The Wrong Wife by Maya Alden

Chapter 12

Declan

Ihurt her feelings. She did look good. She looked good enough to eat in that black dress, but I came from a world where I could within seconds tell if a dress had a designer label on it. And so could my mother and everyone else. She'd be ridiculed; couldn't she understand that? I had to use a different tactic if I needed her to comply.

"What?" she demanded sulkily.

"You do look good, sweetheart."

"Yeah, right," she said sullenly. "You look at me like my father does. My mother is half Mexican and half Irish. She got all the Irish genes, but I got the Mexican ones. My skin is dark. My eyes are dark. My hair is big and wild and needs to be tamed. My ass is as big as a house, and my tits…well, I think they're fine, but who knows anymore? I'm not tall like Viv. And I can't wear heels above two inches without tripping and breaking my neck."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked forlorn. My gut clenched. I realized I had just joined the many people who'd told her she was not good enough. Her father, her mother, Viv, and now me.

"It's just an outfit, Esme, nothing more."

I could find something of Viv's that was left behind. Would she be able to fit into it?

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, as if giving up.

I picked up my phone and called Baker. I asked him to send some clothes appropriate for a gallery opening and dinner at Melisse asap. We would only be half a half hour, which was acceptable.

"What's your size?" I asked her while I listened to Bake's list of questions.

She pulled away from me and looked like I had struck her.

"Six," she replied quietly.

Viv was a size two. No way Esme could fit into her sister's clothes.

"Shoes?"

"Six as well."

I let Baker know and hung up.

"We'll have something new for you in a half hour and…."

She looked at me bewildered. "This is my best dress. It's a little black dress. How could I mess up an LBD?"

"You didn't mess up anything," I tried to console. "We must consider our status. Do you understand?"

"Of course," she replied. "I'll be in my room. Just let me know when the clothes arrive."

Baker was, as always, supremely efficient, and by the time we made it to the gallery, we were only twenty minutes late. My wife wore a royal blue Marchesa cocktail dress with black Jimmy Choo strappy sandals. Her makeup was still off, but I couldn't fix that, and we didn't have the time for a makeup artist. I'd done my best to make her look like she could belong to our family and make sure my mother wouldn't blow a gasket when she saw her.

She was quiet in the Escalade as the driver crawled through traffic on a Friday evening to Santa Monica from DTLA. Most people I knew would be looking through their phones, but Esme was looking out of the window. She'd set aside the Prada purse matching her dress next to her. I had seen her put her phone in it and a Chapstick. Viv would have put makeup in her bag because she'd keep touching it up throughout the evening. Not my wife. She'd never fit in, I thought. They'd eat her alive for her simplicity. And yet, without professional makeup or hair, and even that business suit black dress, she'd looked…well, like a bright star. Clean and fresh. Authentic.

"The gallery opening is for an up-and-coming artist getting much attention. He's also a good friend," I informed her. "Are you into art?"

"Yes." She turned to face me. She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"What kind of art?" I was trying to make a conversation to get to a place where I could ask her what the fuck was wrong because something was.

"I love Joan Miro and Wassily Kandinsky," she told me.

"Why?"

I could feel her irritation now though she masked it. "It's evocative."

"Do you know Senator Rivers?"

"I know of him."

I could talk to a wall if I needed to—that was part of being the C.E.O. of a company, but this woman wasn't making it easy.

I put my hand on hers and felt her hand tighten into a fist. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Esme, we have to live together for a year; we need to be able to communicate. Something has upset you. Can you tell me what it is?"

She looked at me, her dark eyes brimming with emotion. My heart clenched. I didn't want her to cry. "Why do you care?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Because you're my wife."

"The wrong wife."

I tightened my grip on her hand. "No."

"No?"

"Viv was cheating on me, which makes her the wrong wife. You, Esme, are the right wife at the right time. So, please tell me what’s wrong."

She waited a long moment as if determining if she could trust me. "It made me feel small and cheap to change my dress; I felt like you were saying my choices are beneath you."

She turned away. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. I turned her face to me with my hands and looked into her eyes as I wiped the moisture away. "I'm so sorry, Esme. I…you…” I closed my eyes momentarily and decided to be authentic, honest like she was. "I didn't want you to be embarrassed; I didn't want them, my mother and Viv, to make you feel like you were less. And I took the wrong approach and did so myself. Next time, I won't make that mistake. In the future, wear whatever you want."

She was my wife, and as my wife, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted. Wasn't that the privilege of being a Knight? I didn't abide by the rules; why should she?

"Really?" Her glossy pink lips quivered. I couldn't help; I leaned over and brushed my lips against hers. And she opened her mouth in a gasp, allowing me entry, and I tasted her slowly. I shifted my hands to dive into her silky and lush hair. I angled her head so I could go deeper and explore her mouth. She was spice and mint, and the scent of jasmine was sweet and intoxicating. She was giving and generous. She playfully tangled her tongue with mine, and I was gone. I used one hand to hold her head, and the other slipped over her dress. I squeezed a breast and found it to be more than a handful. Delicious.

She moaned, and her hands wrapped around my neck. She leaned closer.

I nibbled on her lips, and my hand dipped to her lap and under her dress.

I found her wet and wanting.

“Spread your thighs, let me in,” I grunted.

She did as I asked, and I slipped my fingers under her soaking panties.

"God," she moaned.

"You're so wet, sweetheart."

"I am?" she whispered.

"Yes." I slid my finger over her, and she shook slightly. I entered her, and she clasped my urgent digit. "You're so soft, so tight, Esme."

I returned to her mouth because I couldn't resist that expression of pleasant surprise like she didn't know it could be like this.

"Please tell me you've had sex before," I groaned when I managed to get two fingers inside her and pumped gently. She'd mentioned something about losing her virginity to a vibrator. And she was so tight.

"Yes."

I leaned back and looked at her. Something about how she reacted told me that she was enthusiastic but not experienced.

"How many men?"

"One."

"Just one."

She nodded; her eyes were glazed over because my fingers had found her clit. I wanted her to come.

"Just once," she said.

"You've only had sex once?"

She nodded. "I didn't have time and…oh, god." She came suddenly, and her entire body shook. I leaned back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her lips were open in a moan of pleasure.

"Declan." She opened her eyes, filled with lust.

I pulled my fingers out and tasted her. "Next time, I want a proper taste."

She blushed, and I found myself brushing my lips against her. "Taste yourself, sweetheart."

She did, and my erection throbbed, demanding release. If this was anyone else, I'd have asked her to give me a blow job, but Esme had sex just once, and I didn't know how far I could take this.

"You're so sensual, sweetheart." My heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt something I had never felt before, nearly uncontrollable desire. The only reason I was holding back was her inexperience. No woman had turned me on this way, to the point of violence. Not even Viv, who was a dynamo in bed. The sex we had was fantastic, but this was…different, purer, and dirtier, all at the same time.

"Esme, are you okay?"

She nodded, and then her lips stretched into a smile. "I've never had an orgasm without my vibrator before."

I kissed her again because her pouty lips were designed for it. "We'll make sure you don't miss your vibrator."

She didn't smile this time and pulled away suddenly.

"Esme?"

She shook her head. "Will we have sex?"

I could still smell and taste her orgasm. It was driving me out of my mind. "Oh, yes. After what we just did, don't you want to?"

"Yes, I want to. But, Declan, I…am not," she stopped talking and seemed to despair.

"Not what?"

"I don't know how to make you come like you did," she confessed. "I don't talk dirty…I mean, I'm happy to learn but I…I don't know how to do for you what you did for me."

I grinned. "Esme, you're sexy as fuck, and you have nothing to worry about." I took her hand and put it over my erection. "Feel that? I'm just about ready to come in my pants."

She stroked me, and I groaned.

"Can I make you come with my hands?" she asked.

I looked out of the Escalade window and determined it would take another fifteen minutes to reach our location, enough time for a hand job. Hell, the way I felt, it would take her two strokes to make me come.

I unzipped my suit pants and took her hand, putting it on my underwear.

"Make me come, Esme."

She was eager and unpracticed, which only added to the eroticism of the moment. She pulled me out, and her thumb touched the tip and rubbed my precum. She then brought her thumb to her mouth, and I just about came.

"You taste like me," she said in awe and then bent down to take my erection in her mouth. She tasted me slowly, and it was agony not to pull her down hard and ram my cock to the back of her throat. The combination of sensuality and inexperience was heady. I buried my hands in her hair, not directing but enjoying her.

She took me deep, and my head was about to float off. She pulled away, coughing.

"That looks way easier in porn films."

She used her hands on me, and I leaned back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the naïve manner in which she jerked me off. Her technique was not great, but her touch was incendiary.

"Declan, am I doing it right?" she asked tentatively.

I smiled. "Harder, Esme. Just a little harder." When she did as I asked, I sighed. "That's right. Like that."

And then, as if in a dream, I felt my orgasm climb up from the base of my spine and explode into her hands.

"You are beautiful," she said almost reverently, her eyes wide with knowledge and excitement.

I leaned over and kissed her.

"That was wonderful," I told her because I already knew that what Esme needed was a lot of positive reinforcement.

We'd make a mess. I pulled out a handkerchief and started to clean up.

She wore a secret smile as we got out of the car. Her lipstick was long gone, and I didn't give a shit. Esme didn't care about clothes and makeup, and I wasn't going to be the one to change her. I'd help her be who she was and make sure she was treated with the respect accorded to my wife, even if she showed up somewhere in a brown paper bag.