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.”
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.
He reaches forward, gripping the back of my neck and pulling me up, pressing his mouth roughly to mine as he pulls open my robe, baring my body to him. It is not a kiss. It is a domination — strong movements of his tongue that tease, taste, and torment my tongue. He nips my bottom lip, f**ks me with his tongue, then gently kisses my swollen lips, taking one final journey of my mouth before he pulls off.
I open my eyes, expecting a softer Nathan above me, expecting the change in his kiss to reflect the forgiveness that had occurred. His fists have loosened, those hands now running rampant over my body, my robe fully open, my legs parted with his knee. His face has calmed, the deep lines faded, the set of his mouth relaxed. But his eyes betray him. His eyes show the fierce anger that still burns brightly. And I know. I know that my punishment is not over.
These depths of fire flicker to the backyard, then return to me, and I understand. This is how he will punish me — public humiliation — putting me on display while he f**ks me senseless. He will remind me of where I came from, treat me like the whore that I — that one night — was.
And he does. He makes me stand, na**d before the window, my palms to the glass, his hands on my ass cheeks, f**king me so hard that my br**sts bounce from the impact. I feel the sting of his hand against my ass, while his words spit out hard and unforgiving, “You belong to me. You are mine.”
The landscapers, bless their hearts, keep their eyes low, focus on their work. But I know they see. They see when he forces me to my knees, his hand firm on my head, my bare body before his clothed one. They see when I take his c**k deep down my throat, my body shaking from the effort, when my back contracts and I gag. They see when his thighs flex, his eyes close, and he fills my throat with satisfaction.
But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it I am ashamed to say, ashamed to admit to myself. The worst is that, even at the height of it, even when I felt their eyes, and hated Nathan’s demands, I was aroused. Panting in my pussy, moisture dripping down my leg, aroused. I moaned when he spanked me. I begged for more as he f**ked me. I looked into his eyes and asked for his cum.
I know. I am as screwed up as he is.
CHAPTER 7
Word: 10 letters; the last letter is ‘N’
Clue: a ____________ slip is often required at school
Our agreement states that sex will only be asked for once a day, today’s quota already filled. Nathan is a man of regulations, our agreement one that he follows to the letter. I have still dressed in expectation of his return from work. It is silly, vain hopes that a simple clothing change will recapture some normalcy in a day that has already gone so wrong. And ten minutes after I hear the growl of Nathan’s car, Drew walks in, his eyes noticing everything, doing a sweep of my body, my face, my nervous smile.
He steps close, closer than I am comfortable with, the glass walls placing everything I do under a microscope. “Are you okay?”
I glance to the house, nodding, Nathan’s frame absent from my view of the great room. Drew reaches forward, his hand startling me, and fingers the end of my blunt cut, examining its dark strands. “I liked it better when it was longer.”
I nod silently, mesmerized by the flecks of gold in his green eyes, surprised at his nearness, at the intensity of his stare. So did I. I liked the weight of the hair against my back, its protection against my neck, the variety of styles I used, the way it spun out when I turned. Now I have one singular look. Refined elegance. Blah.
He frowns. “Earlier today, what happened … none of them could see. The afternoon light casts a reflective glare on the windows.”
I nod, swallowing hard, trying to get moisture down my throat. I feel if I try to speak, only a croak will come out, like cotton is filling the thin cavity. His lie rests dirty on my ears. I am the one who sits in this glass house. I am the one who stares into that luxurious great room and waits for his figure to appear. Reflection has never been a problem. I clear my throat. “Do I look okay?”
He steps back, releasing my hair as if he has been burned. The skin around his mouth changes, his five o’clock shadow bending and stretching around a tight smile. “You look beautiful,” he says finally. “Like always. Nathan will be pleased.”
I straighten, stepping away from him, stepping to the minibar, where I prepare water for my throat. Willing this memory from my mind: his concern, his proximity, his touch on my hair, his lies for my sanity. I hope he is right, and Nathan will be pleased. I hope that my punishment is over, and my life will return to normal, the f**ked version of normal that we exist in. I have learned my lesson. Partly from the humiliation, but mainly from the anger he had displayed. Part of me had embraced it — the first proof that a real person laid beneath that cool exterior. Another part of me had been scared. Nathan has never struck me, but very well could have, his anger that present, his emotions that out of control.
I walk to the house, feeling Drew’s eyes on me, his hand gentle on my back as he slides open the door. “Mr. Dumont is in the office.”
The office. That is new, different, a place I haven’t seen since my first tour of the house. Wandering is not permitted, not in this house to which I have no claim over. I step into the small room, and Nathan is there, standing by the window, his tie loosened, cufflinks undone. I nod politely to him and stop, waiting.
“Swimming. How important is it to you?”
I blink. This may be the first time Nathan has ever asked me a question. He tends to limit our conversations to orders and crucial details. I think, trying to decide upon an answer, knowing what I want to say, but trying to find a polite way to state it. The minutes pass, my mind refusing to assist in my time of need, and I finally open my mouth, using the simple truth. “Not important enough for me to negotiate for it, but I would appreciate permission to swim. It would give me something to do during the day.”
“My issue, my anger, was not about you swimming.” He steps forward, rolling up one sleeve in perfect, precise folds, unveiling muscular arms. “I was upset that you purposely disobey my rule — the rules are in place for a reason, and I need you to follow them. But what caused me to lose my temper was your display in front of Drew.”
My face flushes, and I wonder where Drew is right now, if he is still behind me, or if he just dropped me off and moved on.
“I understand that you have trouble understanding the difference between our sex and your exhibitionism, so know this: unless I tell you to, you will stay fully clothed in front of the staff. Do you understand?”
I nod meekly, my cheeks burning as I am talked to in the manner someone would a small child.
“I’ll speak with your hair stylist. I’m sure there is some product that can be purchased to protect your hair. I will allow you to swim, assuming you do it during the day when I am at work.” He finishes the second sleeve, both forearms now bare, the look — combined with his loose tie and rumpled hair — incredibly hot.
I will allow you to swim. His gifts are still insults. “Thank you,” I say softly, trying not to stare at the muscles in his arms, or the beautiful length of his fingers as they rest on his hips. I hate when this happens. When I hate this man and then my mind wanders, picking up on one of the small details that makes him devastating. His looks are my weakness, his mind my undoing.
CHAPTER 8
“Your husband is so handsome.”
I look up from my book, my feet tucked beneath me, my father’s snores comforting in their regularity. “I’m sorry?”
Pam beams, a worn People magazine clutched in her large hands, the cover moving as she scurries closer. “Jeanie brought this in, it’s got photos from your trip to Napa. I didn’t realize how handsome your husband was. Why, you’re famous!”
She unfolds the magazine, folding it back on itself, thrusting the glossy pages forward, one bare fingernail tapping insistently on the page. I accept it carefully, my eyes devouring the pages. We have no internet at the house. Or rather, I am not given the password for the house’s Wi-Fi. My original cell phone, the one that made the limo ride with me to Nathan’s home, is gone — taken by Nathan. He gave me a new one that is simple and purposeful. It makes and receives calls and text messages.
I know that Nathan is important, someone worth reporting about. The paparazzi used to wait at the airport for me, snapping bright white pictures as I entered the FBO, shouting out questions that I always ignored. My rules are clear. The press is to be ignored. It, according to Nathan, is one of the most important rules. I always hear their questions, see their flashbulbs, but have never read their words. I don’t know much of anything about Nathan other than that he comes from wealth, is heir to something impressive, and that he develops skyscrapers and resorts and gated communities that he fills with the wealthy.
The photos are from a charity luncheon that we attended, hills of grapevines in the distance, the sunny warmth of the day coming through in the images. The shots seem to focus on us, the other couples in attendance mostly ignored by the photographer. If I can say so, I look fabulous — glowing with happiness, my head tilted toward Nathan, a proud smile on his face, as he looks at me with an emotion some might confuse with love. I love these pages; I want to take this magazine and stuff it into my bag. I want to pore over the photos in the privacy of my room, to look at the representations of my life that I wish were accurate.