The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

The dawn had barely broken when Xavier’s voice cut through the stillness of the manor. “Take the day,” he instructed the household staff, his tone brooking no argument. They dispersed with quiet nods, leaving the mansion to its master and mistress.

Retreating to his quarters, Xavier stripped away the remnants of the night, the water cascading down his body in rivulets as he showered. Each drop seemed to invigorate him, fueling the anticipation of how the new day would unfold.

Freshened up and dressed in crisp casuals, Xavier descended the grand staircase. The scent of something being prepared wafted from the kitchen, guiding him. There, he found Cathleen, her silhouette accentuated by a dress clinging to her curves beneath an apron. Desire surged within him, unbidden yet undeniable.

“What are you making?” he queried, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes drinking in her form.

Silence answered him; a wall of resentment built from the night before hung between them. Her focus remained on the cutting board, tomatoes surrendering under her knife, her hands steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

“I asked you a question, Cat.” His words were a velvet caress, but his actions spoke a rougher dialect as he delivered a firm spank to her ass. She gasped-a sound that danced on the line between shock and something darker.

“Xavier stop!” The command escaped her lips, but it was lost in the air of the kitchen, disregarded like the steam rising from the pot on the stove.

“Make me.” His whisper was a challenge, hot breath trailing along the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine even as she stood her ground, the blade continuing its dance through ripe flesh.

“Please stop,” she murmured, the plea barely audible over the chop of tomatoes.

“Stop what, Cat?” Xavier’s voice was laced with feigned innocence as his hand met her ass once more-a deliberate sting that reverberated through her. “I am doing husband duties.”

In one swift motion, he pressed her against the counter, his other hand roaming, claiming territory with each touch. His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing, ensuring that his mark would be seen, felt, and remembered. “Xavier, I want you to stop,” she insisted, her voice stronger now, but it was like speaking to stone.

The kitchen became their arena, each movement laden with tension and unspoken words, the air thick with the scent of defiance and desire.

Xavier’s voice sliced through the tension, a low hum of possessiveness: “Your words and your body aren’t matching, Cat.” His finger slipped inside her pussy, unbidden yet undeniable, and her scream was a raw shard of ecstasy, shattering the morning calm. He smirked at her release, his eyes locked on hers as he turned around the kitchen counter with the slow deliberation of a hunter. Cathleen stared back in disbelief, her breaths ragged and her mind a whirlwind of conflict.

With a deliberate motion, Xavier brought his finger to his lips, tasting her-an obscene gesture that made her insides twist. He savored the moment, index finger followed by middle finger, his gaze never leaving hers. Then he left her there-quivering, undone-by the counter.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Cathleen’s legs were unsteady as she escaped to the guest bathroom, the echo of her climax reverberating through her. The dampness of her G-string was a stark reminder of the line she’d crossed; it clung to her skin, a symbol of surrender. She discarded it like a shackle.

Returning to the kitchen, Cathleen’s resolve hardened. Xavier lounged on the couch, a vision of raw masculinity hand-wrapped around his arousal. She averted her gaze, focusing on the task at hand-the tomatoes needed her attention, not the man who defied her boundaries.

But Xavier was a force, a tempest that swept her up without warning. Before she could protest, he had her against the counter once more, his erection pressing into her pussy, insistently demanding entry. Her scream was lost in the collision of their bodies, a tangled mess of pleasure and confusion.

He anchored her to him with a certainty that belied her internal chaos. Each thrust was a statement, a claim, and though her mind screamed no, her body sang a different tune. “On your back,” he commanded, and she complied, a soldier marching to a familiar drumbeat.

From behind, Xavier increased his pace relentlessly. The sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuated the stillness of their home, a rhythm that spoke of ownership and surrender. Cathleen’s world narrowed to the here and now, where every motion of Xavier’s hips wound her tighter, like a coil ready to snap.

The ring of the doorbell clashed against the carnal symphony of their lovemaking, a sharp note cutting through the haze of desire. “Fuck!” Xavier’s curse was a growl, raw and guttural, his rhythm unbroken even as the sound signaled an unwelcome intrusion.

“Xavier, they’ll hear-” Cathleen’s protest died on her lips, swallowed by the relentless cadence of his hips driving into her deep, each thrusting an assertion of his claim.

“Let them,” he bit back, his voice a dangerous whisper as her pussy clenched around him, betraying her plea with its own hungry grip. And then, as if pulled by an invisible string, her inner walls began to milk him, drawing out the inevitable conclusion to their primal dance.

“Xavier!” Her voice crescendoed, naming him, claiming him even as she fought the tumultuous waves of pleasure. With a final, punishing drive, he emptied himself inside her, marking her in the most intimate way possible.

Cathleen shook, the aftershocks ripping through her like electric currents, leaving her breathless and disoriented. Her ecstasy was a sharp contrast to the discomfort of being so utterly exposed and so completely possessed.

“Don’t fucking wipe yourself,” Xavier commanded, his tone brooking no argument. He pinned her with a look that seared into her very soul. “I want you walking around with my cum dripping off your pussy. Every time you feel wet from my cum, you will be reminded of whose you are. All mine.”

Before she could muster the strength to move and protest, he was gone, striding towards the door with the predatory grace that defined him. The click of the latch echoed ominously as he swung it open, denying her even the scant dignity of cleaning up the evidence of their raw encounter.

And there she lay, a tangle of limbs and tousled hair, her body still humming with the aftermath as she heard Xavier’s voice greeting the unexpected visitors, his tone effortlessly shifting from commanding to cordial. She was left to grapple with the dichotomy of her desires, the woman who never lost a case now wrestling with a surrender that demanded no jury, no defense-only the undeniable truth of her own betrayal.