The Unwanted Wife

Chapter 6

He unexpectedly shoved himself away from the table and took the couple of steps it required to bring him standing directly in front of her. He hovered threateningly above where she sat and Theresa tried her best not to cower beneath his brooding regard. He then surprised her even further by dropping to his haunches in front of her, placing his hands on the arms of her chair and trapping her in her seat.

"I may not know these things you asked of me, Theresa," his sexy accent thickened as his voice dropped a few notches. "But I do know you..." She

shook her head mutely; disconcerted by both his proximity and his direct stare. He was definitely not avoiding her eyes this time, his gaze just a frank and unflinching regard. She felt like a deer trapped in the headlights and she wanted to look away, she wanted to escape but she could barely breathe, much less avert her gaze.

He raised one hand and Theresa braced herself for his unwanted touch, desperate not to flinch. In the end, she still jumped slightly when his fingertips brushed across her lips.

"I know what makes you tremble with desire," his voice had lowered even further, nothing more than a seductive rumble now and Lisa's lips parted slightly. "I know where to touch, where to kiss, where to suck... I know how to make you moan, scream and cry out in ecstasy.

"That's just s*x," she finally found her voice but hardly sounded convincing. He merely smiled, lifting his other hand until he had her face framed with his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones and his fingertips burrowing into the soft hair at her temples.

"It doesn't solve anything," she continued to protest, with the same lack of conviction as before.

"Maybe not," he shrugged without concern. "But it feels fantastic..."

"But we don't do it right," she murmured, thinking about the fact that he'd never kissed her, not on the lips, not once... his fingers stilled and she realised, rather belatedly, that he may have misconstrued her comment, which was fine with her, if it meant that he would stop this blatant seduction of her senses.

"What do you mean?" She could tell how much it cost him to keep the affronted heat out of his voice.

"I always thought that one day I would make love with my husband," she confessed on a whisper. "But we don't do that, do we? We have sex... we..." she used a word that she had never in her life uttered before and Sandro flinched slightly in response to it, the soothing stroke of his fingertips stopped abruptly.

"Don't use language like that," he growled. "It doesn't suit you!"

"Well, it's what you once called it," she defended herself hotly.

"I would never..."

"You did..." she interrupted what she knew would be a denial. "On our wedding night, after the first time.... I tried to... to..." she blushed as she remembered her naivety back then. She had reached over to snuggle with him and he had moved all the way to the edge of the bed in an effort to get away from her. "Well, anyway, you told me not to mistake what we did with any act of love. That it was much more basic than that. Just s*x, you said, just... well... you know..."

His hands had dropped from her face to her shoulders and his eyes narrowed on her painfully humiliated face. His grip tightened on her shoulders and she squirmed slightly before it let up and he kneaded her shoulders slightly.

Theresa, I was pretty hammered on our wedding night," she nodded her eyes bright with tears as she remembered how long he had made her wait for him. Her innocent, eager anticipation had been dashed when the dignified, distant husband who had left her all alone in their hotel suite had returned three hours later, so drunk that he could barely hold himself upright. He had fallen onto the bed and immediately passed out, leaving Theresa shattered. Two hours later, his skilful hands on her body had brought her out of a restless doze and he had strummed at and played with her body like it was a finely-tuned musical instrument, making her a willing slave to his every command.

Such had been her response that it had barely registered that his lips hadn't once touched hers. He had kissed just about every other part of her body and afterwards, while she strove to maintain the closeness between them, he had all-but destroyed her fragile spirit by denigrating the act. She could tell that Sandro was recalling the events of that night too and his eyes dropped to where her hands were still restlessly fidgeting with the pencil which had fallen into her lap. He dropped one huge hand over hers to stop the movement.

"I resented you very much," he admitted. "Because I felt trapped..."

"Wrong tense, Sandro," she whispered. "Your resentment is still very current."

"Things change, Theresa."

"Some things are inexcusable, Sandro," she whispered painfully. "And unforgivable."

"We're not getting anywhere with this," he growled in frustration and she dragged her hands out from under his

That's what I've been telling you for the last three days," she pointed out and he bit off a curse before getting up abruptly. Theresa jumped up too, to avoid being intimidated by his height. But she had miscalculated, he was still too close to her and when she got up, her breasts brushed up the length of his body from groin to torso. They both immediately went still as awareness simmered between them. Theresa made a soft sound and attempted to put some distance between them but Sandro's arms came up to circle her loosely, his hands meeting in the small of her back and the tips of his fingers just brushing against the slight swell of her backside. Her own hands came up to firmly brace against his chest, she wanted to push him away but somehow her hands were idly stroking instead of exerting any force.

His large hands moved down to fully cup her backside and he lifted her slightly until she could feel his sudden arousal. He lazily pushed himself against her, dipping his head until his mouth was next to her ear.

"Despite everything, cara, you want me," he whispered, his breath hot and moist against her ear. "And God knows I want you too..."

"Just s*x," she protested weakly.

"Maybe," he nibbled her earlobe gently, before moving down to nuzzle the sensitive spot just below her ear, something he knew made her crazy. It didn't fail this time, as she gasped and wound her arms around his neck to push herself closer to his hard body. His tongue gently circled the highly-sensitive erogenous zone and Theresa moaned wanting more. His wicked, hot mouth moved down to her throat, licking, sucking and nibbling the exposed skin along the way. Theresa buried her face in his short, soft hair and muffled a moan of pure sizzling lust.

His hands were busily yanking her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and they both groaned when his hands finally made contact with the naked skin of her back. He muttered something in Italian, before he swept his hands up to the clasp of her bra, unhooked it expertly and brought his hands around and under the lacy little B-cups. She cried out and arched violently against him when his thumbs found her sensitive n*****s and he half-laughed, half-groaned at her wild reaction to his touch.

I want you," he whispered, his breath feathering against the skin of her neck, where he was nibbling gently. "How I want you!" She sobbed wishing she was more adept at resisting him but desperately wanting him too, despite her bitterness, her anger and her frustration. She nodded slowly, tears seeping from between her closed eyes and trickling down her cheeks.

"Please..." she didn't know if she was begging him to stop or to continue but Sandro took it as an assent. One of his hands dropped from her breasts and tugged at her skirt until it was bunched up around her hips, her brief, lacy panties were swiftly dealt with and his hot, urgent fingers found her melting core with unerring accuracy, stroking, plunging and preparing her. Her hands dropped to his belt buckle and she fumble with the opening of his trousers until she held him captive in her hands. She did her own stroking and caressing, loving the familiar satiny feel of him, loving the heat, the hardness, the substantial size...

He made an animalistic sound, swinging her around and backing her up until she was leaning against the workstation he had so casually been half-sitting on before. He lifted her up until her backside was firmly planted on the desk and moved between her spread thighs. Tilting her pelvis slightly, until he had the angle just right, he finally, with a groan of pure satisfaction, sank into her soft, welcoming heat. Theresa's breath hitched as she was, once again, caught by surprise by his length, girth and incredible hardness.

She lifted her slender legs and clasped them around his hips as, after the first gently thorough thrust, he simply rested against her. With his hands braced on the desk on either side of her hips, he lifted his head to look down into her eyes. Theresa was undone by that, as he had never simply just looked at her before, not in bed nor out of it. His dark eyes continued to search hers and she wondered what it was he was looking for. She licked her lips nervously and his gaze dropped to her mouth and something completely unrecognizable suddenly flared in his eyes and his pupils dilated until his eyes were virtually black.

In fact, she may have missed them entirely if she hadn't felt his tell-tale breath on the sensitive skin of her neck. But he said them. The words were muffled but she knew exactly what he was saying. His mantra, his prayer...

"Give me a son, Theresa..." and just like that, it was over for her. Her legs fell away from his waist and she pushed at his chest until her levered himself up to look down at her curiously. He made a soft sound of protest when he saw the tears on her cheeks and attempted to fold his arms around her. Yet another unprecedented move but she shoved him again until he stepped away from her.

Why are you crying?" He asked hoarsely as he readjusted his clothing.

"I hate you," she despaired, dashing at the tears.

"What we just did didn't feel like hatred to me," he pointed out.

"Just another..." her mouth started to form the ugly word but he cut her off.

"Don't say it," he snapped. "Don't you dare say it!"

Why not?" She protested. "It's the truth and don't you try to pretend otherwise at this stage of our so-called marriage, Sandro. Do you think s*x makes things better? It makes everything worse, like adding petrol to an already raging fire. All you've proved is that I am humiliatingly unable to resist you!"

"That is entirely mutual," he responded dryly and she went still.

Oh, please..." She choked. "Of course you can resist me. I'm just another woman to you. I'm of no particular consequence, so don't try to play yet another game with me, Sandro! I'm sick of your lies and deceit."

"Dio," he hissed furiously. "You're not just another woman, you're my wife! You hold a position of great consequence in my life." A wife you're ashamed of? I don't think so!"

Whoever told you that I was ashamed of you?" He seemed outraged by the very notion.

"You did..."

"Theresa, everything else that you've accused me of so far has had some element of truth to it. But this is just plain ludicrous! I have never, not once, told you that I am ashamed of you..."

"You never said it; you didn't have to..." she slid off the desk, making sure that her skirt was straight before looking up at him again. "You show me every day."

"What?"

"I've never met your family, the large and extensive family that means the world to you, I know that you have two close friends, Rafael Dante and Gabriel Braddock, they're university buddies if I'm not mistaken, you play football with them every week. You didn't think I knew that, did you? I haven't met any of those people of consequence in your life," and there was Francesca, of course but Theresa wasn't ready to confront him with that bit of knowledge yet. "They are the people who matter to you and if I'd been the wife you wanted, a wife you were not ashamed of, I would undoubtedly have met them by now!"

"It's not like that," he denied, almost stumbling in his haste to reach for her but she stepped away before he could touch her.

"Yes it is. Please don't insult my intelligence by denying it..." she desperately looked around for her panties and finally saw them lying beside her drawing board. She very quickly swooped them up before turning back to face him.

"I need a shower," she whispered bitterly. "You know what it's like when you have an overwhelming urge to scrape the touch, the scent, the very essence of someone off of your skin, don't you? After all, that's what you usually do thirty seconds after your o****m and I can finally relate to that" She turned and left the room before he had the opportunity to respond.

They barely spoke over the next week or so, merely co-existing in the same house. Sandro still insisted that they take breakfast and dinner together and that they sleep together but he never touched her in bed, maintaining the distance that she had insisted on. Some part of Theresa was relieved while another, even larger part, bemoaned the loss of the one bond they had shared. Still, she kept telling herself that it was just s*x and it had never meant anything.

Besides she had other, more immediate, concerns. Like the fact that she had thrown up every day for the last week and the fact that she was still stricken by dizzy spells at the most unexpected times... like the fact that her period was now than it had ever been before. She was relieved that the intimacies between her and Sandro had ceased, because he was as familiar with her cycle as she was and she would really prefer absolute certainty before telling him anything. She also wanted time to figure out what her next move would be.

Yet another decision taken from her, she reflected bitterly but at least she could decide the time and place to tell him, if indeed she was pregnant, which she desperately hoped was not the case. She worried at her lower lip with her teeth, staring blindly at the design she had been working on for most of the week. It was supposed to be a necklace but it looked like no necklace she had ever seen before. She shook her head in disgust; she could not seem to get anything done. It was the equivalent of writer's block and it was extremely frustrating. Her cellphone buzzed discreetly and she snatched it up, welcoming the distraction. She had been exchanging text messages with Lisa all day and was expecting the message to be from her cousin. She was rather unpleasantly surprised to see Sandro's name in her inbox. He usually refrained from contacting her during the day. She frowned down at his name, not all that keen on reading the text. Finally she exhaled gustily and clicked on the message.

"Eating out tonight. Dress: casual. 'Business thing'. Will be home by 6. Dinner @ 7:30"She groaned, Sandro and his damned "appearances"! She was tempted to simply refuse but didn't have the energy for the argument that would ensue. At least he'd forewarned her this time, there had been a few incidences in the past where he had simply come home and told her that they were going out in an hour. A couple of times the events had been formal, leaving Theresa to scramble for appropriate dresses and silently cursing the fact that she hadn't even had the opportunity to have her hair professionally done. Sighing softly, she gave up on work for the rest of the afternoon and instead decided to get her hair done. Looking good tonight would give her ego a boost if nothing else.

Sandro was home promptly at six. Theresa was curled up on the sofa, flipping through the coffee table book by an extremely popular photographer, which she had just purchased on her afternoon excursion. He was a wildlife photographer but his subject matter this time round was a lot closer to home. His latest anthology, entitled "Man's Best Friend" was all about dogs. Theresa, being a huge sucker for dogs, hadn't thought twice before buying the book. Sandro paused in the doorway and she looked up to see his arrested gaze on her hair. She lifted a self-conscious hand to her newly-cut hair, knowing that it was a big change. She had had her waist length fall of Titian hair cut to just below her jaw. The style was straight and sleek, with a feathery fringe and Theresa loved the way it made her look and feel like a new woman. Something she was so desperately striving to be.

Her hair had always been long, her father had absolutely forbade her to cut it and Theresa knew that the one thing Sandro absolutely adored about her, aside from her rather small breasts, was her hair. When he was having s*x with her he was always touching, stroking or tugging at her hair. Now she waited with bated breath for his inevitable negative reaction to the cut which framed her face and emphasised her large, grey-green, eyes and high, delicate cheekbones. His hands clenched and he seemed to swallow with visible effort.

"You look..." his voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat before starting again. "You look bellisima, cara." His quiet voice seemed to ring with sincerity and something which, in any other man, would be akin to reverence. "Absolutely stunning..."

She blinked.

Oh," was all she could think of to say and he came further into the room, still so riveted on her hair and face that he very nearly tripped over a small footstool placed beside an easy chair. He frowned down at the offending piece of furniture before sinking down into the leather easy chair opposite the matching sofa Theresa was curled up on.

"Uh..." he dragged his gaze down to the book in her lap and seemed strangely desperate to make conversation. "What are you reading?" His sharp eyes honed in on the title before he raised his gaze to hers in consternation. "Dogs?" He sounded so insultingly nonplussed that she hugged the book defensively to her chest.

"I happen to like dogs," she said fiercely and his strangely gentle gaze swept over her tight features before coming to a rest on the book she had clutched to her chest. He leaned forward and extended his right hand palm up.

"May I?" He kept his gaze steady until she reluctantly let up on the death grip she had on the book and handed it over to him. "Thank you." He leaned back and flipped through the glossy pages, pausing here and there before grinning almost boyishly up at her. He looked so breathtakingly handsome that for a long moment she didn't realise that he was talking to her.

Sorry, I didn't quite catch that," she whispered and his grin widened as he flipped the book toward her, tapping his long index finger on the picture of a grinning black Labrador retriever.

"I had one just like this," he informed and she frowned.

"One what?" She asked blankly and his grin widened into a fully-fledged, devastatingly appealing smile.

"Dog," he informed patiently, turning the book back towards himself. His expression was gently reminiscent. "I like dogs too... the way I see it, anyone who doesn't like dogs is not to be trusted. My retriever was called Rocco. He died just before I started university. I'd had him for sixteen years. I suppose you could say that I grew up with him." She smiled reluctantly at his obvious affection for what must have been a well-loved pet.

"You must have had a dog too, growing up?" He prompted and she nodded slowly. "What breed?"

"She was a bit of a mutt," Theresa whispered, more than a little reluctant to continue.

"What was her name?" Why was he being so damned persistent?

"Sheba," she supplied, her voice going even quieter and his smile faded as he leaned forward intently, his eyes fixed on her downcast face.

"Tell me more," he invited quietly.