CHAPTER 39: SPOILING HIS WIFE ROTTEN

–Damon–

She always stirred something primal in me. Desire clung to her like perfume—I could never escape it. My plan was simple: stay here, drown in her presence, indulge in what little time we had to call a honeymoon. But she had her own plans—shopping for a specific Korean product, a hair spa appointment, and all the little things she couldn’t go without. I went along, swiping my card with no protest. Anything she wanted, she’d get. Anything.

"You look gorgeous, my love," I said, watching her emerge like some divine apparition.

"I’m ready for a fancy dinner, darling," she replied, extending her left hand with a grace that made my breath hitch.

I took it, eyes narrowing at the sight of her bare fingers. "Where are your rings?"

She didn’t answer.

"You can’t leave without them."

A soft, dismissive hum. That was all.

I rolled my eyes and moved past her, heading to the dresser. Not there. The bathroom, then. There it was—carelessly placed on a wooden tray with a glossy resin ocean scene. I cleaned it gently, reverently, and returned to her. I slid the engagement ring onto her finger, then the golden band—our bond, my mark on her. Perfect. Just perfect.

"It’s heavy," she murmured.

"Bear with it." I tilted her chin, thumb brushing her jaw with a quiet possessiveness.

I took her coat and draped it over her shoulders, guiding her to the apartment foyer. The restaurant was nearby, a short walk away. She wore her three-inch autumn boots without complaint. She liked walking. And I liked watching her walk.

Our bodyguards trailed behind—my own hires, separate from the Carrington or Blackwell names. She didn’t know that. She didn’t need to. Their loyalty was mine. Their job was her.

At the restaurant, the hostess escorted us to a table by an indoor fountain with a panoramic city view. I described everything to her as we settled in. She placed her walking stick on the table and removed her sunglasses.

Her hair—long, wavy, the natural curls at the tips—moved like water with each motion. She reached for a hairpin, jade and delicate, with a dangling flower.

"Let me do that, love," I offered. She nodded.

I circled behind her, gently gathering her hair. I’d studied this—tutorials, videos, even watched her do it herself. Twisting, pinning, securing. An art form I’d learned just for her.

"Gorgeous," I whispered, kissing her earlobe before returning to my seat. "By the way, your cousin is a few tables over... with Tyrona."

"Hmm. I wonder what she’s doing here," she said, humming softly. That sound—careless and sweet—was maddening.

"Probably hunting him," I said with a smirk, referring to the man that she tortured just a night ago.

She chuckled, elegant and effortless.

"I want him in perfect condition before the hunt," she mused, her voice like silk woven with venom. Her violet eyes shimmered. She looked right through me—uncanny, haunting. Like she could see the soul I’d sold just to call her mine.

The food I’d ordered two hours earlier arrived, as planned.

"You’ll love each dish, my wife."

"Surprise me, then."

She ate like a bird—delicate, measured. So I matched her pace, something I’d grown used to. Eating slow with her kept my hunger alive in more ways than one.

Then came the inevitable.

Tyrona approached.

Predictable.

She barely opened her mouth before my men intercepted, standing like shadows between her and Livana.

"Well, even here. You love creating a scene, don’t you, Livana?" Tyrona hissed.

My wife didn’t flinch. She calmly picked up her knife and began slicing her food with surgical precision.

"Hmm, if it isn’t Tyrona Dela Vega. I wonder what brings you here. Coincidence, right, my love?" she asked, turning toward me.

"Yeah," I replied with a smug grin.

"Bodyguards now? Afraid of me?" Tyrona’s tone was very sarcastic and like her usual villain sound.

"Bodyguards?" she echoed, confused. She hadn’t known. "Oh, that’s my husband. He’s afraid I might kill you. Can’t risk going to jail or being deported on our honeymoon."

Tyrona’s face turned crimson, her fists trembling.

"Come on, Tyrona. You and my cousin played your part well in my little ’accident.’ You’re a chemist—you know your poisons. Top of your toxicology class, weren’t you?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Tyrona snapped.

Livana turned slightly, her smile wickedly graceful.

"Carrie couldn’t possibly have found someone capable of blinding me with a simple eye drop, could she?"

Tyrona faltered, glancing toward Carrie, who gestured for her to leave.

I covered my mouth to suppress a laugh.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Of course you don’t. Now, please, don’t bother us. I’d like a peaceful luxury dinner with my husband."

My heart stuttered. My husband. She said it so sweetly, like it meant something. Like I mattered.

Tyrona and Carrie left. The rest of dinner was bliss. She was ethereal—composed, elegant. Watching her eat with such poise, despite her blindness, made me want to worship the ground she walked on.

She had a way of being untouchable and yet mine.

Later, she complimented the chef in fluent Korean. They brought her a gift in response.

I placed my hand gently on her back, my palm memorizing the curve of her spine.

"Spa tomorrow," I murmured. "How about shopping?"

A quiet hum was her answer.

We passed a boutique. In the window: a dress that belonged on her skin.

"You should wear this tomorrow." I led her inside. They bowed, removing the dress from the mannequin.

"And shoes to match?" she asked, her voice soft, almost playful—like velvet sliding against my skin.

"I think they have the perfect pair just for you. I’ll ask them," I said, already signaling one of the attendants with a glance.

Then I turned to her fully, unable to resist the urge to worship her in the way only I could. I took her hand—delicate, warm, mine—and pressed a kiss to her palm, inhaling her faint flowery scent as if it could anchor my soul.

My gaze flicked to the nearby counter, where the paper bag from the restaurant sat—its elegant packaging trimmed in gold ribbon, the brand embossed in a script too refined for mass production.

"This dessert," I murmured, "was made for you."

Because of course it was. Everything tonight was. The meal, the wine, the ambiance—the chef’s careful touch, the staff’s attentiveness—it all became exceptional the moment she praised them. Not just a casual compliment, but one spoken in fluent Korean, with genuine appreciation that melted through cultural formalities. She didn’t see their awe, but I did. I always did. They adored her instantly. Who wouldn’t?

She was the kind of woman who elevated even the simplest gesture. The chef didn’t gift that dessert out of courtesy. He did it because in her presence, even excellence felt like it wasn’t enough.

And I knew exactly how that felt.

"I can’t wait to eat it tonight," she said, smiling.

Her smile. God. She barely smiled at me, but when she did, I could believe anything. Even that she was falling for me.

Delusional? Maybe. But I clung to it like a man drowning.

We returned to the apartment. Jane had set up snacks in our bedroom—gifts from the chef, four delicate slices of cake.

Our ritual unfolded like always—bathing each other, drying her gently, massaging her feet and calves. I kissed each spot like sacred ground.

She leaned back against the headboard. I knew the signs. It was time.

I crawled between her thighs like a man in worship, hands sliding beneath the supple curve of her hips, lifting her toward me as if offering her body to some sacred altar—only that altar was mine. Only I could honor her properly.

She reached for my neck, her fingers curling possessively, pulling me down into a kiss that seared through every nerve ending I owned.

"You look horny, baby," I murmured against her lips, my voice low, teasing—but reverent.

I trailed kisses across her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead—like a prayer made flesh. Her hands moved over me, slow and searching. God. Her touch. So rare. So deliberate. She only touched me like this when something loosened her—when the wine dulled her restraint, or when something chemical pulsed through her veins, something not prescribed but craved.

And yet, I clung to the illusion like a dying man breathing. Because in these moments, she was mine—not just in name, not just in body—but in this fragile, imagined intimacy that I lived for.

I knew too well the cruel rhythm of our nights and mornings. She’d wake tomorrow and fold back into herself—aloof, cool, untouchable. But right now? Now, I could believe it.

"I have too much energy," she whispered, lips brushing my ear. "I need to burn it off before dessert."

Her words sent heat spiraling down my spine. She knelt above me, commanding and unbothered, her palm splayed over my chest like a brand—marking me, owning me.

And I let her. Hell, I craved it.

Because when she wanted me, even for a moment, it was more than desire—it was mercy.

"You were so sexy speaking to Tyrona. It made me hard."

Her hand drifted lower. She gasped.

"Wow... you are hard." She leaned down. "Stay still. No matter what I do... don’t come."

"Oh, baby," I groaned. "I can’t promise that."

"If you come, I won’t let you touch me for a month."

Fuck.

"I’ll behave," I muttered, though every nerve screamed.

She started slowly—kissing, teasing, stroking. I trembled.

She guided my hand to her chest. "You can touch me here."

"How about lower?" I asked, voice husky. "Let me use my mouth. My tongue. I want to make you come first."

"You’re right."

I carried her gently, lay back, and positioned her over my face.

Men—listen well.

This... this is how you treat a wife.

Like she’s a Goddess.

Because she is.

And she’s mine.