To Hold (3 page)

Last weekend, we flew to Napa Valley to attend a charity benefit. Three days spent in wine country. Nathan was mobbed the moment our plane landed, men and women alike flocking to his side, pulling on his arm, whispering into his ear, and laughing at his jokes. He transformed before my eyes, an easy grin stretching across his face, a casual and affable elegance his new façade. I was shocked, my jaw literally dropping as I stared at this mystery who was anyone but my husband.

He maintained this exterior for three days straight, entertaining scores of society bluebloods, telling stories I have never heard, bidding on extravagant auction items, his arm draped lovingly around my shoulder. He planted soft kisses on my neck in the presence of others and ran his fingers lightly over my arm as if he couldn’t touch me enough. I saw the glances, the swoons from other woman.
She is so lucky. They are so in love.
They didn’t know the truth. That when he would lean in and whisper in my ear his words were anything but romantic.
Stop fidgeting. Uncross your legs. The woman to your right is Paula — pay her more attention
. I behaved, I smiled, I made the proper social gestures, and said the correct things. I beamed at Nathan, laughed at his stories, and accepted his loving gestures as if they were often and normal. And in the evenings, when the door to our two-bedroom suite closed, he would reward me. On the soft bed, against the wall, in the shower. On my back, on my knees, standing, and with his mouth. When you subtracted his whispered orders, the separate bedrooms, and the false exteriors, it was the best weekend of my life.

We returned four days ago, the plane landing with a soft bump that woke me from my nap. I stretched and smiled over at Nathan, glancing out the window and seeing the familiar FBO. “We home?”

He nodded without looking at me, unbuckling his belt and moving to the front. That was Sunday, and we haven’t spoken since. The first day, I dismissed it as nothing, my weekend high keeping a smile on my face, a bounce in my step. Drew watched me closely that day, his eyes narrowed, his gaze unwary. The second day I began to wonder if something was wrong, sitting in my glass box ‘til midnight waiting to be beckoned. Now, on day four, it seems clear. I am being punished for something.

9:06 AM: His hard glare pins me in the doorway as soon as I slide open the glass door. He stands in the kitchen, the island between us, six feet of gorgeous constrained by a custom suit. I can see the anger in his eyes, his face turning into a scowl as he mutters something to Drew. Drew makes a sharp gesture with his head, the message clear, and I step backward, pulling the glass sliding door closed, the summer heat settling around me like a hot, scratchy sweater. I stand there for a moment, feeling the sun stare down on me like a prissy schoolteacher.
Bad Jennifer. Get out, Jennifer
.

Anger seeps through me in waves, commingling with frustration and leaving me furious.
Why is he so difficult? Am I that irritating? My mere presence that unbearable to his peace of mind?
My clothes, the proper blend of luxury and sex, are suddenly thick and constricting, the tight wool-blend top ridiculous in the summer humidity. I feel a sudden surge of recklessness, pushed relentlessly by the wave of hot claustrophobia that seizes my entire body. I yank at the sleeveless turtleneck, pulling it over my head, feeling a moment of euphoria when the hot fabric hits the white pavers. My skirt follows, one quick zip down. I stare at my nude thigh-high lace stockings, ridiculous given the fact that they were put on solely for his eyes. There’s no need for stockings in June, slid on in the pathetic hope that he might, on this day, grant me a session with his cock. I slip out of my heels, rolling the expensive sheer fabric down my long legs, flipping my head up to find him and Drew staring at me through the glass, an expression of horror on Drew’s face. Nathan simply watches, a cold look of disinterest in his eyes.
Oh, look. There is my wife. Throwing a temper tantrum in front of the staff.

I stare into his eyes, my body covered by only a sheer shelf bra and a barely existent thong. I can only hope my eyes communicate the fury radiating through my body, my hurt at his neglect, at his snub of me and the corner of his world that I inhabit. Then, I dive.

The water shocks me. I am forbidden from the pool, my hair stylist repeatedly preaching the harm that chlorine will cause to my now-expensive tresses. Nathan agreed, adding a new rule to my long list.
No swimming
. So I am unprepared for its cool embrace, the smooth grip of moisture that instantly refreshes my sticky skin, sliding bubbles across my surface. I come up for air, the sun’s heat suddenly friendly and warm on my face, tickling me as it slides droplets of water off my face. Then I duck back into the underwater world and don’t come up for quite some time.

Laps
. I swim until my muscles cramp, ache, and then cramp again. I am filled with glee at my insubordination, my first act of rebellion incredible in its release. The water drinks my aggression, my hatred, my anger toward the black beauty that is Nathan. At the end of each lap, on my backward spin, I peer through the clear water, my eyes searching for a body at the edge of the pool, someone who will admonish me, order me to get out of the pool, perhaps even Nathan. But lap after lap, no one is there, and so I continue. Laps. Until I am gasping for breath, and my heart is thudding against my chest, my legs and arms deliciously exhausted.

I drag myself from the water, lying back on the warm pavers of the pool deck, my eyes closing, a smile crossing my features. Nathan would find some way to punish me, perhaps more coldness, more nights where I fall asleep waiting for his call. But this act, this childish strip down and swim, was worth it. I needed the moment of backbone — at a time when I feel I am losing all the pieces that make me, me.

There, in the warm sun, my skin and lingerie drying out above tired muscles, my exhausted body relaxes, and under the dark stare of Nathan, I fall asleep.

Word: 6 letters

Clue: the opposite of reward

I
am in my house, curled up on the couch, reading, when Drew speaks.

“Mr. Dumont is requesting you.”

The sudden words startle me, and I jump, turning to glare at him. “Can’t you knock?”

He says nothing, his hands in his pockets, and I turn back to my book, my mind processing what this means. Nathan, home in the middle of the day. Requesting me. He has never requested me for anything but sex. After four days of ignoring me, I break a rule, and now he is here, asking for me. In the middle of the day.

“Mr. Dumont — ”

“I know. Is requesting me.” I stand, tossing the book aside. “Should I get dressed?”

His eyes travel over my silk robe, cinched at the waist over nothing but me, the fabric sticking to my skin, still wet from my after-swim shower. “No. I’m sure that will be fine.”

I nod silently, taking the time to take a sip from my glass of ice water, preparing myself for Nathan, butterflies starting a nervous dance in my belly.

In the background, the roar of a weed eater begins.

Nathan is a man possessed, grabbing me the moment I enter the room, his hands tight on my arms, my robe’s thin silk doing nothing to prevent what will be bruises. I drop the cool exterior, the mask that I adorned before stepping into this house, and look at him in panic.

He is a ball of barely restrained emotion; his breath is coming in short, controlled bursts, his expressions dark, the lines in his face heavy and pronounced. He pushes me over to the leather chaise lounge, until I am on my back and he is towering over me, his hands in fists.

“Nathan, please,” I gasp, moving away from him, my robe open around my legs.

“You think this is a game?” he hisses. “Our marriage, our agreement?”

I open my mouth, searching for something to say, not understanding his anger. Was this over the pool? My little ridiculous swim?

He leans closer, ‘til his mouth is inches from mine, ‘til his breath is hot on my skin. “Answer me.”

I wet my lips. “No,” I whisper.

“No, what?” he snarls, yanking the sash on my robe, the silk moving easily under his strength.

“No, it’s not a game.” I keep my face timid, my voice soft, but inside my teeth bare and my claws flex. No, it’s
not
a game; this is my
life
, my worth, my sanity. For a man who doesn’t like games, he should throw out the rules and stop keeping score of who is ahead in the I’m-in-control race. His eyes are hard on mine and staring in them tells me exactly how furious he is. I have never seen him this angry — have never seen this level of emotion from him in any way. It lights a fire in my belly, knowing that I have elicited this response, knowing that he
cares
enough to be mad.

He reaches forward, gripping the back of my neck and pulling me up, pressing his mouth roughly to mine as he pulls open my robe, baring my body to him. It is not a kiss. It is a domination — strong movements of his tongue that tease, taste, and torment my tongue. He nips my bottom lip, fucks me with his tongue, then gently kisses my swollen lips, taking one final journey of my mouth before he pulls off.

I open my eyes, expecting a softer Nathan above me, expecting the change in his kiss to reflect the forgiveness that had occurred. His fists have loosened, those hands now running rampant over my body, my robe fully open, my legs parted with his knee. His face has calmed, the deep lines faded, the set of his mouth relaxed. But his eyes betray him. His eyes show the fierce anger that still burns brightly. And I know. I know that my punishment is not over.

These depths of fire flicker to the backyard, then return to me, and I understand. This is how he will punish me — public humiliation — putting me on display while he fucks me senseless. He will remind me of where I came from, treat me like the whore that I — that one night — was.

And he does. He makes me stand, naked before the window, my palms to the glass, his hands on my ass cheeks, fucking me so hard that my breasts bounce from the impact. I feel the sting of his hand against my ass, while his words spit out hard and unforgiving, “You belong to me. You are mine.”

The landscapers, bless their hearts, keep their eyes low, focus on their work. But I know they see. They see when he forces me to my knees, his hand firm on my head, my bare body before his clothed one. They see when I take his cock deep down my throat, my body shaking from the effort, when my back contracts and I gag. They see when his thighs flex, his eyes close, and he fills my throat with satisfaction.

But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it I am ashamed to say, ashamed to admit to myself. The worst is that, even at the height of it, even when I felt their eyes, and hated Nathan’s demands, I was aroused. Panting in my pussy, moisture dripping down my leg, aroused. I moaned when he spanked me. I begged for more as he fucked me. I looked into his eyes and asked for his cum.

I know. I am as screwed up as he is.

Word: 10 letters; the last letter is ‘N’

Clue: a ____________ slip is often required at school

O
ur agreement states that sex will only be asked for once a day, today’s quota already filled. Nathan is a man of regulations, our agreement one that he follows to the letter. I have still dressed in expectation of his return from work. It is silly, vain hopes that a simple clothing change will recapture some normalcy in a day that has already gone so wrong. And ten minutes after I hear the growl of Nathan’s car, Drew walks in, his eyes noticing everything, doing a sweep of my body, my face, my nervous smile.

He steps close, closer than I am comfortable with, the glass walls placing everything I do under a microscope. “Are you okay?”

I glance to the house, nodding, Nathan’s frame absent from my view of the great room. Drew reaches forward, his hand startling me, and fingers the end of my blunt cut, examining its dark strands. “I liked it better when it was longer.”

I nod silently, mesmerized by the flecks of gold in his green eyes, surprised at his nearness, at the intensity of his stare.
So did I.
I liked the weight of the hair against my back, its protection against my neck, the variety of styles I used, the way it spun out when I turned. Now I have one singular look. Refined elegance. Blah.