The Unwanted Wife(7)

By: Natasha Anders



Theresa was out of breath and furious when he finally released her hand. They were in the master bedroom, facing each other and she glared at him… refusing to be intimidated by his scowl.

“When did you become the Neanderthal Man, Sandro? I never thought you would resort to caveman tactics…” he didn’t like being called a barbarian, not her suave, sophisticated, rigid husband, she saw it in the way his mouth thinned and his eyes flared. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her up against him.

“You haven’t seen the Neanderthal in me yet, cara. I advise you not to push me on this, not unless you want things to get really ugly between us,” he was using his whole body to intimidate her, leaning over and into her, nose to nose with her.

“I.I don’t see how things can get any uglier…” she whispered.

“You really don’t want to find out how much worse it can get, trust me on that,” his eyes were boring into hers and her breath was coming in small, shallow gasps. She was suddenly aware of how closely she was pressed against him and felt a betraying flash of heat uncoiling in the pit of her stomach and radiating outward. Even though Sandro never really let himself go in bed, he was still an incredible lover and despite, or maybe because of, the clinical precision with which he conducted the act, he always made sure she climaxed. She would have traded any number of those orgasms for a kiss of course, or even a show of affection afterwards but she couldn’t help her reaction to him. He could always make her melt. Chemistry was a terrible thing, sometimes it simply sparked between the wrong people.

His eyes were still locked with hers and she felt the sudden change in his breathing and his heart rate… he leaned even closer, his mouth nearly touching hers, their breath mingled and came in jagged gasps. If she moved her head, just a fraction of an inch, their lips would be touching… she couldn’t resist and she tensed herself to do just that, when he suddenly swore and stepped away from her. Theresa blinked and felt like someone coming out of a trance.

“Just go to bed,” he put his hand in the small of her back and gave her a gentle push toward the bed.

“I’m not going to have…” she began to protest.

“I know. I’m not exactly in the right frame of mind for it either,” he prodded her again.

“You won’t touch me?”

“Not unless you want me to.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care either way.

“I don’t want you to.” She asserted firmly.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he turned away from her stripped off his casual shirt, leaving him abruptly naked from the chest up. As always, he stole her breath away and she had to force herself to turn away from the seductive sight of her half-naked husband and head to bed. She crept beneath the covers and kept her back to him but she was achingly aware of every sound he made as he headed toward the en-suite, discarding even more clothes along the way. For such a precise and controlled man in every other aspect of his life, Alessandro tended to be a bit messy in his own space; it was rather endearing the way he would casually drop a shirt here, a sock there… obviously expecting the magical cleaning fairies to pick up after him. That “magical cleaning fairy” was usually Theresa; she was a bit of a neat freak and would quite compulsively pick up and fold everything he dropped. Well not anymore, she suddenly thought fumingly, he could damned well pick up his own shirts.

She suddenly wryly acknowledged to herself that this resolution would only last as long as it took for the maid to come in and clean it up…the one thing about being fabulously wealthy was that you didn’t have to think about mundane things like picking up after yourself. And Alessandro had been spoiled into believing the universe revolved around him since birth. While Theresa’s family had been wealthy too, she had never taken anything for granted, not when she had an emotionally-detached father who quite relentlessly pointed out her every flaw.

She sighed softly and turned over to watch the door of the en-suite, he hadn’t shut it completely and a narrow sliver of light streamed out into the darkened bedroom. Steam was creeping out along the edges of the door and she could smell the spicy scent of his soap as he showered. The shower stopped abruptly and she heard the rustling sounds of him towel-drying. She smiled softly to herself as she heard the towel drop to the floor after he finished. She was achingly familiar with every detail of his nightly ablutions; he usually showered, shaved in the shower and brushed his teeth afterwards. Five minutes later the light in the en-suite went out and he stepped out into the dark bedroom. She could just make out his silhouette enough to realise that he was naked and panicked slightly when she realised that he had absolutely every intention of getting into bed that way.

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