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“Take your clothes off.”
His words shock me, his voice deeper than I’m used to.
My skin ripples with need. A potent mixture of fear and lust drives me to act on an ache I in no way understand.
Dropping the thin straps of my silk nightie, they fall easily, skating across my sensitive skin. Even that silken caress has me wanting to moan, and I know, deep down, it has more to do with the withdrawn gaze of my husband than it does the touch of silk on my skin. Something about the way nothing affects him has me wanting to strip away that indifference and see the unrestrained man beneath the mask.
I pull my nightie down farther, over one elbow at a time, freeing my breasts from the soft material. My already hard nipples ache as the air touches the needy peaks. I long to squeeze them, to offer them some much-needed relief, but I refrain, giving in to brushing them lightly with my wrists.
The move doesn’t go unnoticed, a soft arch in Vincent’s brow lifting.
I push the silk down my waist and over my hips.
Completely naked with my negligée pooled at my feet, I slide it away, letting Vincent’s gaze track leisurely over my figure. He takes his time, eyes greedy in the way they eat me up.
“You have a body men would kill to touch, Bianca. Do you know that?”
I shake my head.
“Men will fantasize about you. About grabbing the thick sway of your hips. They will think about all the ways they would like to fuck you. They will crave the feel of your pretty nipples on their tongue. They will envisage you with their cock lodged down your throat.”
I remain unmoving.
“It makes me murderous,” he hums. “How do I make sure they don’t think of you like that? How do I ensure you exist only inmyfantasies?”
“I—”
“Don’t speak,” he cuts me off. “Your voice is too much of a temptation. Can I ban you from speaking to anyone but me moving forward? Can I save that voice for only me?”
“Vincent,” I whisper.
“Like that,” he growls. “You sound like sex, Bianca. Your words are so soft. Throaty and scratched. You sound like you’ve just had your organs rearranged from the kind of fucking saved for whores.”
A flicker of excitement flutters between my thighs, and I close my eyes to stop them from widening in shock.
“Open your eyes.”
I do as he asks.
Sliding his empty glass onto the small table beside him, he grips the armrest of his chair. “On your knees, wife.”
I move to step forward, but he shakes his head. “There.” He dips his chin, motioning to the floor, and I gulp down my uncertainty. Following his instruction, I drop to my knees.
His index finger rubs along his bottom lip, and I long to touch the same spot with my lips. To feel the soft cushion against my mouth.
As my knees kiss the deep red of the Persian rug beneath me, he makes me wait. His attention on my face doesn’t wane. He holds my stare, and as much as I long to drop my head and free myself from the intensity of his gaze, I can’t look away.
“Crawl.”
My eyes widen.
Crawl?
He waits patiently, tongue ducking out to moisten his lips.
I could get up and leave. I could lock myself in our room and forget what I offered. He told me I couldn’t give him what he needed. He dared me to leave, and I chose to push against it.
He wants to degrade me. He enjoys the thrill of knowing how I am at his mercy. He wants power.
