Page 19 of Tamed Enemy
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.”
“I wanted this.”
“I know.”
“I thought I could…” I don’t know what I thought I could do—christen the new room, banish the old, follow through on every single challenge the man I love sets for me.
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he turns toward the wardrobe and opens a drawer. He produces a floor-length robe as soft as velvet and as dark as the heart of a forest. He helps me feed my arms through the sleeves, and he pulls the lapels close under my chin. The knot he ties at my waist is very secure.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Walk where?”
“Upstairs. It’s time for bed.”
I nod, because words cost too much. I get to the foot of the stairs before I look back at the mess we’re leaving—my clothes, the glistening dildo, the spreader sitting silent as a log.
“Forget it,” he says. “I’ll clean up later.” He stays close as we walk up the stairs, and I know he’ll catch me if I fall.
He said it’s time for bed, and I believe him, because I’m knackered. Every muscle in my body vibrates with fatigue. Butwhen we step back into the foyer, I’m astonished to see bright sunshine streaming onto the marble floor.
Of course it’s still light out. It’s summer. The sun won’t set till after nine. We sat down to Sunday Roast at half past three.
“Kate,” he says, his fingers light beneath my elbow. I follow him up to the second floor and down the long hallway to the bedroom suite we share.
He settles me on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to smooth my hair off my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I feel the stretch of skin made stiff with salt—sweat or tears, I’m not certain which.
I don’t know what he’s measuring, how I’m being tested, but he seems satisfied with what he sees. He nods once and disappears into the toilet. I hear water running, and he comes back holding a glass. He passes it to me carefully, as if it contains some incredibly rare potion.
When I drink, the water feels like liquid silk, coating my throat and healing a million cuts inside me. I hear myself swallow every last drop.
“More?” he asks.
I nod.
This time, he runs the water longer. It’s colder when I sip it. I only finish half.
“Enough?” he asks, taking it from me.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
He puts the glass on the nightstand. I get to my feet, steadier now, and he reaches around me to pull down the summer-weight comforter, the cotton blanket, the top sheet I would never use if we were back in County Donegal.
Still wearing the robe, I swing my feet onto the bed. I let him pull the linens to my shoulder, and I close my eyes as he feathers a kiss on my forehead. Keeping them closed, I hear him head back into the jacks, closing the door behind him.
One more time, the water runs. I think he must be splashing his face, or maybe cleaning his teeth, but the sink runs longer than that. I wonder if he’s shaving, but that makes no sense at all, not on a Sunday night. I think he might be preparing for a night out.
But then I realize what he’s doing in that room.
In the dungeon, I felt the pressure of his cock against the crack of my arse. He twitched hard as he filled me with that lubed-up toy. I heard the harsh breath hissing past his teeth.
He’s giving himself the relief he didn’t get downstairs. His own right hand is doing what his wife didn’t, what his sub couldn’t.
My belly flips with an emotion I can’t name. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, wishing I could drown out the rush of the faucet, even if that means hearing his quick, sharp breaths.
The scars across my thighs turn to fire. That’s when I realize what my twisted gut means. Cutting always made me feel this way. I’m ashamed.
