her face in mine. “Lose the underwear.” She met my thrust, groaning when my crown peeked past the slot in my boxer briefs. “I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you.”

I was about two seconds from fulfilling her demand. Luckily, my logic grabbed the steering wheel, which my cock had seized sometime this evening, and derailed the situation from full-blown calamity.

I managed to wait until she came, just barely, before pulling out, flipping her onto her stomach, and jerking off.

I aimed for her bare ass but somehow came on her hair. No matter. She had plenty of time to wash it. Her agenda wasn’t exactly full.

Dallas fell back onto the pillows, a lopsided grin on her face.

“It’s official.” She pulled me down with her and peppered my face with wet, sloppy kisses, reminding me, yet again, that the difference between her and a puppy was indeed negligible. “Having sex is my new favorite sport.”

“Sex is not a sport.”

“It should be. I would do it all day long if that were a thing.”

“It is. It’s called prostitution.”

I fell on top of her with complete disregard to her slight weight, reached for the nightstand, and shoved two mint gums into my mouth.

“There won’t be another time.” I rolled off her, my body sleek with sweat, my muscles calm for the first time in years.

“Sure, honey.” She plastered her tits to my arm. Beneath us, the sheets were soaked with everything we’d just done. “Just this once.”

But the temptation proved too much.

I ended up granting myself a free pass for the duration of our honeymoon. For an entire week, I fucked Dallas through her clothes at every opportunity.

And every night, I fucked her through a bedsheet, careful to always come on her face, tongue, and tits. I almost even fucked her bareback in the Louvre.

Then I ate her sweet little cunt at La Madeleine. A church of all places, because my troublemaker of a wife simply could not wait until we returned to the hotel.

She’d even begged me to finger her on the Dodo Manège. Which meant I also had to suck her tits under a coat I draped over her chest in the taxi back to the hotel.

The pattern was depressingly clear.

I married a woman with nymphomaniac tendencies and had zero desire to deprive her of what she wanted.

I was pussy-whipped. So pussy-whipped, I forgot to ask, to expect, to train her to return the favor.

I was so enamored with her cunt that I forgot it was a Venus flytrap, hungry for my sperm.

One thing was certain.

When we returned to U.S. soil, I needed to stay as far away from my wife as I possibly could. Being in close quarters with her would put me at a clear disadvantage in our psychological war.

It would take her a month. Two. Perhaps even an entire year. But I knew in my bones that she’d convince me to fuck her bareback. Filthy.

Until she filled to the brim with my cum.

Whatever Dallas Costa wanted—Dallas Costa got.

And what she wanted right now was my heir.