His snoring reaches its usual loud level of deep sleep, so I release myself from his hold, cover him with the silk cover blanket, and get out of bed. Grabbing the silk slip and gown from the makeup chair on my way out, I almost trip and fall when my feet catch on his pants. I collect my torn underwear and tank top along with the pieces of his clothing he tossed on the floor, trailing from our bedroom all the way to the front door. His carry-on luggage lies haphazardly next to the front door. I look for travel tags, but when he flies by private jet, there aren't any.
I know it's a little past four in the morning, but I call Jason anyway.
"Yes, Ace," Jason answers. He doesn't sound sleepy.
"Jason, why didn't you tell me you two were coming home tonight?" I reprimand him.
"We're still in New—" Jason trails off, and the sound of glasses shattering on the floor and his cursing in the background comes through the line.
"You... you didn't know?" I ask.
"No, he's supposed to be here for the closing in an hour—shit! Shit!" Jason hangs up the phone.
I close my mouth after some time, realizing that Jason is panicking because Mr. Silence is missing an important meeting. My body rotates robotically toward the closed bedroom door as I hug the collected clothes against me. Do I wake him? Should I ask Jason? Is this why he was angry? Did he fly back before his business was finished because he missed me? I bite my lower lip as I stare at the luggage. Do I unpack or repack? What should I cook for him?
I go through his luggage and smell his clothes for signs of wear. Dropping them into the dry clean and wash pick-up basket, I start prepping the ingredients to make him a salad and light soup. My mind still repeats his words and hypothesizes why he was resentful, but my emotions try to hijack me as happiness invades my body at the fact that he's back. It's been nine days.
After prepping all the ingredients for his salad, I lay a cold compress over my arms for ten minutes. There's no sign of bruising yet, but I apply the arnica cream anyway. I wonder how long he'll stay. That was hot and unsettling—I haven't seen him this angry since we moved in together six weeks ago. Turning my head to the side, I examine the hickey in the restroom mirror. It's larger but lighter in color than usual when he's angry. Its placement—centered and on the side of my neck—is different from the usual marks near the back of my neck where his anger typically leaves its trace.
What did he mean by those women let him do whatever he wants? Don't I let him do whatever, whenever he wants? I've never refused him yet. Not that I wanted to. Does he have some sort of sexual fantasies or fetishes I don't know about? He has a dominant personality—am I not submissive enough?
I go back to the kitchen to juice some oranges for him. All I can think and feel is him. Remembering the cocktail of emotions I felt last night makes my heart flutter while my mind clouds. I tense up, my thighs pressing tightly together to contain the raw hunger curling low in my belly. I touch the bruised mark on my neck as the memories of his mouth and teeth all over my body flood through me of the various times we've made love. My breath hitches as his release trickles down my thigh, pushed out by my throbbing desire.
What does he mean by–
I bite my lower lip as his arm secures my waist. His large left hand slides up my back and around me, spreading its warmth against the silk slip from behind, stopping when it covers my right breast. My mind screams with joy as the protective heat of his solid, naked body presses against my back. With my hands sticky from orange bits and juice, I let go of the juicer and the half-juiced orange. I lift my head to meet his sultry gaze, and as usual, I get lost in his eyes. He snatches off the slip straps and it frees my body. I'm weightless as he lifts me off the ground and carries me back to the bedroom.
As soon as my back touches the bed, his lips capture my nipple. "Jason–" I try to concentrate, but his breath, hot on my skin, sends every nerve humming.
His hand slides up my thigh. "I told you—" he snarls.
"But he said—"
"I don't care!" he thunders into my ear.
I spread my legs for his hand, and he growls, "Right now, I need to have you... until I'm satisfied."
When his fingers drip with his essence and the evidence of my arousal, a dangerous smirk forms on his lips. He's not done with his resentment—I can see the calculated ways he's thinking of punishing me. I bite my lip in heated anticipation.
Will he ever be satisfied with me? Will I ever have enough of him? Why is it that the more time we spend together, the more questions I have rather than answers?
###
"Daddy… Daddy!" The small voice echoes, followed by soft, bubbling laughter. A tiny hand reaches up. Then he sees her.