“Come here.” He slides a little lower in the chair, his head against the white leather, his chin tilted up, blue eyes staring out from chiseled masculinity.
I move closer, his legs coming together, then I am straddling him, my skirt pushed up, his hands reaching around me to pull down the zipper. I lean forward, my fingers loosening his tie, his hands gently gripping my waist, his eyes on mine as my fingers work, neither of us saying anything in this moment.
I love his eyes. They are the only way I can read him. His body gives so little away; he controls his emotions so well. But his eyes are traitorous to his carefully maintained control. They blaze when he is angry, they soften when he is yielding, and they grow heavy with need when he is aroused.
Right now, he is aroused. I don’t need his eyes to know that. I can feel it underneath me, straining against the fabric of his dress pants.
His fingers move to the buttons of my cardigan, thumbing the small pearls as he releases them, one by one, his large hands slipping underneath and palming my breasts through the thin fabric of my camisole, the sensation causing a shiver to ripple through me. He yanks at the last button, the pearl popping off, causing a giggle to rise in my throat. Then the silk blend is tossed aside, his hands pulling and tugging on my cami until it joins the cardigan, and my upper half is bare before him.
“No bra?” he questions, a dark look in his eyes and his hands move, brushing across my nipples, their skin puckering in the cool room.
I shake my head, biting my lower lip, stifling a gasp as his hands grip the weight of me, one breast in each hand, his eyes taking on a gleam of ownership. He pushes with his hands, communicating his desire, and I begin to move my hips, my lace and silk mound grinding over him, the want beneath my panties visible through the fabric.
I need to see more of him, the desire taking over me, causing me to pant softly. My fingers tremble as they move, unbuttoning his shirt, spreading it open so that my hands can explore his skin. I lean forward, lowering my mouth to his hot surface, skimming my tongue and teeth over the hard planes of his chest. His pelvis unexpectedly tilts, pushing me higher ‘til our faces are level, and his mouth is on mine.
I get lost in his kisses. It is the one moment when I communicate with him freely, my mouth recklessly pouring out emotions that are best contained. Our tongues have no filter, the heat of our kisses lighting a fire between us that can only be put out with his cock. I reach down, my frantic hands grasping and pulling on leather, clasp, a button and zipper, moving in hurried motions until I have him in my hand, hard and ready, his skin stretched tight, moisture already present at his tip.
He pulls me down, my hands quickly positioning him beneath me, tugging wet panties aside for his entrance. His mouth reluctantly releases me, his eyes watching me hungrily, fixed on my face as he thrusts up and into me.
My skirt is pulled over my head and thrown aside, his hands running through my hair and gripping it tightly, pulling it slightly so that my neck is exposed to his mouth.
As his lips kiss and caress my neck, I groan beneath his touch, his hands and hips lifting and pumping, taking me on a wave of pleasure until he has had his fill. And when it is time, when he buries me deeply onto his cock, his mouth finding mine, his moan against my mouth. He gives one last shuddering thrust into my hot core, my thoughts flicker to Drew and how this must look through the glass walls of the house.
CHAPTER 4
Word: 9 letters; last letter is ‘S’
Clue: a child’s game often possesses twenty of these
Boredom is a dangerous bitch. Boredom allows the mind to wander, gives credence to idle thoughts, and gives legs to dangerous ideas. Boredom seems to be item number one on my daily agenda.
7:00 AM: Wake up.
7:15 AM: Shower and dress. Be prepared in case Nathan wants sex before work.
8:30 AM: Eat breakfast, which consists of only items preapproved by Beth, evil bitch that she is.
9:00 AM: Boredom begins.
10:00 AM: Boredom continues.
11:00 AM: Still bored.
12:00 PM: Lunch, unless I get wild and push it to 1:00 PM.
12:30 PM: Nap, which is often interrupted by landscaper noise.
2:30 PM: Twice-weekly personal training/torture session with Beth.
4:30 PM: Shower and dress. Wait for the sound of Nathan’s car.
Some nights he doesn’t return. I sit in the guesthouse with the doors open so that I will hear his car. I sit and wait, the television on low, a magazine or book ignored in my hands. If he doesn’t return by eight, I eat. At ten, I close the curtains.
Not that curtains have ever stopped him. Neither has the lock on my door, a lock that every employee of the house seems to have a key for. Drew and Mark think nothing of walking right into my house, regardless of the hour or of my state of dress. Nathan has never made the short trek to my home. He has never set foot in my room, never seen the pile of clothes that dominates the large walk-in closet, never seen my books or movies or perfume bottles. When he wants me, he sends Drew or Mark to fetch me. Like I am another employee of the house, which in a sense, I am. We are all here to serve a purpose. I fuck, Drew handles our personal security and travel arrangements, and Mark is Nathan’s personal bitch. The man seems to demand an audience, never calm unless surrounded by someone.
“He’s not really in danger, is he?” It is the boredom that makes me speak, too many thoughts flitting around my head, one pushing unannounced to the surface. I sit at the kitchen island, munching on a carrot. It’s too cold, like someone’s changed the refrigerator’s temperature control and frozen everything solid.
Drew regards me carefully from his place by the fridge. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, look at you. You’re supposed to be his security, right?” I hop off the stool and walk to the fridge, pulling open the door and searching hopefully for some bit of yumminess that Beth might have overlooked.
“Among other things.”
“So if he’s in danger, then who’s protecting him right now?”
“Mark is with him.”
I roll my eyes. “I know that Mark is with him, but Mark isn’t like you — all tough and dangerous. Mark just takes up space, with a build that is mildly intimidating.”
“Are you done eating? You should return to the guesthouse.”
“Stop calling it the guesthouse. I’m the only one there, and I’m not a guest.”
“Okay, time to return to your house.”
“Why can’t I stay here? Why do I have to be locked away in there all day?” I pull out a bottle of juice and shut the fridge, twisting the cap as I lean against the island. “Nathan works in development, right? Hotels, resorts, apartment complexes?”
He says nothing, which my boredom takes as an excuse to run free. “Development isn’t dangerous. If it weren’t for his last name, no one would even know who he is. Half the time he doesn’t even lock the front door.”
“Your point?”
I shrug, taking a swig of icy mango. “Just seems like you are expendable.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“And what’s with making me sleep outside? Why can’t I hang out in the house during the day? Or sleep in his bed at night?”
“Do you want to sleep in his bed at night?”
His tone gives me pause, and I set the drink on the counter. “It’d be nice not to sleep alone at night.”
I mean the comment to be lighthearted, a flippant response that will be ignored. But he says nothing, and an awkward silence stretches between us in the big kitchen. I pick at the wrapper of my juice. “How long you worked for Nathan?”
He crosses his arms and shoots me a pained look. “Why the sudden questions?”
I crunch happily on a carrot in a way that I know he will find exasperating. “Answer one of them, and I’ll go on my little way like a good girl.”
“Which one?”
I think, grabbing a fresh handful of orange sticks. “Is he really in
any danger?”
“Wealthy men are always in danger. Now, move.” He ends the order with some form of a snarl, emphasizing the last word and unfolding his arms, like he is going to forcibly remove me from the kitchen.
I laugh, popping a new carrot into my mouth and bumping my hip against him as I round the island and head to my prison. “Fine … but your answer sucked. I’ll get you with a better question tomorrow.”
He glowers at me, a look that would have terrified me two months ago. Now, it causes me to beam — this brief bit of human interaction is well worth the sexy death stare.
CHAPTER 5
Word: 9 letters; second letter is ‘E’
Clue: an act of open resistance to an established ruler
I need a hobby. The marital agreement states that I can have a hobby, as long as the hobby doesn’t interfere with my wifely duties. Nathan’s schedule seems to reliably keep him out of the house from nine to five. It shouldn’t be that difficult for me to find a hobby that will fit during that window. The agreement also states that I may have friends, but it is pretty hard to find friends when living in the middle of a neighborhood designed to keep neighbors at a five-acre distance. I check my watch. 9:04 AM. Nathan should have left by now. His schedule is precise, a subtle indicator of his controlling tendencies. According to Mark, he leaves by 9:00 so that is he able to be at his desk by 9:30.
Last weekend, we flew to Napa Valley to attend a charity benefit. Three days spent in wine country. Nathan was mobbed the moment our plane landed, men and women alike flocking to his side, pulling on his arm, whispering into his ear, and laughing at his jokes. He transformed before my eyes, an easy grin stretching across his face, a casual and affable elegance his new façade. I was shocked, my jaw literally dropping as I stared at this mystery who was anyone but my husband.
He maintained this exterior for three days straight, entertaining scores of society bluebloods, telling stories I have never heard, bidding on extravagant auction items, his arm draped lovingly around my shoulder. He planted soft kisses on my neck in the presence of others and ran his fingers lightly over my arm as if he couldn’t touch me enough. I saw the glances, the swoons from other woman. She is so lucky. They are so in love. They didn’t know the truth. That when he would lean in and whisper in my ear his words were anything but romantic. Stop fidgeting. Uncross your legs. The woman to your right is Paula — pay her more attention. I behaved, I smiled, I made the proper social gestures, and said the correct things. I beamed at Nathan, laughed at his stories, and accepted his loving gestures as if they were often and normal. And in the evenings, when the door to our two-bedroom suite closed, he would reward me. On the soft bed, against the wall, in the shower. On my back, on my knees, standing, and with his mouth. When you subtracted his whispered orders, the separate bedrooms, and the false exteriors, it was the best weekend of my life.
We returned four days ago, the plane landing with a soft bump that woke me from my nap. I stretched and smiled over at Nathan, glancing out the window and seeing the familiar FBO. “We home?”
He nodded without looking at me, unbuckling his belt and moving to the front. That was Sunday, and we haven’t spoken since. The first day, I dismissed it as nothing, my weekend high keeping a smile on my face, a bounce in my step. Drew watched me closely that day, his eyes narrowed, his gaze unwary. The second day I began to wonder if something was wrong, sitting in my glass box ‘til midnight waiting to be beckoned. Now, on day four, it seems clear. I am being punished for something.
9:06 AM: His hard glare pins me in the doorway as soon as I slide open the glass door. He stands in the kitchen, the island between us, six feet of gorgeous constrained by a custom suit. I can see the anger in his eyes, his face turning into a scowl as he mutters something to Drew. Drew makes a sharp gesture with his head, the message clear, and I step backward, pulling the glass sliding door closed, the summer heat settling around me like a hot, scratchy sweater. I stand there for a moment, feeling the sun stare down on me like a prissy schoolteacher. Bad Jennifer. Get out, Jennifer.
Anger seeps through me in waves, commingling with frustration and leaving me furious. Why is he so difficult? Am I that irritating? My mere presence that unbearable to his peace of mind? My clothes, the proper blend of luxury and sex, are suddenly thick and constricting, the tight wool-blend top ridiculous in the summer humidity. I feel a sudden surge of recklessness, pushed relentlessly by the wave of hot claustrophobia that seizes my entire body. I yank at the sleeveless turtleneck, pulling it over my head, feeling a moment of euphoria when the hot fabric hits the white pavers. My skirt follows, one quick zip down. I stare at my nude thigh-high lace stockings, ridiculous given the fact that they were put on solely for his eyes. There’s no need for stockings in June, slid on in the pathetic hope that he might, on this day, grant me a session with his cock. I slip out of my heels, rolling the expensive sheer fabric down my long legs, flipping my head up to find him and Drew staring at me through the glass, an expression of horror on Drew’s face. Nathan simply watches, a cold look of disinterest in his eyes. Oh, look. There is my wife. Throwing a temper tantrum in front of the staff.
I stare into his eyes, my body covered by only a sheer shelf bra and a barely existent thong. I can only hope my eyes communicate the fury radiating through my body, my hurt at his neglect, at his snub of me and the corner of his world that I inhabit. Then, I dive.
The water shocks me. I am forbidden from the pool, my hair stylist repeatedly preaching the harm that chlorine will cause to my now-expensive tresses. Nathan agreed, adding a new rule to my long list. No swimming. So I am unprepared for its cool embrace, the smooth grip of moisture that instantly refreshes my sticky skin, sliding bubbles across my surface. I come up for air, the sun’s heat suddenly friendly and warm on my face, tickling me as it slides droplets of water off my face. Then I duck back into the underwater world and don’t come up for quite some time.
Laps. I swim until my muscles cramp, ache, and then cramp again. I am filled with glee at my insubordination, my first act of rebellion incredible in its release. The water drinks my aggression, my hatred, my anger toward the black beauty that is Nathan. At the end of each lap, on my backward spin, I peer through the clear water, my eyes searching for a body at the edge of the pool, someone who will admonish me, order me to get out of the pool, perhaps even Nathan. But lap after lap, no one is there, and so I continue. Laps. Until I am gasping for breath, and my heart is thudding against my chest, my legs and arms deliciously exhausted.
I drag myself from the water, lying back on the warm pavers of the pool deck, my eyes closing, a smile crossing my features. Nathan would find some way to punish me, perhaps more coldness, more nights where I fall asleep waiting for his call. But this act, this childish strip down and swim, was worth it. I needed the moment of backbone — at a time when I feel I am losing all the pieces that make me, me.
There, in the warm sun, my skin and lingerie drying out above tired muscles, my exhausted body relaxes, and under the dark stare of Nathan, I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 6
Word: 6 letters
Clue: the opposite of reward
I am in my house, curled up on the couch, reading, when Drew speaks.
“Mr. Dumont is requesting you.”
The sudden words startle me, and I jump, turning to glare at him. “Can’t you knock?”
He says nothing, his hands in his pockets, and I turn back to my book, my mind processing what this means. Nathan, home in the middle of the day. Requesting me. He has never requested me for anything but sex. After four days of ignoring me, I break a rule, and now he is here, asking for me. In the middle of the day.
“Mr. Dumont — ”
“I know. Is requesting me.” I stand, tossing the book aside. “Should I get dressed?”
His eyes travel over my silk robe, cinched at the waist over nothing but me, the fabric sticking to my skin, still wet from my after-swim shower. “No. I’m sure that will be fine.”
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I nod silently, taking the time to take a sip from my glass of ice water, preparing myself for Nathan, butterflies starting a nervous dance in my belly.
In the background, the roar of a weed eater begins.
Nathan is a man possessed, grabbing me the moment I enter the room, his hands tight on my arms, my robe’s thin silk doing nothing to prevent what will be bruises. I drop the cool exterior, the mask that I adorned before stepping into this house, and look at him in panic.
He is a ball of barely restrained emotion; his breath is coming in short, controlled bursts, his expressions dark, the lines in his face heavy and pronounced. He pushes me over to the leather chaise lounge, until I am on my back and he is towering over me, his hands in fists.
“Nathan, please,” I gasp, moving away from him, my robe open around my legs.
“You think this is a game?” he hisses. “Our marriage, our agreement?”
I open my mouth, searching for something to say, not understanding his anger. Was this over the pool? My little ridiculous swim?
He leans closer, ‘til his mouth is inches from mine, ‘til his breath is hot on my skin. “Answer me.”
I wet my lips. “No,” I whisper.
“No, what?” he snarls, yanking the sash on my robe, the silk moving easily under his strength.
“No, it’s not a game.” I keep my face timid, my voice soft, but inside my teeth bare and my claws flex. No, it’s not a game; this is my life, my worth, my sanity. For a man who doesn’t like games, he should throw out the rules and stop keeping score of who is ahead in the I’m-in-control race. His eyes are hard on mine and staring in them tells me exactly how furious he is. I have never seen him this angry — have never seen this level of emotion from him in any way. It lights a fire in my belly, knowing that I have elicited this response, knowing that he cares enough to be mad.
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