The Unwanted Wife

By: Natasha Anders



“Theresa! Open the damned door!” Sandro angrily thumped on the wood again, and this time it was loud enough to make her jump up and hurriedly unlock and open the door, for fear that he would wake the live-in housekeeper. Despite the fact that his voice had been only a grim whisper through the wood, she was in no doubt that he was absolutely livid. She stood staring up at him in the dim light and was surprised by the flash of hot fury on his face, which was so quickly masked beneath the more familiar mask of icy indifference, that she wasn’t sure if she had imagined the emotion.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked stiffly.

“I’ve decided to move into this room,” she informed him, not quite succeeding in keeping the anxiety from her voice, and his jaw clenched. She had not anticipated having this conversation until morning. Sandro was full of surprises today. She had known that he would be upset about her moving out of their bedroom. He enjoyed sex with her and seemed happy to have her conveniently within arm’s reach. Still, it was completely out of character for him to actually come thumping on her bedroom door, demanding an explanation in the dead of night! She had expected a cold and controlled conversation about it over the breakfast table. The light from the landing was just bright enough for her to see the stormy emotion brewing in his eyes, and she swallowed a lump of disappointment when the emotion was doused in ice.

“I can see that,” he gritted out. “I think the pertinent question is why?” And she could see that it just about killed him to ask it.

“I’d feel like a hypocrite if I stayed in the master bedroom with you.” She shrugged again. “Just this morning I told you I wanted a divorce, so it wouldn’t feel right if I continued to share your bed as if we’d never had that conversation.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said dismissively.

“No…I think I’m actually making sense for the first time in nearly two years.”

“My wife”—he placed sarcastic emphasis on the last word—“sleeps with me. You will come back to our bedroom, if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming!”

“I-I…m-may have to sleep with you, Sandro,” she conceded, knowing that if he chose to do as he threatened, she would definitely lose to his superior size and strength. “But I won’t be having sex with you anymore.”

“You would deny me, your husband, this basic marital right?” He sounded frankly astonished by that, as astonished as Theresa felt for even daring to say the words.

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed and he took a threatening step toward her.

“What’s to stop me from just taking what belongs to me?” he asked speculatively, his eyes raking dismissively over her thin, shivering, T-shirt-clad body. Theresa crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders defensively.

“I don’t belong to you,” she said softly.

“Well, I certainly forked out huge amounts of money for you. That feels like ownership to me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she protested in frustration, and he laughed softly.

“And you’re still singing the same tired old tune,” he mocked. “This is beside the point. I have no wish to rehash these details, it achieves nothing. Come on, we’re going to bed!” He grabbed her hand and tugged her back toward their bedroom a few doors down the hall. She was so shocked by the abrupt gesture that she stumbled along behind him, before instinct kicked in and she dug in her heels, leaving him to practically drag her the last few feet.

Theresa was out of breath and furious when he finally released her hand. They were in the master bedroom, facing each other, and she glared at him…refusing to be intimidated by his scowl.

“When did you become the Neanderthal Man, Sandro? I never thought you would resort to caveman tactics.” He didn’t like being called a barbarian, not her suave, sophisticated, and rigid husband. She could see it in the way his mouth thinned and his eyes blazed. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her up against him.

“You haven’t seen the Neanderthal in me yet, cara. I advise you not to push me on this, not unless you want things to get really ugly between us.” He used his whole body to intimidate her, leaning over and into her, nose to nose.

“I don’t see how things can get any uglier,” she whispered.

“You really don’t want to find out how much worse it can get, trust me on that.” His eyes bored into hers, and her breath came in small, shallow gasps. She was suddenly aware of how closely she was pressed against him and felt a betraying flash of heat uncoiling in the pit of her stomach and radiating outward. Even though Sandro never really let himself go in bed, he was still an incredible lover, and despite, or maybe because of, the clinical precision with which he conducted the act, he always made sure she climaxed. She would have traded any number of those orgasms for a kiss of course, or even a show of affection afterward, but she couldn’t help her reaction to him. He could always make her melt. Chemistry was a terrible thing; sometimes it simply sparked between the wrong people.

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