It was laughable. Suicidal.
But it was also what I wanted most in the motherfucking world.
Moving with her in my embrace, I murmured, “Let’s go for a shower together. A nice vanilla shower.”
Tess frowned. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious. And nothing you can say will tempt me otherwise.”
She grumbled but obeyed as I pulled her gently toward the bathroom. “We’ll see about that, maître. I give you a day before you snap.”
I hated her pessimism and my internal agreement.
Not taking her the way I needed would be the hardest damn thing I’d ever done.
But I was committed.
And I wouldn’t falter.
“I love you, Tess. And that is why I’m doing this.”
As I stripped her of the bed sheet and turned on the shower where I’d broken her awful memories of rape and kidnapping, I refused to think about what my self-imposed damnation would do to her. She was as twisted as me. Sex had always been our safe place. Now, it was unknown. Forbidden.
But for this to work, we would have to give up a piece of ourselves.
For however long we needed.
I’D LIKE TO say Q changed his mind the second we stepped into the shower together. I’d love to say he snapped and shoved me against the tiles like the monster he was.
But he didn’t.
He washed me with all the reverence and care in the world.
He kissed me with barely any tongue.
And when he slid inside me, he wasn’t fully hard, and I wasn’t fully wet.
We weren’t hardwired for simple pleasures.
We fought because we needed that extra level of sensation.
And he’d just taken it away.
* * * * *
That afternoon, when he came home from work, I waited to see how long his self-imposed vanilla would last. I did my best to entice him after we crawled into bed, but he only hugged me until I unwillingly went to sleep.
For a week, that was the norm.
Q would take me every morning when we were both still sleep-hazy and not entirely coherent. He’d fill me after touching me with tormenting, teasing, and in no way satisfying strokes. He’d make me ready but not molten. And he’d come deep inside me, but it strained him. I could tell the struggle it was for him to orgasm without making me gasp and beg.
He needed my pain to get off. And without it, we both struggled to connect.
After we’d finished, I saw a pinprick of blood on the covers from where he’d dug his fingers into his palms so hard he’d broken the skin, seeking that sliver of wrongness to finish.
I didn’t let him see the tears in my eyes at how much that hurt or how destroyed I was that he hadn’t turned to me like he always had, finding salvation in my agony and screams.
Instead of being open and loving, we became closed off and uncertain.
And every day was worse than the last.
* * * * *
A week turned to a fortnight.
A fortnight turned to a month.
For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t look forward to sex with my delectable husband. It became an obligation. Boring. And it was a chore to open my legs while in missionary style and allow a few shallow thrusts before my seriously twisted but imprisoned monster came inside me.
If this was what it took to get pregnant…then I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it.
My thoughts turned nasty toward whatever child we would conceive. Yes, I wanted a family with Q. I wanted to share him with his children. But I also didn’t want to lose him in order to gain them.
I was selfish where my maître was concerned. And if I couldn’t have him, then I didn’t want anything else.
Thoughts that Q might be sterile crossed my mind. After all, we had a very active sex life. Yes, I’d been on contraception injections for a long time, but that would’ve been out of my system by now…surely?
This was wrong.
Despicable.
This hurt.
I missed him. I missed us.
I’d been an understanding wife. After those first few weeks of doing what I could to get him to break with no luck, I gave up. I didn’t want to be the cause of more strife for him but I also didn’t hide the agony of my sacrifice.
Q knew I was unhappy.
Shit, he was unhappy. Dreadfully so.
We were playing a treacherous game. Vanilla was supposed to be bland and non-lethal. But to us…it had the power to dismantle our marriage and shatter all that we loved.
On the fifth week, when three days had gone by and Q hadn’t touched me, I ignored his requests not to involve doctors. I couldn’t stand much more of this, and I wanted to know either way. I couldn’t test Q without him knowing, but I could test myself.
I couldn’t trust Franco to drive me to the clinic, so I enlisted the help of Suzette. She’d seen me growing bored and the change in Q as weeks crept onward. She’d been my shoulder to moan and fret on, understanding my frustration with Q’s pigheadedness.
No wonder he was able to find me the second time I was kidnapped. His sheer mindedness when he made a decision was unarguable.
Q did this to protect me. However, without me as his outlet he started taking his violence out on his employees. Barking orders, firing a few for minor misconduct, and unable to keep his mask on in society. His life was no longer happy, and he refused to let me reach him.
It was time for drastic measures.
Pretending we were going to Paris to shop, Suzette and I arranged a day to take the high-speed train to the appointment I’d made in secret.