Dolls

rebirth

Chapter 49: Coria

The marks on my palm have faded to scars, light marks on my skin. Though I would have preferred them to be gone completely, they are light enough to be barely noticeable. Mama's death is barely thought of anymore. I have a daughter to raise. There can be no distractions.

Especially when said daughter is not the angel her father wants.

Sybella has gotten into the habit of taking off her corset mere minutes after it is on, tossing it on the floor without a care. She has also been wearing just a shirt and underwear, refusing to wear a dress and running around the house. It is natural in a child on the cusp of being a toddler, but Luther hates it. He glares at the sight and hides himself away. Only when she is good does he pay attention.

I do my best, but it is hard to discipline her when he keeps confining me in his office with him.

Sometimes, he gives me things to do around the room, but more often than not, I sit and wait for him to finish. It may take a short time, it may take a long time. I never know when he calls me in and motions me to sit down. He has not let me out of his sight, not since he saw what I did to my hands.

And since Luther is acting like the true concerned husband he is so known to be, I have resorted to making eye contact with Hayes across the room.

But I will not let it manifest. Not for a while. And I am hoping it will be gone by then.

"Coria," He calls. I turn my head to wear he sits behind his desk. He simply looks at me, and I get up and approach him. He has pushed his chair back just a bit, so I stand in front of him and wait for the order to climb onto his lap or get on my knees.

Luther rakes his eyes over my appearance. I have lost weight since Mama's death, unhealthily so, like when my corset forcefully pushed healthy fat away and squeezed it from coming back. But my dear husband finds no issue with it. He likes it. Reminds him of when he first bought me.

That was when he was not president, did not have a rebellion on his hands, and when he did not have a disrespectful daughter. He misses it.

But his ego is too big to admit he has lost, so he takes these moments when he can.

He stands from his chair, pushing his hips against my stomach to push me up against the desk. He takes his phone from his pocket and sets in on the wood away from us, and then places his hands on the back of my thighs before lifting me and setting me on the desk.

He leans in and kisses me, fingers inching their way up my dress, bunching it up to my hips. I wrap my arms around his neck, nails digging into his back. His fingers trail over my legs, up towards my hips, chasing the natural heat that resides there. He is not dumb enough to think that is for him, but in these moments, he thinks it is.

I slide my hand up his neck, fisting my hand into his hair, and pulling his head back. As his head snaps back, he grunts in surprise, but he does not stop me. I kiss down his neck, taking a hand to unbutton his shirt and spreading it over his chest. His fingers pull on the strings of my panties, stretching it out as he allows me to take off his shirt and toss it away.

"Tear them off," I breathlessly encourage. The fabric of my panties is straining against my skin painfully, and he needs to get it over with. He hesitates, but I release his hair and grip his face.

"Please your wife," I say. His eyes bore into mine. I can tell he is conflicted. He wants to take control, but to see a woman outwardly want him—use him—it is an unspoken desire. "Or would you like to move your hands?"

Lace stands no chance against a man's lust. First, he attempts to just slide them down my legs, but then he is not patient enough and rips them apart. He wads it up and and throws it into a drawer, taking out lube. Newly placed for our activities.