“Get in the shower, Holly.” I turn on the water in the palatial glass enclosure, but she doesn’t make a move to strip.
The twelve showerheads begin to fill the room with steam. I hold open the glass door and wait. She still doesn’t move.
“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
She shakes her head. “I just thought I’d shower alone.”
Ah. There it is. Holly’s innate shyness that she can’t hide. As much as I get a charge out of guiding her due to her inexperience, the sexiest submissive women I know are also some of the most confident I’ve ever met. I caught glimpses of Holly’s confidence when she spoke about her career last night and the mess the record label pushed her into, and I’m determined to see if I can pull that from her when it comes to sex. An interesting and entertaining challenge.
My words are calculated to do just that.
“And I thought I’d fuck my wife in the shower.”
Her eyes dart up to meet mine, spitting fire. “Is this how it’s going to be? You say when, and I just spread my legs? Because I missed that subsection in your massive contract.”
Ah, there we are. She has attitude, but she’s untrained and needs guidance on how to channel it. And that’s where I come in.
I cross the room and stop in front of her. “The only massive thing you need to worry about at this moment is my cock, sweetheart,” I say. “And when and where I tell you to take it.”
Her fist connects with my jaw, and my head snaps sideways.
Fuck. I guess I went a little too far. My new wife has way more attitude than I realized.
Rubbing two fingers across the surprisingly tender spot just below and to the left of my mouth, I study her. She’s shaking her hand out and wincing.
“Damn, that hurts more than I remember,” she whispers.
I’m intrigued by her reaction and her words. “I’m not sure whether I should be more surprised that you punched me, or that this apparently isn’t the first time you’ve hit someone.”
Holly peeks up at me from beneath long, dark lashes, as if the boldness of a moment ago has faded as fast as it flared up. She flexes her hand, and I don’t like the pain telegraphed by her movements.
“Hold on.”
I turn and leave the bathroom. My preferred villa at Caesar’s is five thousand square feet, so it takes me a moment to load up ice from the freezer into a hand towel and bring it back to the bathroom.
Holly’s seated at the vanity with her back to the mirror when I return, still flexing her hand. I crouch in front of her, and her eyes dart up to mine in surprise. I reach out to take her wrist, but she snatches her hand away.
“What are you—”
I wrap my hand around her forearm, pull her hand toward me so it rests on my knee, and press the ice to her knuckles.
“I would think it’s obvious.”
Confusion creases her features. “I would’ve thought you’d pull out the contract and point me to the section where it states there’s an automatic annulment in this scenario.”
My lips twitch at her statement. “I can’t say that either I or my lawyers envisioned this one.” My almost-smile fades away. “But don’t do it again.”
“Then don’t say stuff like that to me.” She jerks her hand, but my hold on her forearm is unrelenting.
“I think you’ll find that I’ll say plenty of stuff like that, and I’ll only get more demanding and blunt.” I swear I can hear her teeth grind. “What’d you really expect, Holly?”
“I have no idea. I must be absolutely insane to think I could do this.” She laughs, and it echoes in the large master bath.
The sound causes my balls to tighten and my dick to go rock hard. There’s something about this woman, and I don’t have a fucking clue what it is, but my body responds to her like I’m Pavlov’s fucking dog.
As she’s sitting at approximately eye level, she doesn’t miss my reaction. She looks up at me and back down to the tent in my boxer briefs.
“Ignore it.”
“Um, easier said than done.”
Once again, a smile creeps across my face, and I lift the ice from her knuckles. They’re red, and a foreign thought invades my brain. I don’t like her hurting, and especially not because of me.
“Don’t do that again,” I order her.
“Then maybe you should rethink how you speak to me,” she counters before meeting my eyes again and adding, “I’m sorry, though. I probably shouldn’t have done that. I just . . . reacted. Badly.”
I set the ice on the vanity and rise. Crossing to the shower, I shut off the water and jerk my head toward the master bedroom.
“Let’s talk.”
I hit him.
Holy. Shit.
I hit him.
I haven’t hit someone since I knocked Johnny Dagen on his ass for handing me five dollars and asking if that was enough to buy him a blow job because he heard that’s what my mama charged. I broke his nose, and he never asked again. I was fifteen at the time. That wasn’t the last time someone made me feel like a whore, but I certainly wasn’t going to spend however long this marriage lasts being treated like one.
Burying memories of a past I’d love to forget, I follow Creighton out of the giant bathroom. Even though he brought me ice, I’m assuming this is when the annulment proceedings start.
I wish I never got out of bed this morning. I need a do-over.
Jesus. Why did I hit him? Something about his condescending tone just pushed me over the edge.
I woke up this morning worried about what the record execs and the media were going to say, and he brushes my concerns aside like they’re nothing. And then I find out that he’s eleven years older than me, and suddenly the decision I made seemed to take on a whole new level of cons I didn’t anticipate. It’s no excuse, but it’s the only one I’ve got.