Anger seeps through me. Why is he so difficult? Am I that irritating, my mere presence that unbearable to his peace of mind? My clothes, the proper blend of luxury and sex, are suddenly thick and constricting, the tight wool-blend top ridiculous in the summer humidity. I feel a sudden surge of recklessness, pushed by the wave of hot claustrophobia that seizes my entire body. I yank at the sleeveless turtleneck, pulling it over my head, feeling a moment of euphoria when the hot fabric hits the white pavers. My skirt follows, one quick zip down. I stare at my nude thigh-high lace stockings, clipping to the bottom of La Perla garters. There’s no need for stockings in June, they had been slid on in the pathetic hope that he might, on this day, grant me a session with his cock. I slip out of my heels, and roll the expensive sheer fabric down my legs, flipping my head up to find him and Drew staring at me through the glass, an expression of horror on Drew’s face. Nathan simply watches, a cold look of disinterest in his eyes. Oh, look. There is my wife. Throwing a temper tantrum in front of the staff.
I stare into his eyes, my body covered by only a sheer shelf bra and a barely existent thong. I can only hope my eyes communicate the fury radiating through my body, my hurt at his neglect, at his snub of me and the corner of his world that I inhabit. Then, I dive.
The water shocks me. I am forbidden from the pool, my hair stylist repeatedly preaching the harm that chlorine will cause to my now-expensive tresses. Nathan agreed, adding a new rule to my long list. No swimming. So I am unprepared for its cool embrace, the smooth grip of moisture that instantly refreshes my sticky skin, sliding bubbles across my surface. I come up for air, the sun’s heat suddenly friendly and warm on my face, tickling me as it slides droplets of water off my face. Then I duck back into the underwater world and don’t come up for quite some time.
I swim laps until my muscles cramp, ache, and then cramp again. I am filled with glee at my insubordination, my first act of rebellion incredible in its release. The water cools my aggression, my hatred, my anger toward the black beauty that is Nathan. At the end of each lap, on my backward spin, I peer through the clear water, my eyes searching for a body at the edge of the pool, someone who will admonish me, order me to get out of the pool, perhaps even Nathan. But lap after lap, no one is there, and so I continue. I swim until I am gasping for breath, my heart thudding against my chest, my legs and arms deliciously exhausted.
I drag myself from the water, lying back on the warm pavers of the pool deck, my eyes closing, a smile crossing my features. Nathan would find some way to punish me, perhaps more coldness, more nights where I fall asleep waiting for his call. But this act, this childish strip down and swim, was worth it. I needed the moment of backbone—at a time when I feel I’m losing all the pieces of myself.
There, in the warm sun, my skin and lingerie drying out above tired muscles, my exhausted body relaxes, and under the dark stare of Nathan, I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 22
I am in my bathroom, towel-drying my hair, when Drew speaks.
“Mr. Dumont is requesting you.”
The sudden words startle me, and I turn and glare at him. “Can’t you knock?”
He says nothing, his hands in his pockets, and I lean forward, returning to my task. Strange, for Nathan to still be home in the middle of the day, and sending Drew for me. He has never requested me for anything but sex. After four days of ignoring me, I break a rule, and a half hour later, he asks for me.
“Mr. Dumont—”
“I know. Is requesting me.” I stand, shaking out my hair and tossing the towel toward the basket. “Should I get dressed?”
His eyes travel over my silk robe, cinched at the waist over nothing but me, the fabric sticking to my skin, still wet from my after-swim shower. “No. I’m sure that will be fine.”
I nod, passing by him and toward the door, butterflies starting a nervous dance in my belly.
In the background, the roar of a weed eater begins.
“You needed me?” I stop in the doorway, watching him turn from the bar, his expression dark.
He nods to the pool. “What the fuck was that? Are you five years old? Are tantrums going to be your standard communication tool?”
I flush. He’s right. I should have stepped back inside. Confronted him with my feelings. Or swallowed it all and retained my dignity. I slide the door shut behind me, and without the sounds of the landscapers, the room is too quiet. “You’re right. I’m upset at you. And I should have just spoken to you about it.”
He steps closer, his jaw flexing, and when he stops before me, I’m reminded of how much of a man he is. His scent. His build, the suit tight to his muscles. His height, towering above my flats. “You’re upset at me?” He laughs, cruel and incredulously, and anger flares in me.
“Yes,” I grit out. “You’ve given me the cold shoulder since we returned from Napa. You ignore me and look at me with …” I search for an appropriate word. “Disdain.” I finish. “As if I’m—”
I lose track of my thoughts when he grabs me, his hands tight on my forearms, my robe’s thin silk doing nothing to prevent what will be bruises. I look at him in panic.
The controlled version of him is gone, his face a mask of barely restrained emotion; his breath is coming in short bursts, his expression dark. He drags me forward, pushes me onto the leather chaise lounge, until I am on my back and he is towering over me, his hands in fists.
“Nathan, please,” I gasp, moving away from him, my robe open around my legs.
“You think this is a game?” he hisses. “Our marriage, our agreement?”
I open my mouth, searching for something to say, not understanding his anger. Is this our marriage? I ask a question, I voice my feelings, and unleash this?
He leans closer, until his mouth is inches from mine, his breath hot on my skin. “Answer me.”
I wet my lips. “No,” I whisper.
“No, what?” he snarls, yanking the sash on my robe, the silk moving easily under his strength.
“No, it’s not a game.” I keep my face timid, my voice soft, but inside my teeth bare and my claws flex. No, it’s not a game; this is my life, my worth, my sanity. For a man who doesn’t like games, he should throw out the rules and stop keeping score. His eyes are hard on mine and I’ve never seen him this angry—didn’t know he was capable of this level of emotion at all. I should be scared, but a thrill of excitement courses through me at the presence of life in him.