Filthy Vows - Alessandra Torre

Prologue

“Are you sure about this?” My husband stood before me and put his finger under my chin, lifting it until my eyes met his. I wet my lips, the taste of champagne still on them, and nodded.

“Open your knees.”

Gripping the edge of the bed, I parted my legs, the silky fabric of my dress clinging to my inner thighs. His gaze dropped to the motion, and I could see his want battling with a reluctancy to take this next step.

He sank to his knees before me. Running his hand down to my calf, he gave the muscle a possessive squeeze before undoing the satin strap of my right stiletto. Carefully, he removed the expensive shoe and set it aside, then moved to the left. In the dim bedroom light, I watched his features tighten in attentive concentration as his strong hands made quick work of the delicate heels.

My bare feet settled on the wood floor as he ran his palms reverently up my bare legs, stopping at my open knees. His gaze flicked to mine. “Wider,” he said hoarsely, and pushed my knees further apart.

I yielded, allowing him to stretch my legs open and lift my dress, draping it outside of my knees so that I was fully exposed. He smiled when he saw my lack of panties, and ran a tender hand across my damp folds. His fingers spread me, then pushed so deeply inside that the platinum glint of his wedding ring disappeared. I gasped at the intrusion and his eyes darkened at how wet and needy I was. “Tell me what you want.”

I met his eyes. “Him.”

He swore and his fingers withdrew, then pushed back in, pumping across my neediest point. “Where?”

“Right here. On our bed.”

My eyes dropped and I could see the instant and impressive response of his cock, stiffening at my words.

“When?”

I looked past him and at the man who sat against our dresser, his shoulders hunched, hands gripping the edge of the mahogany. His eyes met mine and he stood, his face tight with hunger and want.

“Now.”

1

7 years earlier

ELLE

I used to be nonchalant about penises. Truth be told, I thought they were ugly. Misshapen. I had the same offhand relationship with them that I did with my period. A sort of oh. You again. I guess I can deal with you, assuming you aren’t too much of a pain. I’d dealt with seven penises before I heard about Easton North’s cock. The four-letter word had been so out of place at the long sorority house table that I’d choked on a crisp chunk of broccoli and had to chug a half-glass of iced tea just to wash it free.

“Chelsea,” I chided, glancing around the dining hall for our sharp-nosed house mother. She had an uncanny ability to sniff out foul language, smuggled alcohol, and the smell of weed—all violations that carried strict punishments and monetary fines. Chelsea was already on her shit list, a situation the short blonde had dismissed with one toss of her French-manicured hand.

“It’s true, Elle.” she insisted, oblivious to the way her sing-song voice carried. “I’m telling you, it was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Pretty?” Laura examined the piece of salmon draped over her salad with the intensity of a surgeon. “That’s an interesting word to use.”

I agreed, though to agree with Laura Pinn was paramount to social suicide. Agreement meant servitude, and once she sniffed out a potential flunky, she hunted and corralled them with the ruthlessness of a hyena.

“It was just…” Chelsea sank against the back of the linen-wrapped chair and sighed, her features settling into the blissful