06- SHE WAS YOURS FIRST!

06-SHE WAS YOURS FIRST!

Roxanne Flair.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, and I felt a sudden, burning mortification so intense I wished the marble floor would simply open up and swallow me whole.

My stomach dropped in sheer horror. I had always been so meticulous, so careful about calculating my periods, but the sheer, chaotic terror of dealing with Kelvin and Richard last night had completely wiped my mind clean. It was due today. And now, I had bled right through the expensive designer silk.

"Thank you," I mumbled into the empty air, my voice incredibly small, entirely choked with embarrassment.

I expected him to pull away, to take a step back and give me space to escape my humiliation. But Alaric didn't move an inch backward. He remained rooted directly behind me, his imposing frame completely shielding my back from the rest of the room, his proximity an absolute, heavy weight that made it impossible to think.

Desperate to break the suffocating intimacy, I forced myself to turn around within the narrow space between us. I kept my chin tucked, refusing to look up past the crisp white collar of his shirt.

"I'll... I'll return the jacket to you. Washed. Later," I stammered, my fingers gripping the edges of his dark fabric as I made a sharp movement to finally leave.

"Roxanne."

He spoke my name again, his voice dropping into a deeper, smoother register that instantly locked my feet to the floor. I forced my eyes upward, finally meeting the dark, bottomless depth of his gaze. There was no mockery in his expression, no judgment—only a controlled, dangerous intensity that made my pulse race.

"You should learn to be free around me," Alaric said, his eyes scanning my flushed face with a slow, deliberate focus. "You are my son's wife now."

Free.

The single word rang through the hollow chambers of my mind, twisting and distorting until it took on a dozen different, dirty meanings. What the hell did he mean by free?

Did he mean he expected me to act like a dutiful daughter-in-law, or was it a quiet, coded reminder of the absolute control he had held over me in that dark room?

Did it mean he could recall me to his bed whenever he pleased? And I was supposed to answer?

Was he telling me that my pussy would still be wrecked even while I was now his son's wife?

I couldn't find the breath to answer. I scrambled backward, breaking his hold, and turned toward the grand staircase. I stumbled my way back up the steps on shaky, uncoordinated legs, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

And the entire way up, I could feel the heavy, burning weight of Alaric's gaze anchored firmly to my back.

**

Alaric DeLuca.

I watched the stairs long after she vanished from sight.

The soft, frantic rhythm of her footsteps faded into the upper corridors of the estate, but the phantom weight of her body stayed with me.

My mind was a maze of sharp, jagged edges. I honestly wasn't—never in a million lifetimes—expecting to meet her here.

When I had returned to the estate in the early hours of the morning, my skin had still been humming with the aftershocks of what we did in that dim, red-lit VIP booth. I had sat in the back of my car, staring out at the New York skyline, still feeling the agonizingly perfect stretch of her tiny lips around my cock. I could still feel the desperate, frantic way her wet pussy walls had clenched tightly around my beer-can thickness, convulsing in waves of pure pleasure while her voice brokenly moaned countless, shameless pleas into my ear.

She had been a drug I didn't plan on quitting so soon. In fact, as I had poured myself a drink in my study at 4:00 AM, I had already resolved to keep going back to the club for her. She was, without question, the best I had had in a month.

My policy with women like her was always clinical: a month of intense, unrestricted consumption, and then, as I always knew I would, I’d discard her without a second thought.

But the universe had played a vicious, dark joke on the DeLuca name.

Now, my new whore was the supposed daughter-in-law I had signed a million-dollar contract for. The very same girl whose dad had packaged and sold to clear his pathetic debts was the slut who had been drooling on my booth table hours prior.

A heavy, dark pressure built beneath my ribs. I looked down, my eyes anchoring on the highly visible, rigid bulge tenting the fabric of my trousers.

The mere memory of her—the scent of her freshly washed skin mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of her sudden blood—had my cock hardening into stone. I reached down, slowly palming the thick length through my pants, a low, guttural growl vibrating in my throat.

She was out of sight, yet I was standing in my own dining room like a starving predator, staring at the empty marble stairs she had just climbed.

‘She is your son's fucking wife’, a sharp, rational voice screamed in the back of my head. ‘You are double her age. She is off-limits!’.

But the darker, more dominant side of me, the side that built the DeLuca empire on ruthless acquisition, snapped right back with a vicious sneer.

‘She was yours first!.’

I let go of myself, my jaw clenching so hard the muscles locked. I didn't know what to do exactly. For the first time in my life, a situation was entirely spinning out of my meticulous control.

How the hell was I supposed to stay under the same roof with this girl, day in and day out? How was I supposed to sit across from her at family dinners, watching her play the role of the innocent daughter-in-law, with the absolute, torturous knowledge that I had already stretched a hole my son was supposed to stretch? Perhaps I’d have to continue to pretend I can't recognize her. But for how long?

I imagined Lake touching her. I imagined his hands on the skin I had bruised, his body sliding into the tight, greedy hole that had gushed around my shaft just last night.

The thought didn't just anger me; it turned my blood to pure, toxic ice. Lake was my son, but he was also a man I shared a volatile, fractured existence with. If he ever found out—