Page 33 of Ceremony of Lust

She flinches, and then her hands lift to cover her chest. “Why do you say things like that?” she chastises me.

“I’m just telling you what I want, Yael. You’re my wife, and I want to fuck you.”

She recoils as though I slapped her, and her eyes close tightly. “Is that what you do to your wife? You fuck her?”

Her anger is unexpected but also not unfounded. She deserves better than the crude language men often use. Maybe this misunderstanding between us is good because all I can picture is Anders kissing her, his mouth assaulting her with a forced, sloppy kiss. I was helpless, and I’m not entirely certain I can restrain myself when it comes to Yael. I want to be a gentle lover; I want to worship her, but I’m not sure I can do that tonight. I point toward a darkened hallway. “The master bedroom is down there. I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom if that’s your desire.”

She hesitates, her mouth opening but then snapping shut within seconds. I should take pity on her because she is so young and doesn’t understand this new language of lust. I am more than willing to be her teacher even though I’m certain she will be the one to teach me how to truly love. What would it take to make a woman like Yael love me? More importantly, am I willing to do it?

It seems separation is best for the night. She turns her back and walks down the hallway, and while I know I should stop her, I don’t. I only want to be in her bed because she wants me there, not because I forced my way into it or because she feels obligated to fulfill some ceremonial act of consummating our marriage.

I head to the guest bedroom and begin to undress, but my cell phone chimes. Only one person has the balls to message me right now.

Anders: Your wife is so sweet.

Me: Stay away. I’m warning you.

Anders: Then do your job.

Me: Can’t a man enjoy his wedding night?

Anders: If she let you touch her, you wouldn’t be answering my messages. Marcus will pick you up in an hour.

19

Yael

This is nothow I envisioned my wedding night. Not that I considered it much, but I at least hoped to spend it with my husband.Maybe it’s a good thing, I try to convince myself. We’ll both have the night to settle down. In the morning, I’ll apologize for being so stupid and naïve, for letting the opinions of others get into my head. There are only two people in this marriage, and based on what I know of Zev, he isn’t interested in having a meek wife.

I carefully take off my wedding dress and then search the massive bedroom for the closet. There has to be an empty hanger for my dress. When I find it, I’m mesmerized by not only Zev’s familiar smell—fresh, clean, and entirely masculine—but also by the amount of black. Black pants, black T-shirts; it’s all black, black, and more black. My white dress stands out in the colorless sea of clothing.

And then I remember how he looked today. There was one pop of white, his shirt. I wonder if that was intentional.

When I hang up my dress, I spy my suitcase in the closet. Somehow, my own clothes just won’t do tonight, so I search through the drawers for one of his T-shirts. If we’re going to be separated, I want to feel close to him.

When I’m scrubbed clean and more comfortable, I finally notice the care he took in selecting the furnishings. I’m not sure what the bedroom looked like previously, but without any guidance from me, he’s created a dream no woman would ever want to leave.

The king-sized bed is low with a green velvet upholstered headboard that spans the width of the wall. There are gold sconces attached on either side of the bed, perfect for late-night reading. At the foot of the bed is a cream-colored plush rug and two green velvet ottomans.

I peel away the duvet and slip into the bed, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against my bare legs. This is so much better than the full-sized bed in my bedroom at my grandmother’s house. But it doesn’t feel right. It feels lonely.

We shouldn’t start our marriage angry with each other, I rehearse in my head as I rise and make my way through the penthouse in search of the guest bedroom. I catch sight of light streaming under one door and knock on it softly.

“Zev,” I call out. “Can we talk?”

There’s no answer, so I try again. “Please, Zev? I’m sorry. Talk to me.”

When there’s still no answer, I reach for the handle and push the door open. The room is empty, and my husband is gone.

I frantically search the entire house, but he’s not here. When I call him, it goes right to voicemail.

With my phone in my hand, I make my way to the living room and sit. Tears automatically pour down my cheeks. What am I supposed to do now? Wait? There has to be a reasonable explanation, but then I immediately realize nothing could be reasonable. This is our wedding night. Nothing should have taken him from me, yet I let him walk away without a second glance.

God, I’m such a fool.

I stretch out along the couch, my phone against my chest, and close my eyes.

He’ll be here in the morning. He has to be.