I scan the room again, my pulse quickening. The crowd is thick, dozens of people mingling and socializing, yet Simone’s nowhere to be found among them.
Where the hell did she go?
TWELVE
Simone
I rushonto the terrace at the NYPD charity event in desperate need of fresh air. The glass doors swing open and a chilly breeze welcomes me outside. My eyes close as I gulp it down like I’ve been drowning.
To say I’m confused would be an understatement. I’m so deeply confused I can barely think straight.
I’d been fine ignoring Ronan all night. Pretending he doesn’t exist even as I was forced to be on his arm, playing the role of his dutiful wife for these politicians and socialites. Smiling when expected. Nodding politely. Standing beside him like some decorative accessory.
When I was chatting with Heath, I was even happier pretending Ronan didn’t exist. Heath was safe.
Familiar.
He made me laugh and reminded me of simpler times when my biggest worry was what restaurant we’d go to for dinner.
But then I glanced over. I saw Ronan with Byrdie Shanahan.
She had her hands on him—trailing one of her taloned fingers down the length of his tie as she smirked and spoke intimately with him.
Everybody in Manhattan knows about her. A party girl through and through, she has a reputation for bedding famous—and infamous—men, collecting them like trophies. Some bachelors. Many others married.
But even worse, I’m well aware of the rumor that she and Ronan Callahan once had a thing.
They were involved less than a year ago. I’m not sure when things ended… or if they ever did.
Seeing her touch him triggered something inside me.
It served as an immediate reminder that my husband has no allegiance to me; he doesn’t love me and won’t hesitate bedding other women (if he hasn’t already).
For all I know, that’s who Ronan has been with these past two weeks. He hasn’t exactly denied sleeping with other womenorthe idea he’ll take a mistress. The thought makes my stomach churn.
…but why the hell should I care? WhydoI?
I hate him. I hate this marriage. There’s nothing about being Mrs. Ronan Callahan that I don’t hate.
Yet the thought of him with another woman still disturbs me. It rocks me to my core as if heismy real husband and Idoreally have feelings for him.
It’s just another confusing aspect of this fucked up marriage. I still haven’t processed the other night where he bound my wrists with his tie and used his belt on my ass. He used an anal plug to “open me up” back there, then made me deep-throat him.
I protested. Kicked and squirmed and jerked against him. All while my pussy throbbed and became sopping wet.
No man had ever turned me on like that before. It wasn’t even something I thought I’d respond to; I’ve never pictured being tied up by my husband and spanked.
I’ve always been the romantic type. The girl who imagined rose petals and candles. I was never someone who thought I’d get off at being called a whore. Having my husband make me choke on his dick as my ass ached from the plug he’d slicked inside me.
But… ever since I’ve experienced these things—ever since our wedding night—a growing part of me has started to crave him.
Crave the rough way he touches me. The unapologetic way he takes control unlike vanilla guys like Heath. The explosive way he makes me feel.
As if I’m burning alive and can’t get enough.
My hand comes up to my brow as I inhale a deep breath and whisper, “What is wrong with me?”
“Lost on your way to the little girls’ room?”