“Vaughn?” I call again, because it’s freaking me out. What if someone broke in? What if he’s hurt inside?
I walk quickly towards the door that leads inside and turn the handle. It opens without sound. “Vaughn,” I say again. But this time I whisper. I step inside and close the door behind me, and then tiptoe as quietly as I can towards the living room.
The moon is shining through the back window, illuminating the fact that the place is a complete mess. We don’t have a maid and I’ve been sorta useless as a wife since I moved in. And it shows. Even in the dark I can make out shadows of dirty dishes and papers.
“Vaughn,” I whisper again.
He must be asleep.
I walk to the kitchen so I can turn some lights on and that’s when I see him. A dark figure sitting in a chair, backlit by the moonlight. “Vaughn?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
He leans forward and the shadow that was covering his face disappears. He’s still wearing his suit, but the top buttons of his white shirt are undone, leaving his chest exposed. A dark tie is draped around his neck like he was thinking of taking it off and then changed his mind.
“Did you have a nice day?” he asks in a low voice.
I just stare at him. His blue eyes are piercing me, even through the shadows of night. “No, not exactly. I mean, parts of it were.”
“Which parts? The part where you took off in the plane? The part where you ditched the car that was set up for you? The part where you didn’t think to call me?”
I swallow hard. Because he’s pissed off.
“Come here,” he commands in a low, do-not-fuck-with-me voice.
I swallow again and my heart is beating so fast it might explode.
“I said, come the fuck over here.” He stands up and I step back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you mad?”
“Am I mad?” he asks me back, taking a few steps closer to me. “Am I mad?” He continues walking until he’s one step away and I have to tip my head up to look him in the face.
I never realized how big he actually is. He towers over me.
“Do I have a reason to be mad, Grace?”
“I should’ve called,” I say meekly.
“Called? You think I’m angry because you didn’t call?”
“So you are angry?”
He smiles at me, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s an I-can’t-fucking-believe-you’re-so-clueless smile. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Grace?”
“What?”
“Wrong with you,” he repeats.
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
HIs smile is tight as he stares at me. Not really a smile, but a grimace. “Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you.”
“Good. You keep that in mind.” And then, before I can even understand what’s happening, he whips his tie off and grabs my wrist. I start to pull away, but he yanks me back. “Hold still.”
“What are you doing?”
“You owe me.”
“I owe you what?” I snap at him. But he doesn’t answer. He just ties the length of silk around my wrist and reaches for the other one. “What are you doing?”
He glares down at me as he pulls the knot tight. Tight enough to make me wince. “I’m tying you up.”
“You want to get off on your sexual fantasies? Now?”
“Turn around.” He doesn’t wait for me to even do that. He just twirls me until I’m no longer facing him. “Walk over to the couch.”
He gives my back a push to get me started and I do as I’m told. I start to sit down, but Vaughn grabs my hair and pulls me hard enough to stop that from happening.
“Ow. Goddammit! What are you doing?”
He yanks my hair harder and leads me around to the back of the couch. “Bend over.” He pushes me again and I fall forward. My hands try to brace myself, but he swipes them forward so they drape over the cushion and then bumps his cock against my ass. My face rests on something very plush and soft and I realize it’s a sheepskin rug.
“What are—”
“Shut up.”
What? “Who the fuck—” A hard smack lands on my ass and I jump. It stings all the way through my jeans. “Vaughn!” Another, this one even harder. I yelp and try to wiggle away from his grip. “Stop!”
“Stop? You want me to stop, Grace? We don’t have a safe word, so if you tell me to stop, I’m fucking stopping. But let me tell you this, sweets. You fucking owe me.”
“What is wrong with you?” I whimper.
“Wrong with me? Am I the one sleeping all damn day? Am I the one walking around here feeling sorry for myself? Am I the one flying a thousand miles away without telling you where I’m fucking at?”
“I’m sorry for not calling.”
“This isn’t about calling me. I’m not your babysitter. I’m your goddamned husband. I’m not interested in tracking your every move, Grace. I have security for that. And you know I have security for that. This is about your lack of commitment. Your lack of enthusiasm. Your lack of respect. And most of all, your lack of… being Grace.”
I huff out a breath. “I’m sorry, OK? And that last part doesn’t even make sense.”
“No?” He huffs out his own breath. “Well, let me make it clear.” Something rattles behind me and then he lets go of my hair. I turn my head a little to try to get a better look at what he’s doing when he kneels down. But it’s no use. “This,” he says as he clamps something around my ankle, “is a spreader bar. To hold your legs”—he slaps the inside of my thigh to make me open wider—“open.”
“So we’re back to your sexual domination?”
He hesitates, like he’s thinking hard about that. A few seconds go by in silence as he attaches the other cuff to my ankle. “The girl I met in the bar a few months ago. You’re not her.”
My heart, which was actually calming down, starts to pick up the pace again. Because I think Vaughn Asher might be done with me. I think Vaughn Asher might want one last kink before he throws me aside.
“That Grace out on the beach was wild and confident. She talked back and had opinions. My Grace was funny and dirty.” He finishes up with the spreader bar and then stands, leaning over the couch alongside of me, and whispers in my ear. “You are not my Grace.”
I walk quickly towards the door that leads inside and turn the handle. It opens without sound. “Vaughn,” I say again. But this time I whisper. I step inside and close the door behind me, and then tiptoe as quietly as I can towards the living room.
The moon is shining through the back window, illuminating the fact that the place is a complete mess. We don’t have a maid and I’ve been sorta useless as a wife since I moved in. And it shows. Even in the dark I can make out shadows of dirty dishes and papers.
“Vaughn,” I whisper again.
He must be asleep.
I walk to the kitchen so I can turn some lights on and that’s when I see him. A dark figure sitting in a chair, backlit by the moonlight. “Vaughn?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
He leans forward and the shadow that was covering his face disappears. He’s still wearing his suit, but the top buttons of his white shirt are undone, leaving his chest exposed. A dark tie is draped around his neck like he was thinking of taking it off and then changed his mind.
“Did you have a nice day?” he asks in a low voice.
I just stare at him. His blue eyes are piercing me, even through the shadows of night. “No, not exactly. I mean, parts of it were.”
“Which parts? The part where you took off in the plane? The part where you ditched the car that was set up for you? The part where you didn’t think to call me?”
I swallow hard. Because he’s pissed off.
“Come here,” he commands in a low, do-not-fuck-with-me voice.
I swallow again and my heart is beating so fast it might explode.
“I said, come the fuck over here.” He stands up and I step back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you mad?”
“Am I mad?” he asks me back, taking a few steps closer to me. “Am I mad?” He continues walking until he’s one step away and I have to tip my head up to look him in the face.
I never realized how big he actually is. He towers over me.
“Do I have a reason to be mad, Grace?”
“I should’ve called,” I say meekly.
“Called? You think I’m angry because you didn’t call?”
“So you are angry?”
He smiles at me, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s an I-can’t-fucking-believe-you’re-so-clueless smile. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Grace?”
“What?”
“Wrong with you,” he repeats.
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
HIs smile is tight as he stares at me. Not really a smile, but a grimace. “Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you.”
“Good. You keep that in mind.” And then, before I can even understand what’s happening, he whips his tie off and grabs my wrist. I start to pull away, but he yanks me back. “Hold still.”
“What are you doing?”
“You owe me.”
“I owe you what?” I snap at him. But he doesn’t answer. He just ties the length of silk around my wrist and reaches for the other one. “What are you doing?”
He glares down at me as he pulls the knot tight. Tight enough to make me wince. “I’m tying you up.”
“You want to get off on your sexual fantasies? Now?”
“Turn around.” He doesn’t wait for me to even do that. He just twirls me until I’m no longer facing him. “Walk over to the couch.”
He gives my back a push to get me started and I do as I’m told. I start to sit down, but Vaughn grabs my hair and pulls me hard enough to stop that from happening.
“Ow. Goddammit! What are you doing?”
He yanks my hair harder and leads me around to the back of the couch. “Bend over.” He pushes me again and I fall forward. My hands try to brace myself, but he swipes them forward so they drape over the cushion and then bumps his cock against my ass. My face rests on something very plush and soft and I realize it’s a sheepskin rug.
“What are—”
“Shut up.”
What? “Who the fuck—” A hard smack lands on my ass and I jump. It stings all the way through my jeans. “Vaughn!” Another, this one even harder. I yelp and try to wiggle away from his grip. “Stop!”
“Stop? You want me to stop, Grace? We don’t have a safe word, so if you tell me to stop, I’m fucking stopping. But let me tell you this, sweets. You fucking owe me.”
“What is wrong with you?” I whimper.
“Wrong with me? Am I the one sleeping all damn day? Am I the one walking around here feeling sorry for myself? Am I the one flying a thousand miles away without telling you where I’m fucking at?”
“I’m sorry for not calling.”
“This isn’t about calling me. I’m not your babysitter. I’m your goddamned husband. I’m not interested in tracking your every move, Grace. I have security for that. And you know I have security for that. This is about your lack of commitment. Your lack of enthusiasm. Your lack of respect. And most of all, your lack of… being Grace.”
I huff out a breath. “I’m sorry, OK? And that last part doesn’t even make sense.”
“No?” He huffs out his own breath. “Well, let me make it clear.” Something rattles behind me and then he lets go of my hair. I turn my head a little to try to get a better look at what he’s doing when he kneels down. But it’s no use. “This,” he says as he clamps something around my ankle, “is a spreader bar. To hold your legs”—he slaps the inside of my thigh to make me open wider—“open.”
“So we’re back to your sexual domination?”
He hesitates, like he’s thinking hard about that. A few seconds go by in silence as he attaches the other cuff to my ankle. “The girl I met in the bar a few months ago. You’re not her.”
My heart, which was actually calming down, starts to pick up the pace again. Because I think Vaughn Asher might be done with me. I think Vaughn Asher might want one last kink before he throws me aside.
“That Grace out on the beach was wild and confident. She talked back and had opinions. My Grace was funny and dirty.” He finishes up with the spreader bar and then stands, leaning over the couch alongside of me, and whispers in my ear. “You are not my Grace.”
