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I check the tag: horse cock.
I swear I’m not lying.
I rotate to Connor. He’s not the least bit flustered.
“For you,” I say with a tight smile. I’m joking, I think. I swallow hard as his smile fades, staring impassively at me. In the back of my brain, I wonder if this is something he misses. Not obscenely large dicks, but just them in general. I add, “If you need—”
“Rose,” he cuts me off. He glances once at the cashier before lowering his voice to me. “Do you remember when I told you that I used to have sex for two different reasons?”
“For manipulation and for pleasure,” I say beneath my breath.
He leans close, his lips skimming my cheek before he whispers a secret. “When I was on bottom, it was always for manipulation.” He cups my jaw. “I’m not missing anything with you.”
I inhale strongly. Translation: you fill all of my needs.
Of all the places to have a heart to heart…it’s incredibly disgusting this had to be the location. I set the dildo back, already planning on bathing in a tub of bleach and sanitizer when I return home.
“Sex doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” I say. I realize I’m fighting a losing battle by trying to unnerve him here.
“Not even for a second.” He’s so comfortable in his own skin that almost nothing can shake him. I thought I was that way too, but I’ve been tested too much. I have limitations and things that make me tic.
“I have something I need to show you,” he tells me.
My mind spins as I follow beside him, edging closer just to steal back the whip. He gives in, releasing his firm clutch on the leather. I feel powerful with it in hand, but I don’t want to actually use it on anyone.
“Please tell me you’re guiding me to hand sanitizer.”
“I’ll take a shower with you when we get home,” he tells me. I never thought I’d be married to this man, let alone hear him offering showers with me so casually. Two years have already flown by, and the girl who was worried that she had to be dominant in bed (or at least every guy expected it of her) has all but vanished.
I gasp and pause by a rack of edible underwear, made from black licorice. I pick up the thong from the display since the others are in boxes, and I hold it with one finger, snuffing out the image of other dirty hands touching it too.
“You can only have sex with me if I wear this. Mind you, you have to eat it,” I say flatly, watching his grin return. “Or you have to have sex on top of a grave. Choose.”
Most guys wouldn’t mind edible panties, but Connor hates licorice. Black licorice tops the list. Still, the other option has worse consequences.
Without hesitation, he says, “I’d fuck you on top of a grave.”
I glower, my eyes piercing his forehead. I expected a different answer, forgetting he doesn’t always choose what I would. “That’s disrespectful and heinous on so many levels.” I imagine what kind of horrible karma would haunt me for desecrating a grave.
I set the panties back and fix my hair over one shoulder, freezing. I touched that and then my hair. Don’t concentrate on it, Rose.
“Disrespectful to whom?” Connor asks, leaning a shoulder on the wall. “The dead are dead. They don’t care because they physically lack the mental capacity to care.”
My lips press in a line. I can’t say the word “ghosts” as validation. He will use it against me in a thousand acidic ways. I try to drop this conversation, nearing him. I fist his sweater with both hands, a collared button-down underneath the navy fabric, preppy and sophisticated.
And I stare up at him with flaming eyes, my four-inch heels not tall enough to meet him perfectly, but they help. I recite the quote in my most heated voice, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’”
He looks aroused, his eyes consuming me. “Shakespeare,” he answers correctly. “Julius Caesar.” He takes my face in his hand, turning my head so he has access to my ear, the forceful movements speed my pulse. “Why would you quote your least favorite of his plays?” He’s intrigued. And turned on.
The power I wield sets me on fire. “It seemed timely,” I breathe. “We’re discussing death.” I smooth my hands over his sweater and then push him once, an inch separating us. “And just so you know, we would be crushed by karma and fate and ghosts if we had sex on someone’s grave.”
So I mentioned ghosts. I don’t care. He may not believe, but I do. And in this particular scenario, he’s fucking me on that grave.
He laughs, his teeth showing from his wide grin.
“Don’t use your conceited smile and tell me they’re not real. It’s called faith, and you have none.”
“I have faith,” he says. “In myself.” I let out a snort. He continues on, “And in you.” Fine. “And our friends. In the people I can read and see and understand. I don’t have faith in the intangible and the invisible.” He rests his hand on the small of my back, restarting our earlier walk to the left side of the store, a little closer to the window, in fact.
His gaze lingers on a shelf, right beside a manikin dressed in a leather thong and studded bra. The manikin isn’t his focus.
My eyes follow his.
No.
“No,” I say with the shake of my head. “I’d rather be buried alive with snakes. Or better yet…” My imagination runs its course. “You can bury me and then fuck on my grave and I’ll come back and haunt you.”
His brows knot. “Who’s killing you in this scenario?”
“Myself. Poison. Maybe a knife to the heart. Or drowning. The options are endless.”
“You’re not Juliet and you’re not Ophelia.” He’s basically saying that I’m not living in a Shakespearean play. “And just so you know, Rose, hyperboles about killing yourself are now my least favorite.”
“You can kill me then.” I tap my heel a couple times. “How about by fire?”
He stares hard at me, no trace of that amused grin.
I straighten, confidence bracing my back like a fortress. “You’re the one who brought me here to make a point.” I motion to the shelf beside us. “How did you think I was going to take it?”
“I thought you were going to threaten my cock,” he says, “not your own life.”
My defenses break down. I suppose this is a new one for me. I am all about survival, and the occasional self-sacrifice for the ones I love, not throwing myself onto the burning coals for no real reason. Oh God, was that me throwing a tantrum? Like a weird hyperbole tantrum?
No.
I am twenty-six.
I am a strong, independent woman.
But when you visit a sex shop with your husband and he guides you to the anal plug section, you’re allowed to say whatever the hell you want.
Anal sex has never been a priority of mine. I’ve been curious but uninterested. It’s a conundrum that I know intrigues Connor.
I let out a breath. “I know every girl is different with anal.” I think about my sisters, facts that he already knows, so I don’t mind sharing as evidence to my feelings. “Lily loves it. Daisy hates it, and Poppy has never tried it. That doesn’t make me the Goldilocks of Anal Sex. It may not be just right for me.”
He tries to stifle a smile, his lips aching to curve. My blood scorches through my veins. I almost grab a plug off the shelf and throw it at his head. I stop myself, remembering there is a cameraman outside.
That would be a terrible picture to land on the front of Celebrity Crush. The headline: Rose Cobalt Assaults Her Husband with a Sex Toy!!!
“If you laugh,” I threaten, “I’m going to rip out your tongue, barbecue it, and then feed it to whatever woodland creature stumbles into our backyard.”
He smiles but doesn’t produce a laugh. “I appreciate that you directed this hyperbole at me.” He leans a shoulder on the wall again. “As for your analogy…” He rubs his lips, almost laughing.
I point a warning finger at him. “Give me your tongue.”
&nb
sp; “Later tonight, darling,” he banters. “And statistically speaking, you have the same probability of loving it, hating it, and it being just right as anyone else. You just have to try first.”
Try.
That’s the intimidating part.
I never wanted to do it, but I can tell he does. I know I might like it. Lily raves too much to think it’s completely terrible.
A text dings on Connor’s cell and then mine.
Got the photo. Thanks. – WA
It’s over.
I’m surprised by the incoming disappointment, the drop of my shoulders. Remove the uncleanliness of this event and it had been fun. I learned some things about him, and he learned things about me. Even though we’re married, exploring each other never really ends.
“Rate me,” I say to him, wondering how my acting went.
“C-plus.”
I roll my eyes.
“Stop looking over your shoulders and at the windows.” Thankfully we won’t be feeding anything directly to Celebrity Crush anymore. I like that we have more control on what happens.
I snap my whip. It comes perilously close to touching him, a complete accident, and my heart lurches. I drop the thing, but he’s irrefutably stoic, unwavering. He picks up the whip and draws me close again.
“And what’s my grade?” he asks.
“F,” I say what I always do.
“Without bias,” he amends.
