Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 26 - - don’t make a sound

Closing the door, Cynthia kicked off her shoes, exhausted, and rushed into the bathroom for a shower. She scrubbed off the thick makeup from her face, revealing her fair and delicate features. Drying her hair as she stepped out of the bathroom, all she wanted was a good night's sleep.

Suddenly, the door slammed open with a bang from the outside. Startled, she clutched the towel around herself and turned to see him stumbling in, clearly drunk.

He's back?

She hadn't expected him to come. At the wedding banquet earlier, she saw that woman run out in tears, and he had followed her with a dark expression. Shouldn't he be by her side tonight, comforting her?

If she'd known he'd be back, she would never have brought Jim here!

Still in a daze, she watched him stagger toward her. Instinctively, she stepped back, but he pressed forward until she was backed against the wall with nowhere to go. Raising his hand, he yanked off his tie and let it fall to the floor, then planted both hands on the wall above her, trapping her completely.

Frowning with annoyance, she tightened her hold on her towel, placing a hand on his chest to keep him from getting any closer. Normally, she wouldn't feel this tense around him, but now, with her state of undress, she couldn't help feeling uneasy. Just one move from him, and she'd be completely exposed.

He laughed softly above her, the sound devoid of any discernible emotion, and his large hand traced her bare, unadorned face without restraint.

"Cynthia, do you know—you really looked like a mess today!"

Her face froze for a moment, then she realized what he meant: her heavily made-up appearance earlier. His tone suddenly turned sharp.

"What woman wouldn't want to look beautiful at her own wedding? But you!"

His harsh tone made her feel like she could barely breathe. He wasn't even doing anything, yet she felt suffocated. Was he angry, or was it something else? Was he mocking her? She just couldn't figure this man out.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to stay calm, then replied quietly.

"If it's not with the person you want to marry, what's the point of dressing up beautifully?"

Clearly, her indifferent response angered him. Cynthia barely had a chance to react before he grabbed her and threw her onto the nearby bed. His towering figure loomed over her as he shouted,

"Cynthia, from this day on, you are my wife, the wife of Albert Wilson. Don't ever let me hear you mentioning another man's name again!"

Pinned firmly beneath him, she still met his gaze stubbornly, a mocking smile tugging at her lips.

"What's this, Mr. Wilson? Are you allowed to long for the one you hold dear, but I can't?"

Her cool voice fell into the silence of the spacious room, so quiet that she could hear her own pounding heartbeat and the sound of his slightly heavy breathing, strained with anger. His dark, ink-like eyes revealed nothing of what he was thinking.

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After a long pause, he suddenly rose and left her side. She closed her eyes, silently breathing a sigh of relief, thinking she'd managed to escape this ordeal. But when she opened her eyes again, her expression changed dramatically, startled by what he was doing—he was unbuttoning his shirt, his narrowed gaze darkening with intensity.

Seeing his intentions, she scrambled up from the bed, clutching her towel, and cleared her throat, trying to sound composed.

"Besides, Mr. Wilson, have you forgotten our agreement? Things like this shouldn't be forced."

Though her expression was calm, a slight tremor in her voice betrayed her unease.

"Words alone mean nothing. If it's not in writing, it doesn't exist!"

He cut her off with an unyielding tone. His shirt had already fallen to the floor, leaving him in just his briefs, his lean, muscular physique on full display.

But she was far from admiring him; she hadn't expected him to be so shameless. She froze on the spot, remembering how she'd once wanted him to sign an agreement about this, but later had fled in fear before they'd actually done it.

Now, his drunkenness seemed completely gone as he moved toward her with graceful, deliberate steps. His hand reached directly for the towel around her chest. She shook her head in fear, stepping back, her fingers clinging tightly to the towel, nearly tearing it apart in desperation.

With a slight pull, he dislodged her last defense. Her fair, smooth body was entirely exposed to him. Shame and anger filled her eyes with tears, but she bit her lip tightly, arms crossing over herself in helpless defense.

With a sweep of his arm, he threw her onto the bold, crimson bedspread. She instinctively resisted, but he pinned her down with unyielding force. Leaning close, he whispered a possessive declaration into her ear.

"Now the whole world knows, Cynthia—you are my wife, Albert Wilson's wife. It's only natural for me to want what's mine."

His shamelessness knew no bounds, and she trembled with rage beneath him, struggling with all her strength, kicking and shouting as she spat,

"Albert Wilson, you—you're shameless! Let me go!"

His body, already flushed from the alcohol, grew feverishly hot against the enticingly soft, youthful body beneath him. Her struggles only intensified the sensation of her softness pressing against his firm frame, muddling his thoughts. Albert, a man of normal—and strong—desires, was finding it impossible to hold back.

In truth, he had wanted her for a long time. Ever since the first time he'd tasted her, he couldn't let her go, and tonight—their wedding night—had given him the perfect excuse. So...

"Hush, don't make a sound," he whispered gently against her ear before lowering his head to her chest, kissing her soft, trembling skin. His tongue flicked over her delicate pink flesh, coaxing her, drawing her into his embrace.

Cynthia flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment, feeling the tingling warmth radiating from her chest to every part of her body. The electric sensation left her trembling, a rising heat pooling within her. She knew that her inexperienced body couldn't withstand his expert touch.

Desperately, she reached out, clawing at his back, her fingers digging into his skin as if she were a fierce cat. She could even hear the sound of her nails scraping against his flesh, hoping this pain would make him stop.

Albert felt the stinging pain along his back and opened his eyes, meeting her defiant gaze and the faint smile of satisfaction hidden within. He chuckled suddenly, and, without a second thought, drove himself fully into her with a powerful thrust.

The sudden fullness made her gasp, a soft cry escaping her lips. Realizing what he had just done, shock washed over her, and she shook her head frantically, screaming hysterically, her black hair spilling over the crimson sheets like dark ink on a scarlet landscape.

"Albert Wilson, I hate you! I hate you!"

In all their time together, this was the first time he had seen her so out of control. She hadn't expected him to truly claim her, and her expression—so hauntingly desperate and filled with despair—sent a chill through him.

But she refused to cry. If she shed tears at that moment, he knew he would soften and let her go. Yet she held firm, her stubbornness only igniting his desire to conquer her.

So he lowered his head, kissing her fiercely, stifling her protests. All her unwillingness was caught in her throat until she was on the verge of suffocating from his kiss. Only then did he release her, breathing heavily as he whispered in her ear,

"My dear—I forgot to tell you, this bloodthirsty feeling only drives me crazier!"

With that, he plunged into her with relentless intensity, each thrust seeking her deepest depths. He had to admit, her taste was truly exquisite, making him want to hold onto her even more.

Cynthia had no idea how she endured that terrifying night. She was awakened from a haze only to be claimed by him again, left with no choice but to passively accept everything happening to her.

Amidst wave after wave of shuddering, she silently vowed to herself: never again would she have any interaction or contact with this man.

The next day.

When Albert Wilson woke up on the festive big bed, he found that she was once again missing. Each time, she escaped so quickly that he couldn't help but doubt whether he hadn't put in enough effort the night before. How else could she have the energy to rise so early?

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The butler entered with a broad smile on his face, and Wilson, donning a bathrobe, furrowed his brow and asked,

"Where is she?"

"She left early this morning!"

The butler couldn't help but smile fondly as he recalled the plain-faced, demure girl he had seen that morning.

At first, he hadn't recognized her. She had rushed down in one of the young master's oversized T-shirts and asked him to help her retrieve something from outside.

"Left?"

Albert Wilson's mood noticeably darkened.

"What was she wearing when she left?"

He distinctly remembered that she had worn a red gown to the banquet the night before. There was no way she would still be dressed like that today. The butler, sensing Wilson's rising anger, cautiously replied while studying his expression,

"She had a friend send her clothes..."

"SHIT!"

Albert Wilson had just taken out a shirt he planned to wear that day from the wardrobe. Upon hearing the butler's words, he angrily tossed the shirt onto the floor.