Page 55 of The Spare

Ilike to control all the variables in my life, because that’s where security lies. Skiing excepted, I relish security. I’m at my most content, most creative, when I feel safe. When things are up in the air and it feels as though the very ground beneath my feet is shaky, I don’t fare so well.

Case in point: Xavier’s little stunt on Boxing Day. He didn’t just pull the rug out from beneath me; he pulled the ground out. I don’t want to feel like that again for a very long time.

But it turns out that sexy uncertainty is a whole other ball game. It’s like being on a rollercoaster—you know you’re safe to enjoy the perceived danger. I know Ben won’t harm me… but I also know that’s a lethal twinkle in his eye as he pushes the single strap of my dress off my shoulder so it falls to the floor in a pool of black silk crepe.

‘You say stop’—he reaches around to unclasp my strapless bra—‘I stop.’

I nod, my nipples furling more tightly as soon as his gaze latches on to them. He sinks slowly to his knees in front of me and hooks his thumbs into my black lace thong, sliding it down my legs until it’s around my ankles. I take the hands he offers me and carefully step out of it—and my dress—so I’m naked except for my sheer black hold-ups and black stilettos. It’s too early in the year to go bare-legged.

Ben cuffs my ankle with one hand before sliding it up the inside of my leg, stopping at mid-thigh. The heat of his skin against mine has me widening my stance, and he grins up at me. It’s a cold, assessing grin that sends shivers down my spine. He may be on his knees before me, but there’s no doubt who holds the power here.

He gets to his feet. ‘So tempted to get you on your hands and knees for me, princess,’ he drawls, ‘but I want to watch that face of yours as I put you through your paces. So on your back it is. Shoes off first.’

I step out of my shoes, and the instant height difference underscores the power dynamic.

‘Fuck, yes,’ he says, staring down at me. ‘On the bed, sweetheart. Jesus, I feel like a kid in a sweet shop.’

‘How many women have you been with in these rooms?’ I ask him, turning to walk around the bed. No way am I confident enough to stick my bottom in the air and crawl away from him. I sit on the side of the bed and pull my legs up.

‘Enough to know a few tricks,’ he says, approaching. ‘And a few treats—that cupboard is a gold mine. I promise you, you’re in for a treat. Lie down.’

I do as he asks, tugging one of the large throw pillows beneath my head, the satin sheets cool against my back and slippery against my stockinged feet.

He comes around to the head of the bed and unspools a couple of lengths of white silk from the drawer in the bedside table. I crane my neck to watch him thread one through the big brass hoop affixed to one side of the black leather headboard. ‘Do you remember Eddie’s birthday party at the Mandarin a couple of years back?’ he asks, taking hold of my nearest wrist so he can draw it above my head and wrap the sash around it.

‘Yes,’ I say hesitantly, unclear if this memory has a point or whether he’s giving me some kind of professional patter to distract me from the fact that he’s tying me up. His cousin had a big black-tie thirtieth bash—I went along with Xavier, and Ben was there, too, looking unbearably gorgeous and flirting with everyone with a vagina.

‘You were in a white dress that evening.’ He makes a knot and tugs it tight. ‘Backless. No bra. Your tits drove me wild all night.’

I stare up at him, too shocked to remember to panic at the brutal efficiency with which he’s restraining me. I’ve never been tied up before.

‘It was Ralph Lauren,’ I tell him. Purple label. Winter white wool crepe. A great dress. And Ben remembers? He remembers my breasts?

‘Good old Ralph.’ He makes his way around the bed with the second sash. ‘Anyway, a few of us came here afterwards. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I found a woman upstairs who looked a bit like you from behind—her hair was a similar colour to yours—took her into one of these rooms, flipped her over, and fucked the living daylights out of her. I imagined I was letting you have it the entire time.’

My entire body breaks out in goosebumps as he threads his sash through the other hoop, my wrist hanging limply in his when he picks it up. If the only success factor in a marriage was the sex, Benedict and I would be absolutely smashing it. Not just that, but we’ve both admitted several times now to having been attracted to each other in the past.

This, though, is an entirely different kettle of fish. He’s telling me he found someone to fuck so he could imagine it was me. That’s staggering beyond belief—and holy hell, is it erotic.

Is it messed up that I’m hopelessly, disgustingly jealous of a nameless woman because she got to reap the benefits of Benedict working all that frustration out?

I screw my face up. ‘It should have been me,’ is what comes out.

He tugs his knot closed with unnecessary force. ‘Damn right it should have been you, sweetheart. Why do you think I’ve trussed you up like this? I’ve finally got you right where I want you, and I’m not taking any chances.’ He bends and brushes his lips over mine. I arch into his touch, but as soon as I do, he straightens up and runs his eyes appraisingly over my body. ‘Excellent.’

I wonder what he sees. How I look. My arms are secured to the top two corners of the bed—this husband of mine is quite the Boy Scout. I’m naked, stretched out for him and fully on display, my knees up a little so I can keep my feet on the bed, regardless of the fact that they keep slipping over the sheets.

‘You asked for the Benedict de Vere Alchemy experience,’ he continues, sauntering around to the end of the bed. I dip my chin so I can watch him. ‘I hope you’re in a patient mood, sweetheart, because I could enjoy you all night.’

All night sounds good. Patience does not. ‘Are you going to let me come?’ I ask plaintively.

That makes him laugh. ‘Let’s see, shall we? Like I said, patience. I’ve had to wait for years, after all. Fuuuck, Slinks, the things I want to do to you.’ He leans forward and slowly peels one stocking off me, then the other. Then he turns and ducks, pulling open the cupboard of doom, which has nerves fluttering in my belly. But when he stands, it’s only a bottle of oil he’s holding. With a knee up on the bed, he proceeds to drizzle it languidly over me. It should feel good, but with my skin already sensitised and my body already primed, it feels more like torture.

A splash hits my left nipple before the oil spatters over my abdomen. Down my thighs, then back up. He’s Jackson Pollocking me from a height. When he’s satisfied, he puts the bottle down.

‘The trick,’ he says, kneeling up on the bed by my side, ‘is staying nice and still like a good little wife so I can have some fun with this gorgeous body of yours. After all’—he uses his palm to smear some oil across my breasts—‘the better you behave, the more I’ll reward you. Like this.’ This is a sudden, savage twist of one nipple between his oiled-up fingers. It’s so perfect I almost shoot off the bed. I can’t stop the moan that escapes me as I stare pleadingly up at him.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘You’ll have to pace yourself better than that.’