I groan softly, stretching over the small body I was snuggled in.
I lost control last night. I lost control on so many levels.
I made a mistake —several mistakes.
1. I went to her in the first place.
2. I let myself get out of hand.
3. I said a whole sentence in my native tongue.
And the worst by far?
4. I came inside her with the sole intent of getting her pregnant.
God! You'd think a criminal mastermind with an empire built on the crushed craniums of its enemies and predecessors, would have enough sense to fucking pull out!
Now, because life hates me and is determined to fuck me in the ass every chance it gets, she's probably pregnant. Probably with twins. Hell, triplets! Quadruplets! Sextuplets!
All because I had to get sentimental and pump my wife full of cum to carry on the legacy of sadistic fucks with a sense of morality, and an inborn inclination to depravity.
Well, a round of applause for the next generation, motherfucker.
I find it slightly humorous (or at least, I would if it weren't me), that I'm still plastered to her body.
I still won't get up. Her heartbeat is too steady, the heave of her breast too constant. The softness, warmness, the safety she represents grips me.
Her fingers are still in my hair, but they're not moving. They stay still as she is, constant she is.
She's like stars; she glimmers and twinkles and looks for a minute like she's unsteady, but then that minute is over, and you realized she never went anywhere.
She's a landmark, by which I now recognize home.
But home and landmarks and stars do not coincide with temporary marriages.
If I could stop fucking her, I do believe I could build a bridge, get over it, and make money off it.
But as it is, I need her. I need her body. I need her around me.
I need to be inside her, and I can't change it now.
But I can minimize the damage.
I pry myself off her, leaving a lingering kiss on her ample breasts.
Then, I get ready, as usual. As usual, she's there, the covers clutched to her chest like she's been caught doing someone she shouldn't.
Her eyes avoid mine, settling on the sink to the floor, the chair, the bed, anything but me.
"I have to go to work after breakfast. Do not leave this house, understand?" I demand coldly.
"Yes Salvatore," Her gaze is cast to the ground in shame, she gives herself a hug.
It is moments like this that I remember that the stars are very far away. By the time I see them change, they've already imploded.
She is still very far away, and from the distance, beyond the glimmer, the twinkling, I could see her beginning to burn out.
I could see it was breaking her down, and all I could do was watch her deceitful twinkling, and thank her for the pretty light show.
Apollo skips into the kitchen with a grin, running into my arms immediately.
It's tradition for us now; we're our own little fake family. The ties are real. Apollo is still my son in every sense of the word.
Delphine is still my wife.
As per usual, I don't stay for breakfast.
I wrap my arms around her waist as she cooks breakfast, snuggling into her neck.
Turning her to face me, I take my good morning kiss.
I place a sweet kiss on her lips, "Good morning."
"Good morning," she murmurs, pecking me back.
Padding to the living room, I retrieve my gun. I tuck it in the back of my suit pants, letting my suit jacket flutter over it.
"I'm off to work. Kisses,"
My son leaps into my arms and places a kiss on my cheek. I kiss his head and smile.
I let him down and he takes off somewhere. I call after him to listen to his Mother, but I don't think he heard me.
I don't think he cared.
I yank my wife in my arms.
"Has my boy been obedient to you, wife?"
Silent, she answers with a nod.
"Good. I have to go now cara, kiss."
She softly placed her lips on mine, and I pulled her in, consuming her mouth, letting my tongue slip between her lips.
I let her go, and leave.
But not before the daily threat.
"Do not step foot out of this house baby girl, or Daddy will take you over his knee and spank you."
Instead of fear, I got arousal. And though I don't have the time for a quick fuck, I can still play around with her.
I spank her clit reveling in her whimper.
"Spankings aren't confined to your ass. You touch yourself or leave this house, I will spank you, baby girl. Understand?"
My eyes burn holes into her head. I hate those words. They are a cop out for her. A surrender.
"Good girl," I say instead of telling her to fight me, and then I leave.
I head down to the underground garage, choosing a car.
I'm tired honestly, have a lot on my mind.
Why can't I just be normal?
Why can't I take my family out?
Why can't I distance myself from her?
Why possess what I can't really have?
Frankly, I know the answer. They all have the exact same answer.
It's the same reason I don't speak Italian anymore.
The same reason I have to hide in my wife literally, every time I think, dream about my childhood.
The same reason I have tattoos that mean nothing to me.