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I rebut, "No, you're supposed to remember who we are together."
Deep disgust fills her expression. She studies me for a moment so intensely, I feel an inch tall. She asks, "And who are we, Riggs?"
My heart beats harder. I stay quiet, remembering how good we were together and how it felt. Nothing came close to being as good, nor has it ever felt as bad as it does now. I loathe not having her by my side. It kills me how she hates me, and the worst is knowing she's right here but I can't have her.
She prods, "You can't answer me?"
I swallow, trying to lubricate my throat, which seems to have gone dry.
She coos, "Aw, does my husband need a reminder of who we are?"
"Don't play with me," I warn again.
She lifts her chin, spins, and slowly strolls across the room to the bar.
I assess all of it.
Her blonde locks sway over her spine, hitting the curve of her waist. I stare at her heart-shaped ass, remembering how it felt to make it mine, yearning to see my handprint on her cheeks and be inside her once again. Then I stare at her legs, perfect thighs, the back of her knees, calves, and right down to her goddamned heels. I love all of it. All of it is mine, or it's supposed to be, I remind myself.
She picks up the scotch decanter, pours two fingers just like I taught her, and spins. She slides her fingers over her cleavage.
I grip my armchair tighter, and she walks toward me, holding the tumbler in front of my face. She lowers her voice into her seductive tone and bats her eyes. "Sir, your scotch."
Everything in me feels like it's about to explode. I've never felt such chaos. Even when surfing and fighting the waves, I have more control than in this situation.
I don't know how to flip it, but I need to. I'm supposed to be the one in control, and she the one who submits to me. Right now, our roles are reversed and I don't like it one bit.
I slowly take the scotch, hating that she's holding the cards and I'm unsure what hand to play. Nothing I do feels right. Everything seems wrong. So the only thing I can do is threaten, "You're asking for a punishment, pet."
At this moment, I realize what a vixen my wife truly is because she purses her lips, studies me for a moment, then leans into my ear. She whispers, "I've been a very bad wife. All night I thought about putting on this collar and kneeling at that window." She points to it, then glances back at me. "Now, what are you going to do about it, dear hubby?"
My mouth waters and the blood boils in my veins.
She rises, struts over to the window, and kneels, just like I spent the day imagining her doing when I first laid eyes on this room. She keeps her head bowed to the floor, spine straight, ass on her calves, and hands in her lap. Making it more torturous is the snow. It silhouettes her through the window, and she becomes a perfect display of artwork.
My wife, the majestic creature I no longer know how to dominate.
I debate whether to give in to her, which I fear will make me lose even more control.
But maybe it's what I need.
What we both desperately need.
11
Blakely
Silence fills the room. I don't dare look anywhere but at the floor. A touch of the bitter cold from outside permeates the glass. Goose bumps pop out on my skin, but I wonder if it's from the chill or the anticipation of what I can't escape needing.
A long time passes, which doesn't surprise me. While my body becomes tired of the position I don't dare break, I'm grateful for the time lapse. It's familiar. Whenever Riggs makes me wait, I'm unsure if he's debating what to do to me or just watching me, seeing if I'll dare to defy him and rule number one.
At first, I hated kneeling for him. I assumed it was degrading, but now, I crave it. Something about showing Riggs I can do all the things in his contract won't ever seem to go away. Now, more than ever, it seems important.
He's slipping away from me.
No, we're going through issues.
Why am I doing this when I haven't forgiven him?
