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“Red or white?”
Taking off my coat, I study the stunning shape of her body, the pertness of her tits, and the nipples that sit hard on top of them. My mark between her legs. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
I slip off the coat as she turns. Fuck. I’ve never seen a prettier ass. So firm and perfectly rounded. The marks I put on those globes have long since faded.
“Wait,” I say for no other reason than to prolong the pleasure of the sight.
She looks at me from over her shoulder, waiting like I commanded.
I have no idea what to say. I can’t express what I want in words. My voice is gruff as I make up an excuse for delaying her. “Make that a Scotch.”
“I’m not sure there is any.”
“Fabien would’ve stocked up with some.”
“Oh.” The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. “Of course he would’ve.”
My instruction is curt. “Check the liquor cupboard.”
I like her softness and agreeable nature when she’s obedient despite the fact that it’s just a show she puts on for me. As much as I love her sassy mouth, I’m not in the mood to spoil the moment, not when I only had a small taste of how it feels to be with a woman who doesn’t resist or openly detest my presence.
Removing my tie, I ogle her as she walks to the kitchen. I’m undoing the top two buttons of my shirt when she returns with a tumbler of Scotch.
“Thank you,” I say when she hands it to me, bending down to press my lips on her cheek.
She gives a start and blinks up at me.
Like my earlier behavior, I don’t explain this gesture either. Just as disobedience needs to be punished, obedience deserves to be rewarded.
I sit down on the sofa and leave my glass on the side table. She stands in front of me, her nakedness leaving her vulnerable and exposed. Her body is accessible, presented for my taking. There’s a million and one ways in which I want to grope her, and none of them is decent. Yet I don’t cup her breasts or bury my fingers between her legs. What holds me back isn’t my steely control. It’s how she stands there so quietly, waiting for my next command even though she doesn’t know what to expect.
I could order her to kneel and swallow my cock. I could instruct her to bend over and take me in her ass again. For all she knows, I could command her to lick my shoes clean. It’s a simple transaction, a price she agreed to pay. Her acceptance of whatever fate I choose to dole out should please me too, but I don’t find it half as enticing as her free will. The first two times we fucked were violent, but she was a spontaneous participant as sure as I was willing. My cock hardens at the thought of her sucking me off and liking it. I want more of that, more of her free will.
Taking her hand, I draw her between my legs. With a firm tug, I pull her onto my lap. Her ass on my groin feels good. It’s a perfect fit. My arms around her feel natural. I like this husbandly duty—keeping her warm.
Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I search her beautiful dark eyes for the truth. “What happened while I was gone?”
“Nothing,” she says, tensing in my arms.
She’s misinterpreting my question. My aim isn’t to shatter the peace with threats of punishment for her wrongdoings. I know nothing happened. I know she was here, locked up in the house. I have the hourly reports from my cousins. I want to know what happened that made her so docile. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? But now that I have it, I find I don’t like it. I don’t like it when it’s not real. I prefer her just as herself—my feisty, proud girl. My unwilling wife.
And just like that, the bitter taste of old is back in my mouth.
Embarrassed almost, she says, “I’m learning to cook.” She blushes a little. “Well, trying to learn.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”
Circling an arm around her waist, I place my palm over the seal I branded into her skin. “Is it working?”
She makes a face. “Not quite.”
I don’t know why I find that so endearing. “I’ll hire a full-time chef.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I want to try. Heidi gave me some recipes.”
I caress my mark with a thumb, tracing the outline of the circle that sits just above her pussy, remembering the night I put it on her. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Can’t you smell?” she asks with a ghost of a smile.
Chicken, yes. Rosemary and thyme. Yet those aren’t the fragrances I’m focused on. It’s the smell of the cherry blossom shampoo in her hair and the feminine perfume of her skin. It’s the memory of us, the smell of dirty, raw, insatiable sex hanging in the room.
