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“Yes?” He waited for her to finish.
“Not my husband in the traditional sense.”
He arched a brow. “I was in the Hallam when we said our vows. I was also there when we signed the contract, and when we were bound together by the ancient threads of halisham. How are we not a traditional couple?”
Chloe was glad then that she didn’t easily blush. “You know what I mean.”
He lifted his wine glass and sipped it thoughtfully. “Why did you agree to this?”
“To marry you?” She fixed him with a cool stare that hid any emotion easily.
“Your father was traditional,” he answered his own question. “And my father’s dearest friend. But you were raised in America. By all reports --,”
She interrupted him. “You mean, according to Apollo?”
He dipped his head forward in silent concession. “You were raised by your mother. You are American. You are independently wealthy. I cannot see why you agreed to this.”
“Does it matter?”
He expelled a sigh. “You are the only person in my life who does not answer me when I ask a question.”
“And you don’t like it.”
His frown was just a flick of his lips. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Chloe laughed. “I would. You hate that I don’t fit into the box you think I ought to.”
“And what box is that?” He leaned forward, arresting her with the strength of his gaze. “Don’t tell me. You said last night. Submissive. Quiet…”
“Yes. You think I should do what you say, not have a mind of my own, a brain of my own.”
“When have I ever given you that impression?” He asked with a softness that his political opponents would have known to fear.
“Do you even need to ask?” She demanded fiercely. “Last night you tried to make me beg for you, just to prove you could. What does that say, except that you’re outrageously egotistical?”
He stared at her for several beats before sipping his wine once more. “Or,” he placed the glass down. “What if I value our arguing. Like it, even. But want you to let me teach your body what pleasures it’s capable of?”
Her breath hitched in her throat, but she wasn’t going to be silenced by her inexperience. “And for that I have to be demeaned? Humiliated? Made to beg as though my right to pleasure is something only you can grant?”
He expelled a breath, frustration evident in his features. “I was wrong last night, and for that I apologise.”
“You apologise?”
He nodded. “Now, stand up.”
“Why?”
He pushed his chair back and stood to his full height, moving towards her and extending a hand. “Because you’re sexually frustrated, and that’s my fault.”
“Yes, it is your fault,” she stayed in her seat, so that he groaned and knelt before her.
“Because you just wanted to feel this,” he lifted his hand between her legs, finding her underwear and pushing it aside, so his thumb could brush against her most sensitive cluster of nerves. “You’re a twenty two year old virgin, and you’re my wife, and I want you to feel every pleasure you have ever imagined.”
And before she could answer, he slipped a finger between the apex of blonde curls between her thighs, his own breathing ragged when he felt her warm, moist core.
“Raffa,” she whimpered, turning her body more fully to grant him better access. “Raffa!”
And through the fabric of her dress, he lifted his hand and palmed her breast, cupping the weight of her in his large, strong hand, brushing his thumb and forefinger over her nipples, plucking them until they were hard and aroused.
