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“I’m your wife. I’m in.”

“You’re my wife on paper, that’s it. I want you to be my wife, Grace.”

“Will spanking me make me your wife?”

“Do you hate it?”

“No. It’s just demoralizing.”

“But effective. I have you here, face down in my lap, talking to me about things you’d rather not. That’s not demoralizing, that’s progress. This relationship is a give and take. I hate to say this, sweets, but you’re been doing a lot of taking.”

She balks and tries to lift her upper body, but my hand is swift on her bottom. The crack sounds off simultaneously with her yelp. “Stay put,” I order her. “I’m not fucking around. You earned this spanking. Now it can be pleasant and sexual, or it can be harsh and demoralizing. It’s your choice.”

“How is it my choice? You’re the one who gets to dole out the punishments.”

“And you’re the one who gets to decide when you get punished and what form that takes. Do you want to be punished like this?” My hand smacks down on the back of her legs, right where they meet the upward curve of her ass. But before she can cry out, I’m rubbing her and slipping my fingers inside her pussy. “That feels good, Grace. It’s not about pain, it’s about control. You resist my control because you don’t trust me. And I’m telling you right now, you’re making both of us unhappy by doing that.”

“You want to leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you. I love you. I married you. I want to fuck you and boss you around and make you have my babies. I want to keep you forever. You’re the one who’s got one foot out the door. I want you to commit, Grace. And the first step is to submit.”

She’s silent for a few moments as my words sink in. I don’t want to say this. In fact, I’m terrified to continue. But it needs to be out in the open. It needs to be done. “Are you willing to do that? Or do you want to end this marriage?”

Chapter Ten

#EpicQuestionsCount

DO I want to end this marriage?

My instant response is no.

But… I stop myself from saying the word. Because he’s asking me an honest question and that deserves some introspection. I became his wife under less than ideal circumstances. I don’t even remember it. As far as I’m concerned, this is the first time I’ve had a say in this marriage at all.

“Grace?” he prods.

Maybe I did say ‘I do’ in Vegas. But that was hardly my choice. Because honestly, if he had asked me in the morning if I wanted to marry him, my answer would’ve been no.

My answer has always been no. For as long as I can remember, I have never wanted to marry anyone. Not even Vaughn Asher, movie star. In fact, I have no idea what marriage looks like. I never prepared for it.

“Grace, you’re making me nervous.”

All this is new to me. I’m at a loss on how to answer.

He unhooks the spreader bar from my ankles and throws it across the room and then he pulls my upper body up off his lap and then stands, leaving me on the couch. He walks out of the living room and I’m too shocked to stop him.

He doesn’t go to our bedroom, I know that because a few minutes later I see light flickering down the hallway. Lights coming from the home theatre.

A few minutes go by and then I hear sounds coming from the theatre room.

I’m making a huge mistake, I know this. But it feels wrong to say I feel the same as he does. I don’t.

I get up and walk down the hallway until I reach the theatre room and then I prop myself up against the doorjamb. He’s watching a George Clooney movie that I love about some escaped convicts during the Great Depression who become famous for a song they sing.

“I love this movie.”

“Me too,” he answers without turning his head to look at me.

“You never asked me.”

“I did ask you. You said yes.”

“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”

“Well, I remember.”

“You’re only one half of this team, Asher. You never asked me. Me. Sober Grace was never consulted. I can’t be held responsible for drunk Grace’s actions. I was beyond drunk. I blacked out. It’s not fair that I found out about our marriage from the TV. It’s not fair that it all happened in the same moment that I was taken again. It’s not fair that—” I stop talking because he never turns. Does he even want to know? Is he even interested? He says he wants me to trust him, but he scares me when he walks away. “I want you to ask me.”

“I want you to remember.”

“How do I make myself remember?”

Finally he turns his head. “Grace, you talked for hours on end that night. It’s impossible that you just don’t remember. It makes no sense. Yes, you were drinking. But you said so many things that night. Thoughtful, well-articulated things.”

“I don’t remember.”

He turns away again. “I’m not telling you. I refuse to paraphrase what happened that night. I won’t do it. I refuse to reduce it to a retelling.”

I sigh and walk around to the front of the massive square sectional couch. I crawl across it, my bound hands keeping me off balance a little, and nestle as close to him as I can, laying my head on his shoulder. “I want you. Is that enough?”

He doesn’t embrace me. He makes no move to cuddle me and make me feel loved. He doesn’t offer to untie my wrists.