We're Married, After All - Chapter 1
When I finished dressing and went down to the dining room, my husband had already finished his meal.
Of course, he wasn’t sitting there waiting for me. Beside a sparse tea set without even a single dessert lay a pile of letters. It seemed he didn’t even have time to go to his office today.
I sat quietly at the table to avoid disturbing him. The usual silence enveloped us as it always did.
While waiting for my meal to be prepared, I silently observed Danel. His soft blond hair was neatly combed back, as always, so it wouldn’t fall on his forehead. The shirt buttoned up to his neck was pristine without a single wrinkle. His face, clean and sharp, maintained its usual rigid expression.
I traced his straight forehead, the sharp nose that stretched between his brows, and his tightly shut lips, as if appreciating a piece of art. His appearance was neat, serene, and unchangingly beautiful. The most mundane impression one could have when facing Danel Veloce came to mind.
…No matter how much I looked, he was exactly the same as yesterday.
“You’re a bit late today, Laurea,” Danel said, setting down the letter he had been reading. His long fingers, which had been handling the paper, moved toward the ink bottle. My gaze naturally followed their motion.
The way he held the quill and wrote was graceful, like a painting, but it didn’t quite exude the air of a nobleman.
The clean and precise handwriting, coupled with his posture that was stiff to the point of rigidity, made it evident to anyone observant that he hadn’t been long out of the monastery.
Until yesterday, I had watched the man with little to no reaction.
“Ah… I just can’t seem to wake up today. Maybe I rode the horse for too long yesterday.”
It was a lie. The reason I struggled to get up this morning was because I had spent the entire night wide awake.
All because of that man.
Even as I tore pieces of bread and dipped them into the soup, my attention was entirely focused on Danel. While his pen moved, his left hand rested neatly on the paper. My eyes trailed the restrained, almost ascetic movements.
Whenever his right hand dipped the pen into the ink bottle, his delicate left fingers flinched noticeably—almost like a woman’s hand in their grace. It was an old habit of his. Danel, despite his appearance, was incredibly strong, and even when holding a pen, he gripped it with excessive force.
It was even more evident when he exerted his strength.
Under the table, I crossed my legs. I pressed my thighs together tightly as if trying to soothe the constant, involuntary tremors in my body.
I felt heat coiling firmly in my lower abdomen, a sensation tied to all the places he had touched last night—and the places I had wished he would touch. That warmth began to spread, and knowing exactly what kind of pleasure came with his forceful thrusts, I longed for it desperately.
Even as I struggled to swallow my food, Danel continued writing his letters. From his indifferent demeanor to the abrupt way he ended our conversation, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Yet here I was, staring at my husband with a suspicious gaze as he read and wrote letters with a blank expression.
Because earlier this morning, this man pleasured himself while sucking me between my legs.
With those beautiful fingers of his, he had coated himself thoroughly in my arousal.
