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Perking up, Mr. Powell asks, “Do you sail?”
“I do. As a matter of fact, I come from a long history of sailors.”
“In that case, I have to introduce you to another dear friend who’s a sailboat fanatic.” Mr. Powell turns to his wife. “Will you excuse us for a moment, darling? I don’t want to bore you with boat talk.”
She waves a hand. “You go along. Sabella and I have much to discuss, it seems.”
The men wander off, engrossed in their conversation.
“Do you mind if we sit for minute?” she asks. “I’m suffering from bad blood circulation, and the old legs don’t support standing for so long.”
“Of course,” I say, taking her arm and leading her to a cocktail table with a couple of chairs.
After making herself comfortable, she launches into a conversation about sharks. When I tell her about my one and only encounter with a great white that I filmed, she asks if she may see the video. I make up an excuse of having left the USB key with the clip with my marine vertebrate professor in South Africa. Our exchange is stimulating. I’m enjoying myself so much that I don’t see the time go by.
When the men return, Angelo’s broad smile tells me he succeeded in his goal. We shake hands with a promise to arrange a get-together on Angelo’s yacht in the summer. As the Powells have never visited Corsica, they undertake to sail there from Marseille.
We greet a few more people while nibbling on the finger food the waiters offer. My husband chats a couple of minutes with each, just enough not to appear rude, but now that he’s achieved his aim, I sense his urgency to escape the party. He did tell me on the night we met that, like me, he didn’t care much for them, especially not birthday parties.
Time and again, my gaze lands on the Powells as they do their round of the room. The pride in Thomas Powell’s eyes when he looks at his wife fills me with longing for the same. His affection for her is obvious. They seem so happy. I want someone to look at me like that too. I want to know what it feels like to be loved and respected by the man who shares my bed.
“Would you like another drink?” Angelo asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn my face to him. “I’ve had enough, thank you.”
His mouth lifts in one corner. “I recall a time when you didn’t say no to champagne. On the contrary.”
“That was different.” I tense at the memory. “I was nervous.”
Taking my empty glass from my hand, he brushes a thumb over my cheek. Something dark and heated slips into his voice. “Did I make you nervous, cara?”
“You know you did.”
His deep timbre drops another octave. “How about now? Do I still make you nervous?”
I swallow. Quoting his words from earlier, I say, “You shouldn’t ask questions if you know the answers.”
He holds my gaze as he puts the glass aside. Not saying a word, he takes my hand and leads me upstairs. The closer we get to the suite, the harder my heart beats in my chest. His intentions changed in the blink of an eye, going from networking to something entirely different, and as much as it frightens me, I can’t say it doesn’t excite me too.
Another memory jumps to mind, the one of the night he took my virginity. That was so wrong. I was drunk, and he was angry. Yet everything about it seemed right too, even the part where he branded me. A very dark, very depraved part of me has always been drawn to that side of him. Even now, as he locks the door and ushers me into the bedroom, the sinister promise in his eyes captivates me. His smell wraps around me just as of old, a mixture of cedar and citrus that holds both ecstatic and bad memories, but it’s no less addictive.
“I owe you two punishments,” he says, pulling his bowtie from the collar of his shirt.
Zings of anticipation needle my stomach. Heat gathers between my legs. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, but I’m more turned on and less scared. Less angry. I realize with a start that I crave this, whatever he’s got in store for me. I yearn for this when he gives me a choice, and he does. He stands, waiting. When I don’t back away or say anything, he closes the distance and puts our bodies flush together.
“What shall I do to you, bella?” he asks in low voice. “Make you kneel? Swallow my cock? Spank you? Fuck your ass?”
My inner muscles clench. I both shake my head and nod, not sure what I’m asking. I didn’t enjoy our wedding night, but I did like it when he fed me his second-hand smoke. Not the smoking part. The rest of it. I liked how he took control. I liked the bite of pain with my pleasure.
So when he asks, “Shall I decide?” I nod again.
He cups my jaw. “I think you liked the last two options.” He drops his gaze to my breasts. “Your nipples turned rock-hard when I mentioned those.” He releases my face and brushes his knuckles over a hardened tip as if to affirm his assessment. “I can see your tits through the fabric.” Gripping the front of the dress, he tears it right down the middle to my navel.
A gasp catches in my throat.
“No one should ever see you in this dress again. I didn’t like how the men stared at you. Did you notice?”
I shake my head.
