“Thank you, Mrs. Colchester,” he replies. “I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp.”

“Yes, Sir.” I turn to go, but then his words make me pause.

“You will be naked and on your knees, arms in the box position. Knees spread so I can see your pussy. I expect you to be wet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And Mrs. Colchester?”

I look up and there’s the hint of a smile on his stern face. “Having you here was the best part of my day.”

I flush, happy, and leave him to his work.

There are already a handful of emails waiting from Linette when I get upstairs, and I have a moment of panic when I think about juggling my duties as First Lady and my duties to Georgetown this fall, but I push that to the side. Ash is coming soon and he will banish all the doubts and all the worry to a place where they can’t bother me any longer.

I’m as he requested when I hear him come into the sitting room outside our bedroom, kneeling with my arms folded elegantly behind me and my legs spread wide enough that my cunt is available for inspection. But even though I’m doing as I’m told, the minute his frame fills the doorway, I realize something is wrong.

I don’t dare to look up to his face, but I don’t have to. It rolls off of him—anger or turmoil or frustration—and I can feel the heat of it as he stalks past me to the dresser. I hear the fabric of his suit jacket rustling, the clink of cufflinks in the dresser drawer, the silk slide of a tie being unknotted. He doesn’t speak, and when he walks in front of me, I see he’s barefoot and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. For some reason those bare feet send alarm bells ringing in my mind.

My mind races back to the Oval Office. Did I upset him somehow? Did something happen related to work? What could have happened in the last hour to make him like this?

His hand fists my hair and my head snaps back. “Say it,” he bites out. “Say it so I know that you know how to stop me.”

Never have I seen him like this—angry and wild. It’s genuinely frightening. It’s also exhilarating. My pulse pounds everywhere, my cunt throbs, my skin aches for his touch.

“Maxen,” I whisper. “That’s how I stop you.”

And then I’m being dragged by the hair to the closet, my knees burning against the carpet as I scramble-crawl to escape the pain in my scalp. Ash lets go of my hair and crosses over to his shoe rack, which he presses open to reveal a hidden cabinet of ropes and toys and sundry other items designed to dominate, exploit, and please.

I’m no stranger to this cabinet, but I am a stranger to the cabinet in this mood.

I shiver. “Are you…displeased with me, Sir?”

He gives me a sharp look. “I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

“Sir, please?”

Impatient with my talk, he grabs a riding crop and gestures to a low bench in the middle of the floor, designed for a gentleman to lace up his shoes more easily.

“Over the bench, ass up, mouth closed. Got it?”

I search his face, looking for any trace of my Ash, the warm man I love. I find nothing but raw anger. And pain. Shaking, I drape myself over the bench the way he asked, and before I even get settled, the crop bites into my ass.

I yelp, unprepared, and the crop comes again. It’s not the leather keeper on the end striking me, but the corded shaft, and it’s welting me from the curve of my ass down to my exposed thighs. The blows are fast and merciless, and I’m crying out with each one now, kicking my feet pointlessly against the floor, tears spilling over to run hot tracks down my face.

Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much I can’t breathe. It hurts so much that it drives out everything else, everything but the pain. It’s never been like this, even with the belt, I’ve never felt the full force of his emotions, the real tumult he keeps locked up inside himself at all times.

But never do I come close to saying my safe word. I know he’d stop if I said it, I know it the way I know the sky is blue and the sun will rise, and I don’t want him to stop. I want to be able to absorb this from him, take whatever it is off his shoulders for however short a time. And I want him to relieve my mind of these lonely, nervous thoughts that have been plaguing me since the honeymoon.

The crop stills and is tossed on the floor next to my face.

“I want you to run,” he says, and I realize he’s out of breath, that he’s beaten me so hard and fast that it’s actually exerted him.

I crane my head to look up at him, dazed from pain and endorphins. “Run?”

“I didn’t tell you to look at me.”

I drop my gaze, and he continues. “You’re going to run and I’m going to catch you. You’re going to fight me and I’m going to win. And then I’m going to mount you. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, my heart thumping against my chest. This is so messed up. So why am I fighting back a smile?

“Go.”

I go. I bolt to my feet and dart out of the closet, and he gives me a moment’s head start, and then I hear him pounding after me. The bare feet make sense now—it’s hard to run in dress shoes.

I push out of the bedroom and through the sitting room, running into the Yellow Oval Room. He’s right behind me, his legs longer, his steps surer, and I skid into the hallway and fling myself into the next room, hoping against hope it leads somewhere else, but I realize too late it’s the Lincoln Bedroom and I’m trapped.