His chuckle is made mostly of breath. He remains on his back for a few moments, his lids drifting back down and his voice thick with sleep. “Let it wait till morning.”
“No.”
His eyes open, staring upward. Glancing up at the spider web of stress cracks on the ceiling, I frown. He hasn’t said so, but I know he doesn’t approve of the house I’m renting. I actually kind of want to buy and restore it. Will he disagree? Or even try to stop me from doing it? He likes to control things. If I’m with him, what about all my plans for the future?
Rising, he grabs his pants and pulls them on. As I move to the door, he blocks it.
“Sit down and wait while I dress.”
Exasperated and still frustrated from my mom’s call, I snap, “Go back to bed. You’re not coming with me.”
He moves instantly. Taking my upper arms in his hands, he forces me over the end of my bed. Then he smacks my ass several times in quick succession. The jeans and underwear protect me some, but he’s strong and I still feel the swats. When I try to get away, he pins my arm against my back, so I can’t. It’s not the pain of being spanked that upsets me, but the humiliation of being spanked over the end of my own bed. He’s proving how weak I am compared to him and that he can take control away from me any time he wants.
Finally, he pulls me up and drags me onto the bed with him. Struggling to escape is a losing battle, and I find myself once again pinned down by his hands and his body. Tangling his fingers in my hair to hold my head still, he puts his mouth next to my ear.
“I don’t want punishing you to become a regular thing, unless that’s what you’re looking for. But from now on, if I have to spank you, you’ll be naked for it.”
My breath catches, and my body stills. That threat is both terrifying and inherently sexual, which opens up a range of conflicting emotions inside me.
“Do you think you’re tougher than my crue?”
“No,” I whisper, confused.
“When I tell them I’m riding along somewhere, they wait for me to get dressed so I can come. And they’re a lot more polite about it than you are.”
“I—”
“Don’t talk. Listen.”
Falling silent, I stare at the ceiling, my uneasiness from the night of the poker game returning full force. I knew Scott Patrick in high school, but I don’t know the man he’s become. The one who expects his word to be law.
Raising his head, he looks down into my eyes. “You promised you’d take a pregnancy test and tell me the results. You didn’t. I let that slide tonight because I know you’re scared and overwhelmed. That still doesn’t make it right though. So don’t expect me to let the next time you lie or break a promise to go unpunished. And don’t speak to me again the way you just did. Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
My heart thumps uncomfortably in my chest, and I look away. “I wasn’t trying to disrespect you. There’s a family thing going on and I’m frustrated. I don’t want you involved. Besides, you’re tired. You should go to sleep.”
“I’m not your little boy. When the baby’s born, you can put it to bed any time you want. But don’t try to manage me like you’re in charge. You’re not. We clear?”
I nod, the ring suddenly heavier on my finger than it was when I first slipped it on. I can’t be with him. What was I thinking?
Getting up, he shrugs on his dress shirt and buttons all but the top button. Picking up his keys, he asks, “Where are we going?”
“Scott—”
“Scott, huh? I brought you food and flowers and a ring, and you didn’t call me Scott once. Now I’m all Trick, and you go back to the name you whispered in my ear when I was eighteen? You can’t play me, Laurel. Don’t try.”
I don’t understand why he suspects me of playing games. I never have. And I honestly didn’t realize what I was doing until he pointed it out. Calling him Scott when he’s intimidating is clearly a subconscious reaction. Biting the inside of my cheek and telling myself to stay quiet, I put on my shoes. He grabs one of my jackets from the closet and waits. When I reach the door, he opens the coat and helps me into it.
“I can put on my own coat, but you don’t see me accusing you of trying to manage me.”
He whistles a death march, and I can’t help but smile a little. Reaching out, I take his hand in both of mine and squeeze it.
“I don’t know how to be the kind of woman you’re used to.”
“True statement.” His tone is neutral, but his response still cuts me.
What is it about him that gets inside my heart and won’t let go? It makes this kind of fight with him excruciating. My eyes sting, and I blink them several times trying to keep tears from forming.
Pressing my lips together, I start to take the ring off. He closes his fist over my left hand, stopping me. He shakes his head and exhales audibly.
