“Are you going to sit with me?” she asked, hunching forward to reach the margarita glasses he’d provided.
He didn’t like the distance in her voice and withdrew to wrap his hands around the upper slat that crossed the back of her chair. He couldn’t hurt wood by squeezing it too hard in frustration. Striving for an even tone, he said, “You’re not comfortable.”
She set the glasses back down and ducked her head. Mac closed his eyes and tried to untangle the knots of fear twisting in his stomach.
If they made it through the night, they could both face the rest of their lives with emotions made calmer by a little sleep. And a lot of sex, although he wasn’t sure now, that he should have allowed their physical intimacy to proceed before getting their other issues under control.
If they didn’t make it through the night, if he tripped up and scared her, or said the wrong thing, he feared he would wake up to find her gone. He couldn’t burden her with his worries, though. She needed him to help her with her own, not add to them. He drew a deep breath and tried to blow his anxiety out with it.
“I’ll pour.” He sat to her right and filled both glasses halfway, enough to relax but not intoxicate.
“They didn’t give any of the green salt this time.” A wistful smile touched her lips. Mac watched it closely, refreshing his memory of her smiles.
“We have food coloring?”
“I used all the green for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Beer?” he asked, puzzled.
She shook her head and busied her eyes and hands with assembling a taco. “The cupcakes for your office.”
Shit. He’d thought the little shamrock sweets came from one of the receptionists. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Amy would’ve spent time on minor holiday treats.
“Oh.” He paused and added, “I didn’t say it before, but thank you.”
She smiled, but it was brief, and they went through the remainder of the meal in silence. Tension stretched tight as tripwire between them. Amy eventually broke the silence.
“You look tired,” she said.
“So do you.” Passion had temporarily tinted her cheeks pink, but the afterglow had faded during the course of dinner. Amy’s shoulders drooped, and purple circles showed beneath her eyes. Mac pushed away from the table.
“Leave the mess for tomorrow.” He hiked up the towel he still wore around his hips and held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
A hopeful light brightened up her eyes. “Together?”
“You’re my wife, and that’s our bed. I’m not sleeping on the couch anymore.”
“I didn’t want you to leave it at all,” she confessed.
“I know.” Separate rooms had been his idea. He’d thought privacy would make her happy, since his presence didn’t. If the way she eagerly tugged him to their bedroom was any indication, he’d been mistaken.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology
Chapter Nine
She woke up to an empty bed and a note from Mac.
I need to take care of a few things. I’ll be back. Remember, no clothes.
Amy crumpled the sheet of stationary and threw it in the bathroom trash. She’d been preparing for their promised talk, had barely slept all night for trying to figure out how to verbalize what she wanted. And what had he been doing? Making a mental list of morning errands to run? Fine. If he didn’t have to keep his word, she didn’t have to keep hers. Frustrated and hurt, she defiantly dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. So much for working out their marital problems; he had “things” to do.
She distracted herself by cleaning up the mess left from dinner and any other mess she could find. The living room looked much more presentable once she stripped his linens from the couch and stuffed them in the laundry. She brought out the vacuum and started in the living room, moving from one end of their apartment to the other. She had to get down on her knees and duck her head under the dust ruffle in order to vacuum beneath the bed, but she didn’t mind. The electronic whir of the upright gave her much-needed mental white noise.
Hands on her hips, jerking her shorts down over her bottom and pulling her bodily from beneath the bed, startled her into a scream. She kicked out of instinct, to no avail. Mac’s expression was thunderous as he hauled her to her feet and pushed her onto the mattress, wrestling her shorts free of her feet and tossing them aside. He knelt astride her hips, pulled the vacuum hose from her hand, and whipped her shirt over her head.
“We had an agreement,” he said, breathing hard above her. His hands came down on either side of her shoulders, and his gaze fastened on hers. “Why did you break it?”
Her temper prickled to life. “You said you’d take the day off with me,” she accused.
“I left you a note explaining. Why are you wearing clothes?”
Denim rubbed her abdomen roughly where he straddled her hips. Amy swallowed, unsure how to answer him. Her body wanted to arch and distract him from the anger in his eyes, to turn the hot emotion into a different heat. Her rebellious tongue wanted to point out his erroneous memory of events the night before.
“You can’t expect-”
“When you’re in our home, you won’t hide yourself from me. You agreed to that.” Mac’s jaw clenched.
“I’m not perfect,” she snapped. She turned her head away so she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes. “You can’t expect that from me.”
“I can expect you to follow a simple directive. Or have I misunderstood what you want from me?” Mac turned her face back to him. He didn’t squeeze, but the heat of his palm against her pulse promised that he would force her to meet his gaze if she didn’t comply of her own volition. Heat coiled deep inside, responding to his power.
“Is this how we’re going to have our talk?” She searched his eyes intently, picking out layers of emotion when she could read them. Frustration, helplessness, desire, love, fear, all made a puzzling combination. Regret surfaced as well. If she hadn’t been paying attention, she would have missed all those layers, for as soon as she identified them they vanished behind a neutral mask.
“No,” he said evenly. “It’s not. Get up and come with me.” He backed off the bed and left her there, clearly expecting her to follow.
She didn’t have to do it. She could change her mind. Retain the upper hand in their relationship, stay with the safety of knowing their marriage would be over soon. One or the other of them would eventually file for divorce. Their separation would hurt, but it would be comfortable, and she wouldn’t be vulnerable to anybody but herself.
A rustle of paper reached her ears, coming from the vicinity of the living room. Would divorce paperwork sound like that? Her throat convulsed on a silent sob, and she covered her ears to block the sound. She sat abruptly and forced herself off the bed to go to him.
He sat on the edge of their sage, microfiber couch. She studied him from the doorway. Morning beard shadowed his jaw, and strain creased his brow; he held his head in his hands and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. She couldn’t imagine a home without him.
Breathing deep to brace herself, she said, “I’m not perfect.”
Mac’s hands stilled. He looked up at her and frowned. “I never demanded that you be perfect.”
“You tell me I am, and I have to live up to it. I can’t do that. I can’t be flawless, never making mistakes. I’m going to make you mad. I’m going to do the wrong thing sometimes. I’m going to have to fake an orgasm once in a while, and every now and then I forget a check I’ve written and overdraw the checking account. I’m going to get pissed off at the world and take it out on you. I’m not perfect.”
“Amy-”
“Please let me finish.” She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her fingers came away wet with tears. Mac dragged his hand through his hair, but nodded permission to go on.
“You can’t let me make mistakes without pointing them out to me—without some kind of punishment. I know you don’t want to hurt me, but I
need you to acknowledge that I’ve done something wrong. If you don’t—if you just take it, roll over and go on with your life, never telling me to stop being a bitch or stop being selfish or whatever it is I’m doing—if you don’t make me stop when I do it, then I don’t know I’ve done it at all until you’re hurt.”
Her voice broke on the last word. She hid against the doorjamb, clutching the wood as if it was a life raft and she was drowning. “Mac, I love you more than life,” she whispered.
“Come here.” It wasn’t a request. His voice was thick and rough and it cut through her tears. She didn’t want to leave the safety of the door, but she’d asked him to be the order-giver, the law enforcer of their household, and she forced her feet to move. She stopped with the coffee table between them.
“Not there. Here.” He pointed to the space between his denim-clad knees.
She moved again. He leaned back and looked up at her. “You understand what you’re asking of me?”
She nodded.
“You’re asking me to give you rules and decide whether your choices and behavior are wrong or right. You’re asking me to punish you if you’ve been bad, reward you if you’ve been good. To shoulder the responsibility for your physical comfort as well as your mental and emotional wellbeing.” He exhaled slowly and said, “To make you happy.”
“Yes. No. You already make me happy-”
“No, I don’t. Stop lying to yourself and to me.”
“I want both of us to be happy. I want you to show me how to make you happy.”
“By abusing you.”
The flat quality of his voice interrupted her anxiety. That was his injured voice, withdrawn and lacking intonation, and it hit hard. She sank to her knees between his legs and reached for his hands. “It’s not abuse!” she promised. “You won’t be hurting me. You’ll be helping.”
“Helping this way can turn into hurting very easily.” He rubbed the tips of her fingers against his own and held her hand up, showing the difference in their sizes. “It’s not just a physical risk. It’s an emotional risk, too. You’re inviting me to overpower your body and your emotions.”
Another protest came to her lips but she silenced it. Mac balled his hands around hers, molding them into fists, and rested his forehead atop their joined fingers. “Amy, my mother didn’t fight back when Dad hit her. Not because she was weak or afraid, but because she’d given him responsibility for her life. She promised to obey him and be what he needed, and figured if he needed a punching bag, that was her role. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to turn you into her.”
“You’re a different man,” she whispered.
Mac lifted his head. “Because I haven’t allowed myself to become him. I’ve removed the situational conditions that could give me the opportunity. And you want me to make myself vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable isn’t the same thing as weak. You’re the strongest person I know. You can handle this,” she said, willing him to believe in his own strength.
He closed his eyes and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Last night I gave you your first rule.”
Amy’s chest tightened. “About wearing clothes.”
“That you are no longer allowed to wear clothes when we’re alone, meaning without guests, in our home. Did you misunderstand the rule?”
She hadn’t misunderstood it. It was a childish, peevish fit of temper. She said as much to Mac.
“You’ve been talking to me about mistakes,” Mac said. “And you’ve told me what role you want me to fill in your life. Is there anything else you want to add?”
She shook her head and stared at his knees, unsure what the flip-flop in her stomach meant. Nerves, not fear. She wasn’t afraid of him.
“Okay. Do you understand the difference between a mistake and an act of defiance?”
“Yes.”
“Explain it to me.”
“A mistake is a genuine error. Maybe caused by forgetfulness or distraction, or just not having the information needed to do the right thing.” She shifted her weight and clasped her fingers together, uncomfortable standing over him. “An act of defiance is deliberately breaking a rule.”
“Very good,” he said slowly. “I am willing to accept this responsibility you’re asking of me, but not before I make myself clear on issues of rules and punishments. First, mistakes are not punishable offenses. If you find yourself making a mistake, we will work on correcting the conditions that led to it. Defiance will be punished, and afterward we will work on correcting the urges that prompted you to break a rule. I will never admonish you for a genuine error, but I will not be lenient with deliberate willfulness.”
He drew a deep breath and said, “As we grow into this, we will mutually decide in which areas you need guidance. For now, though, you will follow one rule, and that is that you are to give me every emotion you have. No hiding sadness. No pretending confidence. No faking sexual arousal. No faking orgasms. That’s not a mistake. It’s deliberate.”
She flinched, but didn’t refute his words.
“I realize now that you faked it with me last night,” he said, confirming her sudden suspicion that she’d been found out.
“You claim that you don’t want to do things that will hurt me,” he continued. “Revise your thinking and change ‘hurt’ to ‘deceive.’ Get in your mind and heart a dedication to being truthful with me. If you give me false responses again, you will have a long, long time without a genuine orgasm in which to reconsider your decision.
“Are you unclear on anything so far?” he asked. “You may answer me as ‘sir.’”
“No, sir,” she whispered. The small word danced in her stomach like startled butterflies.
He stood and pulled her to her feet, keeping her so close that his thighs brushed hers and the fibers of his shirt teased her nipples. The butterfly dance increased its tempo. “So you know what to expect now, and in the future, never forget that in this household, the punishment will fit the intent of the crime.” He put his foot on the edge of the coffee table and shoved it back. “Bend over, Amy.”
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology
Chapter Ten
Shock widened her eyes, and the color drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted, some words forming to forestall him, no doubt. Mac touched his finger to her lips. “You admitted to breaking the rule. Bend over.”
She stepped back into the space he’d cleared for her and bent to hug his thigh. He’d expected her to turn away from him and brace herself on the coffee table; this choice put him at a loss. He focused on controlling himself, but the prospect of spanking his wife, his best friend, made him tremble. Amy wouldn’t miss that, not with her arms wrapped around his thigh and her cheek on his hip. She wouldn’t miss the rock hard bulge that betrayed his arousal, either. Her shoulder, wedged against his groin, would tell her everything.
He caressed the length of her back, stroking from her shoulders to the crest of her bottom. He’d forgotten the silky texture of her skin, she had a fair complexion, pale and prone to bruising. He squeezed her left cheek and his thumbprint showed white, then red, against her skin. He didn’t want to hurt her—hitting was synonymous with abuse in his mind. The first slap was light and tentative and it landed closer to the small of her back instead of square on her behind. Amy jumped, but didn’t cry out.
Her heartbeat accelerated beneath his free hand. Mac widened his stance and cupped her hip, repositioning her at an angle that gave him access to the full roundness of her ass. The second slap connected with a resounding crack of flesh on flesh and left his palm tingling. He flexed his fingers and marveled at the sensation of needles pricking his palm. Sharing her discomfort anchored him more firmly in the moment. It created a strange connection. Amy whimpered, and the vibration of her small sound shot through his wrist. Mouth dry, he brought his hand down again, glorying in the hot sting that spread across his palm. She tightened her grip on his thigh, and his cock jumped.
He spanked her again
, half a dozen times in deliberately timed succession, fascinated by the progression of color from pale cream to deep, angry pink. Her gasps echoed every smack. Amy shook, but except for sharp little breaths and the occasional mew muffled against his hip, she remained silent.
He could spank her until she cried out and begged him to stop. The urge crept in the back of his mind, so strong it made him catch his breath. The prospect of reducing Amy to a red-assed, quivering mess jacked up his heart rate. Would she enjoy it? He balled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to strike her again, but couldn’t chase off a curiosity. His fingers relaxed, slid over the friction-heated curve of her bottom, and brushed her curls in what he hoped was a discreet touch. She arched her back and rubbed against his hand.
She was wet. The discovery nearly undid him.
“Let go,” he said, suppressing a fantasy of slipping behind her, unzipping his fly, and ramming into her. God. Her ass would be so warm against his groin. “Stand up.” His breathing was shallow, testament to his excited state. He prayed Amy didn’t misunderstand his arousal for an interest in abusing her.
She didn’t respond immediately. He patted her hip, and when that didn’t work, delivered a sharp slap to her left ass cheek. The blow startled a jerk from her. “Amy. Stand up.”
Sluggishly, she loosened her grip and straightened. She lost her balance, and he caught her before the slight sway turned into a full-out fall. Supporting her with one arm around her waist, he cupped her face and investigated her eyes. The glassy quality and dilated pupils made him frown. Salty tears reddened the rims and made her eyes puffy. He’d made her cry. The realization shook him down to the soles of his feet.
Gradually, her pupils returned to normal and awareness came back to her features. She focused her gaze on his. A flush crept and spread beneath his hands, staining her face in shades of rose. “Mac?” she whispered.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 17
