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The only reason I don’t look away is he’s not acknowledging my invasive stare. He’s fully immersed in the act of masturbating. His head is lowered, the water running in rivulets through his ebony hair. His gaze is fixed on the manipulations of his hand. I imagine his breathing turning faster, the sound drowned out by the running water. I watch for no other reason than he’s a magnificent specimen, a perfect exhibition of male power. My body reacts mechanically to the erotic sight, my folds swelling and my entrance lubricating for penetration.
What I feel emotionally is far from arousal. I fear the power the man who calls himself my husband holds. I feel the darkness he’s holding back. A day will come when he won’t be strong enough to keep that depraved darkness on a leash. I sense with instinctive knowledge my time is short. Damian’s patience is thin and his lust strong. One day soon, he’s going to unleash all of that darkness on me.
My breathing spikes in acknowledgement of the truth as his ass clenches and his hips jerk forward. In tandem, his body and my heartbeat peak as I fall into the devastating realization while he ejaculates behind a thin veil of steam that starts filling the cubicle. Mercifully, the choice to watch is taken from my hands as the fog thickens and hides everything in the shower from view. Damian finishes in a cloud of humidity while I’m left with an unwanted slickness between my legs.
He comes to bed wearing a fresh pair of boxers. I tense. Will he punish me now? I know it’s coming, and the wait is agonizing. When he settles down and pulls me to his side, confusion consumes me. I don’t understand the small acts of comfort he offers. What does he really want from me? No matter what he says, it’s not only my money or pleasure. It’s revenge for what Harold did to him. Maybe he wants to drive me truly insane. Maybe he wants me as crazy as the world believes I am. I’m scared he may succeed. I’m not immune to his hands or lustful intentions. I hate him with a deep-sated intensity, but he knows how to make my body come alive when my heart has been dead for so long.
“Go to sleep,” he breathes against my neck.
His arm is heavy across my stomach, anchoring me to the bed. How does he expect me to sleep like this?
“Damian?”
“Lina?” he drawls.
“When are you going to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Punish me.”
A second passes. “Do you deserve punishment?”
“I know you want to for the wedding dress.”
“Mm.” The sound is a dark statement, a validation.
“Just do it.”
His lips skim my shoulder. “You’ll learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Everything happens on my terms.” He draws a circle around my navel with his thumb. “Close your eyes. I have a long day ahead.”
The surprising thing is when I do, I sleep better than I ever remember.
Damian
I watch my wife’s sleeping form when I get up at dawn. The black garb isn’t deserving of her fair skin and flushed cheeks. She needs soft pinks and vibrant reds. But that’s not the real reason it irks me. The real reason is she still mourns for a husband she possibly loves and cares enough about to honor his departure from this world with black. The bastard might be dead, but it lights a flame of jealousy in my chest hot enough to incinerate my heart.
I consider her closet, her ugly dresses, prim nightdresses, and black ballerina flats. Zane told me she refused to go shopping for a wedding reception dress. I anticipated it. Her refusal gives me the answer to how I’ll deal with that punishment she brought up last night. I’ll hit her where it’ll affect her the hardest, and it won’t be spanking her glorious bottom.
With a last look at her peaceful form, I get dressed, closing the bathroom door to not wake her. Then I set off to conduct the business of the day, starting with seeing my father-in-law.
We meet at the Irene Country Club for breakfast. He’s already there when I arrive, reading a newspaper like he’s got no care in the world. Unbuttoning my jacket, I sit down at the table.
He puts the newspaper aside. His tone is sarcastic. “Married life seems to agree with you.”
“If you ever come near my house again, I’ll cut off your ear.”
He gives a little start. “She’s my daughter. I have a right to see for myself that you’re not abusing her.”
I smirk. “Make it both ears.”
All pretense of superior calmness vanishes from his demeanor. “What do you want? I have work to do.”
“I’m afraid you don’t.”
A waiter approaches with a pot of coffee and pours two cups.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks when the waiter is gone.
