It was a command.
And I hated the way my body betrayed me, stiffening in reluctant obedience.
I turned away, heading for the wardrobe—but his voice stopped me cold.
“Don’t turn your back on your husband,” he murmured.
His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.
Then he caught up to me, his expression dark with a raw, desperate hunger—as if he wanted to devour me here and now, yet was holding himself in check, perhaps because of the agreement between us.
His gaze lingered on my chest, dangerous and possessive, while his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle along my hip—measured, unhurried, claiming.
Every touch sent a jolt through my bloodstream. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Each movement a reminder of something my body had never truly forgotten.
My breath caught despite myself.
“I told you,” I said, forcing the words past the traitorous hitch in my voice, “no sex in this marriage.”
The sentence sounded steadier than I felt.
My heart was hammering hard enough that I was sure he could feel it beneath his palm.
Heat still clung to my skin from the shower, my nerves raw, exposed, my body far too aware of how close he stood. Of him. Of the way his presence filled every inch of space like smoke you couldn’t outrun.
A habit my body remembered even when my mind screamed no.
His gaze dropped—slow, assessing—not leering, not indulgent. He noticed everything. The tension in my shoulders. The way my grip tightened on the towel. The involuntary rise and fall of my chest.
Of course he noticed.
“I remember,” he said quietly. His voice had roughened, scraped raw by restraint. “No sex without your consent. Ever.”
The words landed heavier than a promise.
His hand tightened on my jaw—not bruising, not painful—anchoring me as he stared into my eyes, desperate, as if trying to see straight into my soul.
His thumb brushed the edge of the towel where it rested against my thigh, testing nothing, asking everything.
“But you’re my wife,” he continued, low. “And wives don’t flinch like they’re about to bolt.”
“I’m not flinching,” I shot back, even as my pulse betrayed me.
One corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.
“You are,” he said. “And you’re shaking.”
I was trapped between his body and the wall now, the air compressed. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath skim my cheek. Close enough that memory stirred—unwanted, vivid, cruel.
This used to be reverence.
Now it was war.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
He leaned in just enough for his nose to brush my damp hair, inhaling slowly, deliberately, like he was committing the moment to memory.
