“Cyrus,” she whispered. She ran a hand across his broad back and up to his neck. She turned her head, seeking his mouth, but he twisted away from her.
The unforeseen rejection cut deep, and she felt the pain of it dart through her chest.
He fumbled with his belt, and she lifted her mouth to his again, but again he refused her.
“No,” she said in a broken whisper. Desperate, panicked, she grasped his head in hands and achieved a kiss to the corner of his mouth as he once again denied her the affection.
“No, no.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Cyrus.”
They wrestled, she trying in vain to plant a kiss on his mouth, he adeptly avoiding it by pinning her beneath him. She couldn’t break free.
She writhed beneath him, refusing to give up. He had to kiss her. He loved kissing her. He’d said so himself.
He forced her onto her stomach and she gasped at the abrupt movement. He pushed her nightgown halfway up her back to expose her bare bottom.
Her throat and eyes filled with tears. “Don’t treat me like this,” she choked out. She couldn’t be sure he understood because the pillow muffled her words.
She wished he was drunk. At least then she could blame his behavior on the alcohol. But he was sober and knew exactly what he was doing.
“Cyrus, please,” she begged.
She heard the slide of his zipper and a low grunt as he pulled free of his boxers. She twisted again, struggling against the weight of him on her back. In response, he circled both of her wrists in one hand. His fingers were like steel manacles she couldn’t break free of. He kept her pinned down.
“Don’t treat me like this,” she cried again. The tears flowed freely now. He paused. Whether it was the tears or he finally understood the words, she didn’t know. She had his attention. “I’m your wife. I want you to kiss me. Kiss me.”
He lowered his lips to her right ear. “You are not my wife.” The crushing words were a slap in the face. They were brutal. A way to let her know how little she meant to him now.
He slid between the folds of her sex. Slick with want, her body swallowed his wide girth. With one hand clasping her hip and the other holding her wrists together, he pushed all the way in, his hard chest bearing down on her back. Wet and trembling beneath him, she bit her lip and thrust back, arching and clenching her lower muscles to increase the friction and pleasure for them both.
Cyrus increased his speed, his breathing growing shallow.
Her own breaths left her lips in choppy, broken huffs. The tender flesh between her legs opened for deeper penetration, her body not knowing the difference between cold indifference and warm possession, knowing only it was him who touched and filled her to capacity.
Behind her, Cyrus grunted. He was about to come, and he wasn’t waiting for her. He’d always seen to her satisfaction first, but not this time.
“Here’s another way for us to keep you from suffering through the distasteful burden of having to carry my child,” he said. “One you enjoy.”
With that, he pulled out, and warm liquid spilled onto her ass. How many times had they done the same thing? Only this time it was different.
Their idyllic vacation, their do-over, was no more. It was over. Her chest contracted painfully tight at the extent of her loss. Still she couldn’t let go, couldn’t accept it was the end.
Say my name. Please. He always said her name.
Nothing. No more words came from him.
His heavy breathing subsided, and he rested his forehead between her shoulder blades. It was oddly comforting, as if he still wanted to be close to her. At least that’s what she chose to believe.
“Cyrus…?” He didn’t respond, and what could she say? How could she explain her fears? Her perfectly legitimate reasons for doing what she’d done? He wouldn’t believe her anyway.
“Was any of it real?” he asked hoarsely.