Chapter 82 Humiliated
RORY POV
The room gasped when he threw me on the table.
Every single person at that table stared at us in pure shock, like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Honestly? Neither could I.
What the fuck is happening?
I tried to turn toward Alexander but he stopped me immediately, his palm pressing the side of my face flat against the table and holding me there with a force that made it clear he wasn’t asking.
Horror crawled through me slow and cold when he yanked my gown up. The air hit my bare ass and I stopped breathing.
He can’t be. Not here. Not in front of all these people.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell, curse, bite, scratch — anything. But it was like my throat had locked itself shut.
I let out a muffled cry when he shoved my panties aside and slammed into me with one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
No warning. No hesitation. Just him filling me so completely my vision blurred and my fingers clawed at the table for something, anything to hold onto.
He fucked me hard and deep from behind, one hand pinning my head to the table, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
I clamped my lips shut, refusing to let out a single moan. Was this a game? Was this his sick way of trying to make me speak? To humiliate me so deeply that l'd have to beg him to stop?
What kind of man does this? What kind of man fucks his wife in front of his enemies and calls it power?
I grunted when he pushed deeper, the angle shifting, his cock hitting somewhere that made my whole body betray me in real time.
“Mind your fucking business,” he sneered over my head to everyone watching us like we were their favorite entertainment.
And somehow, somehow they listened.
Chairs scraped. People looked away. Some stood and drifted to other parts of the room like they hadn’t just witnessed him bend his wife over a dinner table.
He leaned down, his chest warm against my back, his mouth finding my ear. His hips didn’t slow down for a second.
“Do you hate me, Aurora?”
I nodded my head aggressively, sobbing into the wood as tears of shame and unwanted
pleasure slid down my face.
“You hate me,” he murmured, low and dark, his voice almost thoughtful. “But feel how your cunt is gripping my cock.” He drove into me deeper on the next thrust to make his point, and my whole body clenched around him involuntarily, desperately. “Strangling me. Like it never wants me to leave.”
I hate him.
I hate him so much I could scream.
I hate myself even more for the way my body has completely given up on me, welcoming this, wanting this, fluttering around him like it has no idea what shame is. Why does it feel so good even when it hurts so much? I feel dirty, used, and still so desperate for him. This is sick. I’m sick for wanting more.
My orgasm built fast and mean, no kindness in it whatsoever, and when it crashed through me I shook against the table and swallowed the moan so hard my throat ached. My fingers went slack. My legs stopped working. The pleasure wrung me out like a wet cloth, my whole body trembled against the table.
Alexander pulled out of me.
He reached for me, not gently, not tenderly and shoved me down under the table. I went, too wrecked to fight him, my knees hitting the floor. He released himself into my hair.
I stayed there, kneeling under that table, while the most toxic orgasm of my life still pulsed through my thighs and his cum dripped down the back of my head. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone the way I hated him in that moment. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more either.
He shoved me back toward my seat, and I sat there, reeling, trying to pull my dress down with shaking fingers as I wiped the tears from my face.
The room was silent. No one dared to speak. It was as if Alexander controlled the very oxygen we were breathing.
Alexander straightened up unhurried, adjusted his trousers, smoothed his jacket. Then he looked around the table like he’d just finished a pleasant dinner.
“Thanks for the lovely evening.” He picked up his glass, set it down. “My wife and I will take our leave.”
Flat. Calm. Like he hadn’t just fucked me in front of a room full of people and worn it on his face like a crown.
He turned briefly to one of the men. “Kade. I expect to hear from you regarding our deal.”
Then he collected his weapons, every single one, methodical and unhurried, took my hand, and walked us out.
The limo was cold.
I sat as far from him as the seat would allow, my body still shaking in small, uncontrollable waves. My dress was smoothed back down. My heels were still on. Everything on the outside looked exactly like it did when we arrived and absolutely nothing on the inside was the same.
Alexander sat beside me and snapped, “What part of do not speak to anyone did you not understand?”
I barely heard him. I was somewhere else —somewhere inside my own head, asking myself if this is what the rest of my life looks like. If every time I step out of line, every time I breathe wrong, he’ll find a new way to remind me that I am nothing but Anastasia’s shadow wearing a body she never had.
“I’m talking to you, Aurora.” His voice dropped low with warning and I turned my head slowly and looked at him.
The anger was right there under the surface of his eyes, hot and barely contained, and I couldn’t understand it. I could not wrap my mind around it. He was angry? He had no right. He had absolutely no right to sit there with anger on his face when I was the one who just got bent over a table in front of strangers. I was the one humiliated. I was the one who had to swallow my own sounds and cry into the wood while they watched. He got praised for what he did to me. Jarule probably respected him more for it.
And he had the nerve to be pissed?
My fingers started flying. I signed at him aggressively, my movements jagged with rage:
You fucked me in front of your enemies and came in my hair. Why?
I signed it hard, each movement sharp and aggressive, my hands shaking with everything I couldn’t say out loud.
"The last thing I want to do right now is deal with your signing shit." he seethed, his fingers running through his hair like he wanted to rip it out. "I can't deal with it. If you aren't going to talk, then keep your mouth shut like you've been doing. I don't want to see your hands raised, and I don't want to see that phone."
All of a sudden, he didn't care if I talked. He was pushing me back into the silence he claimed to hate.
I don’t get him. I don’t get any of this. He twists everything, flips everything, leaves me with no ground to stand on. What sort of emotional torture is this?
The car stopped. I hadn’t even noticed we were home.
I didn’t wait. I shoved the door open, stepped out, and swung it shut behind me, hard, directly into him as he tried to follow. The satisfying sound of it hitting him was the best thing I’d felt all night after the orgasm.
I reached down and pulled off my red bottoms heels.
I didn’t go to our room.
I didn’t go to Liam either, he’d take one look at my face and start asking questions with those big eyes of his and I couldn’t do that to him or to myself tonight.
I found one of the small, empty rooms at the end of the hall, pushed the door open, and closed it softly behind me.
Then I sat on the small couch in the dark and let myself fall apart where nobody could see.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you're reading this book and you managed to get here please kindly drop comments, your opinions, even if it's an emoji, I'd be grateful to know I have readers. Thank you!"