“My wife,” Kent clarifies as Peter walks over to stand by the window. “She knows where everything is, not me.”
“Got it,” I say, doing my best to hide my sudden amusement. In Japan, I’ve become so used to Peter and the guys handling all the domestic chores that I’ve forgotten most men aren’t like that. My dad still asks my mom where he can find the ice cream scooper, and George didn’t know how to make anything except barbecue and cheese sandwiches.
At the unexpected recollection, my chest tightens, my mood darkening as I realize that I once again compared my dead husband to his killer. It’s something I’ve caught myself doing more often lately, and each time, I feel ashamed and angry with myself. The comparisons are rarely flattering to George, and that’s not fair. What George and I had was a regular relationship, with liking, respect, and a normal kind of attraction. My husband wasn’t in any way obsessed with me, and I didn’t feel for him even a fraction of the contradictory emotions Peter stirs up in me.
And that was a good thing, I tell myself as I go into the bathroom to freshen up. What I have with Peter is too intense, too overwhelming. What he’s willing to do to have me is terrifying, as is my inability to resist him despite the awful things he does. The very idea of us together is wrong on every possible level. And if I needed further proof of that, those photos on the walls today provided it. Even our host, the illegal arms dealer, seems to have a happy marriage—something I’ll never have with Peter.
I doubt Lucas Kent was ever cruel enough to keep his beautiful wife captive, much less kill her husband.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Kent is gone, and Peter is sitting on the bed, waiting for me. “Dinner is almost ready,” he says, standing up as I approach. “Lucas said to come as soon as you get changed.”
“Okay.” I grab the bag Peter packed for me and change out of my travel-worn clothes while Peter disappears into the restroom. By the time he returns, I’m dressed in one of my nicer summer dresses and have even managed to swipe on a lipgloss—a recent Yan purchase I remembered to slip into the bag.
“I’m all ready,” I say as Peter comes toward me, his metallic gaze oddly intent. “Should we go so they’re not—oh!”
Before I can do more than gasp, I find myself bent over the bed, my skirt flipped up, exposing my thong. One hard tug from Peter’s fist, and the flimsy piece of fabric tears, leaving me bare to the waist. My heartbeat jumps, my insides clenching with a mix of fear and anticipation, and then Peter is on me, bending over me as his cock presses against my folds.
His entry is rough, borderline violent. One big hand grips my throat, forcing me to arch my back as he thrusts into me, while the other one delves underneath, finding my clit. I’m not wet enough at first, and the savage thrusts burn, his thick cock like a battering ram inside me. Before long, however, his fingers find the right rhythm, and a familiar tension starts to coil in my core. His grip on my throat restricts my breathing, and my nerve endings thrum in agonized pleasure-pain, the lack of oxygen heightening all sensations. It’s too much, too intense, and I drag in shallow, gasping breaths, clutching fistfuls of blanket as he continues to hammer into me, f*cking me so hard it feels like I might shatter.
And then I do, the tension cresting in a sizzling wave. White-hot pleasure explodes through every muscle in my body, making my heart feel like it’s bursting in my chest. Shaking, wheezing for air, I collapse onto the mattress as soon as Peter lets go of my throat, and I hear him groan as he pulses deep inside me in release.
For a minute, I can’t think, can only pant weakly into the blanket as he withdraws from me and steps back, but then the significance of the wetness trickling down my thighs dawns on me.
Peter didn’t use a condom again.
Scrunching my eyes shut, I silently curse myself, then Peter, and then myself again. Every other time we’ve slipped up has been at a minimally fertile time, which is why we’ve avoided consequences so far. Right now, though, I’m just about mid-cycle—and most likely ovulating.
“Can you please hand me a tissue?” I ask stiffly, opening my eyes but not moving lest I mess up the new dress. I only brought a couple of outfits with me for this trip, and I can’t afford to get one dirty the first night.
Peter walks toward the nightstand by the bed and returns with a tissue. “Here you go,” he murmurs, patting at the wetness between my legs, and I snatch the tissue from him, finishing the job myself before heading to the bathroom again. My sex is swollen and sore, and my legs are not entirely steady, but all I can focus on is that I might’ve gotten pregnant.
Pregnant with Peter’s child.
I wash myself as thoroughly as I can, even though I know it’s futile. All it takes is one sperm, not the millions that are still inside me. Fighting the urge to cry, I smooth my hair, make sure my dress still looks presentable, and step out of the bathroom.
“Sara…” Peter gets up from the bed where he was sitting again. His jaw is tight, his eyebrows drawn into a frown as he reaches for me, his fingers gently encircling my upper arms. “Ptichka, are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” I frown up at him.
“Did I hurt you?” he clarifies, his face darkened with concern. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. You just looked so beautiful and sexy that I—” He grimaces. “Well, the truth is, I lost control.”
My despair gives way to sudden anger, and furious heat climbs up my cheeks. Beautiful and sexy? Is that his excuse for this?
“Lost control?” Jerkily, I pull out of his hold. “Really? What about every other time you did this? Did you ‘lose control’ then, too?”
His silver gaze fills with remorse. “I did hurt you. I’m sorry, my love. I was rough, and I didn’t mean to be—not tonight, at least.”
“You didn’t hurt me!” My hands curl at my sides. “I mean you did, but I don’t care about that—I came, in case you couldn’t tell. I’m talking about the no-condom thing.”
His features smooth out, his expression turning carefully opaque. “I see.”
“You see what?” I glare up at him, stepping closer until I’m almost treading on his toes. He’s a head taller than me, and much, much bigger, but I’m too furious to care. “Just admit it,” I hiss. “You’re trying to get me pregnant. This was no accident, and neither was every other time we ‘forgot.’”
For a moment, I’m certain Peter will deny it, but he captures my hand in his and presses it against his chest, his eyes glittering like dark glass.
“Yes,” he says softly. “You’re right, Sara. I am trying to get you pregnant.”
41
Sara
* * *