Page 62 of Phantasm

We glare at each other, spitting venom in a silent battle of wills.

Sinclair tries to stand up but falls back down, still chuckling like this is the funniest thing he has witnessed all year. He points at Darian. “You’re so damn pussy whipped. What’s next? Are you going to beat your chest before tossing her over your shoulder and smacking her ass as you carry her to your bed like a caveman?”

Darian looks at me, so I steel my jaw, warning him, “Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Okay, lovebirds.” Sinclair slaps the armrests, then rises. “It’s been fun, but I think I’ll leave you to your little…” He waves a hand around the room. “Book club.” On his way out, he squeezes my shoulder, and I swear Darian growls.

The moment the door shuts, silence creeps in from every corner to suck the oxygen out of the air. Darian eases back into his chair, legs spread wide, as he scratches his beard with his gun. The short stubble rasps.

Resisting the urge to pull my skirt down, I shift on my feet, knowing the worst thing I can do now is to show weakness. The best approach is to hold my chin high and pretend I’m not quaking when he’s staring at me like this.

“Is there a reason you’re flaunting my pussy to every man with a swinging dick in the vicinity?”

“It’s not that short?—”

“Shut up.” His voice is eerily quiet and controlled — deep like the uncharted trenches of the ocean and hiding just as many dangers, too. “Don’t argue. Answer the question.”

“You can’t see my pussy.”

“No?” He waves the gun at me. “Turn around.”

I hesitate.

What is he doing? His unreadable mood makes me nervous.

“What are you waiting for, Mrs. Delacroix?” he asks, spinning the gun. “Turn around.”

With a gulp, I slowly do as I’m told.

He waits until I’m facing away from him. “Bend over.”

Bend over? He can’t be serious.

The chair rolls across the floor as he stands. “Touch your toes.”

“I don’t know how bendy you think I am?—”

His shoes clap on the floor. “Don’t fucking argue with me now. Do as you’re told.”

“You could ask nicely?—”

Before I can finish that sentence, he grabs my nape in a steel grip and shoves me down until my ass is in the air and my hair touches the floor.

I yelp with surprise, and if it weren’t for his hold on me, I’d topple over.

“Grab the back of your ankles.”

This time, I don’t argue. The sharp tone of his voice leaves no room for it.

Behind us, the door opens again, and one of the maids stares at the scene, wide-eyed. “You called, sir?”

“Come here,” he says, his fingers digging into my neck. “Can you see my wife’s cunt?”

“Darian,” I gasp, but he smacks my ass hard, making me squeal.

The maid shifts an uneasy glance my way before her silent steps move closer, and heat burns my cheeks when she clears her throat.

“Yes, sir.”