Page 5

Scarlett

I t’s late when Alex comes to bed.

Rain is pattering against the glass and, because I didn’t close the curtains, the moonlight looks like it’s doing some skittish, manic dance over the furious waves.

I was too frantic to think about food.

I was too frantic to think about anything beyond this crazy situation.

I’ve already gone way past exhaustion in my confused and stressed state, but my mind won’t switch off no matter how much I desperately want to sleep, to dream.

I’m vaguely aware of him undoing his tie, taking his clothes off, tossing them into a pile for one of the maids to sort later.

His weight makes my body shift on the mattress, the cover is shifted, pulled off, and cold air replaces the comforting warmth.

As I’m manoeuvred around, I know what he wants, what is happening.

And yet there is no conversation, no discussion. Not even a check-in to see if I’m lucid.

For a second I wonder if he would still fuck me if he’d found that I’d dropped dead, but I don’t want to know the answer to that. I don’t want to think about it, to dwell on it.

He grabs my legs, opening me up enough for him to access and he yanks the silk shift he dressed me in right up so my breasts are fully exposed.

With little tenderness he grabs at them, kneading them, fondling them, slapping them just enough that I gasp, and then there’s no doubt that I am fully awake.

But it’s the look he gives me, the hard, unblinking, arrogant stare he has as he meets my gaze and pushes himself as deep as he can inside me. All those cuts, those grazes, those nasty little wounds where his father buried those twigs protest as he begins to pound away.

“Al…” His name dies on my lips. Any plea is lost with it because this man doesn’t take no for an answer, doesn’t ever not get what he wants.

This is his world. We’re all just his toys to do with as he wills.

Maybe that’s what I should do, play the long game, play his perfect little toy for now, that would be the smart thing, the logical move.

“Fuck, you’re wet.” He groans, “So fucking wet. Have you been dreaming about me, waiting for me to come back and punish you?”

I gulp as those words still register.

“Pppunish. Punish for what?” I gasp.

His hand wraps around my throat as he lowers his mouth to my ear. “I know what you did today, Scarlett.”

I lock up entirely as fear takes over me. I don’t even know what it is I’m meant to have done, but I can see I’m doing exactly what he wants, reacting how he wants.

He stares back at me, his hips still driving in and out, still seeking his pleasure while he clearly gets off on the terror my body is completely overcome with.

“I…” I don’t know what to say, how to placate him. He may be my husband, but he feels as good as a stranger to me. Whatever this forgetfulness is, whatever this confusion is, it’s stolen my memories, turned me into little more than a damn zombie.

“I told you to rest and you disobeyed me. Didn’t you?”

My eyes widen and I gulp back tears as I realise he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t have a clue what I was really up to, thank fuck.

And I nod, acknowledging my guilt, submitting to him while the relief I feel is palpable.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper. “I was bored, I wanted to see your home, to understand…”

His mouth crashes into mine, his tongue swallowing the last of my pleading words.

He’s always been a good kisser; he’s always been a good everything.

That’s how he won me over, how he bagged a wife more than ten years younger than him.

Because, while his money was an appeal, it was also a turnoff.

I wasn’t a gold digger; I wasn’t dreaming of being merely a trophy bride.

I had dreams of my own, dreams that didn’t always align with my dear darling husband’s.

And yet he won all the same.

A tear streaks down my cheek, but I ignore it. There’s little point in reminiscing on past mistakes. Alex is my husband, even if I don’t remember our wedding day.

And this great monster of a house is now my home as well as my prison.

I raise my hands, twisting my fingers through his immaculate hair, giving in entirely. And it feels like I need this moment just as much as he does.

His right hand remains where it is, wrapped around my throat and for a few brief, beautiful moment, I forget everything, I forget that I have no control here, that I have no power.

I give into the pleasure; I give into that desperate need for human connectivity and I fuck him just as hard as he fucks me.

He groans, he grabs, he obviously revels in my body, which, despite my illness, still clearly remains womanly enough to satisfy him.

His thumb finds my clit and I moan, slowing my movements so that he can play with me better.

“My little wife wants to come, does she?” He murmurs, his words so close to a sneer.

“Yes,” I beg. “I need it. I need this.”

I’m suddenly ravenous. Starving. And no matter how good his cock feels, he’s never been able to make me come with penetration alone. I don’t hold it against him, I know it’s not uncommon for women to struggle to orgasm that way, but I see that old familiar glint in his eye all the same.

His lips curl, turning into a taunting smile. He shifts back, releasing his grip from my throat as he reaches over to flick the side lamp on.

Warm light bathes us both, highlighting his toned and muscular body. One I used to drool over, along with half of Manhattan.

“Go on then.” He says once he’s back, buried between my thighs but no longer thrusting. “Show me what a little whore you are.”

My cheeks flame but the insult doesn’t land, at least, not fully. I’m too far gone, too needy, too damn fucking turned on to give a shit what he has to say. Besides, isn’t this the point of us having sex? That we both have our release?

With my right hand I reach down, spreading my labia wider, giving him a full view of everything I have. Apparently, I’m fully shaved, though I don’t remember making that change.

Does Alex do that?

Do the maids groom me down there? Fuck, I hope not.

He drops his gaze, tilting his head, staring as if he’s comparing me to something.

“You should paint this.” He says. “Paint your cunt. I bet you’d actually sell some of your so-called art then.”

The sting of those words does make me flinch, but I don’t show any other reaction.

He thrusts again, before leaning over and spitting right on my clit.

“My cock isn’t enough, huh?” He says before pinching hard with his fingers.

“No one else has ever complained before but my wife, oh no, my wife needs more. My wife, the woman who is meant to love me more than anyone needs to feel pain, needs to be jacked off like a filthy slut whose cunt has been so overused she can’t tell if she’s even filled up or not. ”

It’s true.

His words are true.

Maybe I am a whore. Maybe the fact that the pain does something is a testament to how fucked up I really am in my head.

Or maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s the problem – I don’t dare voice that though. He’s the one with the power, and I’m just his pretty, docile wife who needs to tread carefully. Very fucking carefully.

The moan I let out seems to confirm every word he’s spoken. He lets out a laugh that sounds far more cruel in this bleak house.

And then slowly, almost lovingly he starts rubbing his fingertips, circling, teasing, getting me off just the way he knows I like.

“My filthy little slut.” He says, knowing those words are just as effective as his touch is in that moment.

“Yes.” I sink back into the pillows. My body spreads further as that pleasure starts to build and build. “Fuck yes, just like that, Alex, fuck, that’s it…”

Another laugh is the reply I get. And then another taunt.

It’s incredible that he can give me exactly what I need, what gets me off.

Because I like the degradation, I like being treated like a whore, and that’s half the problem.

Being in this house, being cooped up here, it makes me feel like I’m some precious jewel, too valuable to touch. Too fragile to move unless I break.

I can feel my orgasm coming. I can feel my heart racing faster and faster and I arch my back, so deliriously ready for this one moment of solace that I get.

But it’s gone. Stolen. Taken away from me before I can reach it.

Alex’s hands grab my waist and I’m slammed over, my face hitting the mattress with a hard thump before my hips are yanked up and he pushes himself into me.

Only, he’s not in my pussy anymore. More pain, a different pain, reverberates through my body at the violent intrusion. A cry escapes my lips before I can even think.

“You really think I’d reward you?” He says as he pulls out before slapping the side of my arse hard enough that I shriek with shock. “You really think I’d let you come after you disobeyed me?”

“I just…”

“Just what?” He growls before plunging into me with such force that I can’t even think straight.

My words don’t form. My entire being is focused on how he’s abusing me, how I’m not even a person right now, but a thing for him to use.

I’m not his fragile, broken spouse. I’m not his poor, delicate, sickly wife.

And finally, I feel alive. I feel seen.

Though he has all the control, I still believe that if I needed him to stop he would. That I’d just have to say the word, my word, the safe word, and he’d become the kind, considerate, loving Alex I fell for.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” He says before burying my head into the mattress, forcing my body into an angle that better suits his needs.

“You walked out that door, you deliberately disobeyed me. What were you hoping to achieve, huh? Did you want to scare me, did you want to simply get a little bit of attention? Or was your needy cunt so desperate to be filled that you had to ram it full of sticks to get yourself off?”

“It wasn’t like that…” I stammer. “Vincent, he…”

“I know,” He growls back. “I know he found you. That he walked right in on you, naked, sprawled out…”

Is that what he said? Is that the lie Vincent fed him? Why then did he leave me in the art studio?

He grabs my face, pushing it into the mattress, burying it like he wants me to suffocate.

I don’t fight. I don’t do anything but grip the sheets, grit my teeth and take all of it while he grunts and groans, fucking me as hard as he possibly can.

Alex has the endurance of an athlete. I swear he must be on something, because no normal man his age should be able to fuck the way he does for as long as he does. By the time he comes, I’m a complete mess.

He slides out, wiping his dick on my thigh, and then pushes me so that I fall onto my side in a trembling heap.

“Clean yourself up.” He says before taking the discarded sheets and laying on the only clean part of the bed.

I scramble to the bathroom to do as I’m told and by the time I’m back, he’s gone. Left. Like he can’t stand to be around me. Is this what our relationship is now, is this what it’s come down too?

Outside, the rain has turned into a raging storm. I can hear the rain lashing at the windows and the wind howls like a monster come to finally see me off. But as the lightning strikes, as it streaks across the horizon and the entire room is illuminated, I see him.

I see a shadow.

A man.

Someone stands in the darkness. Watching.

Were they there the whole time? Did they see what my husband did? Did they watch us having sex? My stomach twists, my body trembles and I’m reminded then that I’m as good as naked.

I rush back into the bathroom, grabbing the robe to cover myself, and when I return there is no one there, just an empty corner.

It could be a trick.

A figment of my imagination.

And yet, I know it wasn’t. I know someone was there. Just like I knew that nightmare I had before was real.

I creep over, crossing the expanse of the room and though the floor is polished, I can still make out marks, imprints of overpriced, over tailored men’s shoes.