I had bruises on my left wrist where he’d held me down. He had been more gentle with the right side, which had never really recovered from the break I got in basic training, but the left took what was left over. I couldn’t let patients see it.

The first time he fucked me with brutality, we didn’t talk about it. I woke up thinking he’d been half asleep and it wouldn’t occur again. Three weeks after that, he’d done it again, pushing me harder, demanding more, taking me to the edge over and over.

Last night, two weeks after the last time, he did it again. He’d fucked me in the ass, in the shower afterward, on the floor. He’d been rough, and the rougher he got, the more I came.

I wanted him to push me hard. I liked it. But this was slipping out of control.

There’s a name for this.

It was spring. Long sleeves would be too hot, and the AC in the office was spotty. I rummaged in my drawer and found a loose coil of bracelets. I slid them over my bruised left wrist. That would have to do.

I checked myself in the mirror. I looked fine. No one could see the bruises or the soreness between my legs. No one could see the aches or the pleasant, peaceful satisfaction. Looking at me, you’d never know I’d had my fourth orgasm of the night with my husband’s massive cock buried in my throat and four of his fingers inside me.

Masochist.

The word shot through my mind, and for the first time, I let it. I mouthed it in the mirror.

Masochist.

“Where are you off to today?” he asked from the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest. His pajama bottoms hung low on his hips, the waistband cutting across the V-shaped indent of his pelvis.

“Collecting data for the Tina thing.” I leaned over the vanity and put on lipstick.

“Are you okay? From last night?”

“Uh-huh. Are you?” I snapped the tube closed.

“Yeah.” His nod was serious. It was not an enthusiastic agreement as much as a simple affirmative.

“You seem more animated.”

His arms unfolded. I’d startled him. “Animated? What’s that mean?”

I faced him. “The coldness is gone.” I put my hand on his chest and drew it through the patch of hair in the center, down to his abdomen. “Is something going on you want to talk about?”

“No.”

I shrugged. I wouldn’t normally gesture like that any more than I’d roll my eyes. Normally, I’d acknowledge his feelings without validating or dismissing them. But I didn’t feel normal. I felt a little less in control, a little more impulsive. Less like a professional psychiatrist and more like a wife who knew her husband’s boundaries.

“You on call today?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He took my hand and kissed inside the wrist. “I’ll call you.”

I kissed him in typical married-person way. A punctuation between activity. A comma in the day. I didn’t get to the bedroom door before his voice stopped me.

“Greyson.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t take this back once I say it.”

This couldn’t be good. Anything he might want to take back wouldn’t be a statement to celebrate.

“Okay?”

“You might want to cancel your appointment.”

“Caden. Is everything all right?”

Sucking his lips between his teeth as if he wanted to hold the words back, he tightened his jaw and tilted his head. We were frozen in his moment of decision while the currents of his courage swirled and gathered together.

“I think.” Hands though hair. A pause. I stayed absolutely still. “I think I’m going crazy.”