“You’re mine for the next year,” he says matter-of-factly. “My wife. My property. We might as well enjoy the physical aspects of the arrangement.”
I should be outraged. I should slap him again. I should give him a lecture on women’s rights and bodily autonomy and all the things I genuinely believe in.
Instead, I feel that treacherous heat building between my legs again.
“You can’t own a person,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“No?” His fingers trace idle patterns on my inner thigh, moving higher with each circle. “Then why does your body respond to me like it belongs to me? Why did you just come harder on my fingers than you ever have in your life?”
I want to deny it, but we both know it would be a lie.
“You have a high opinion of yourself,” I say instead.
His hand stills. “Am I wrong?”
I look away. “No,” I admit softly. “You’re not wrong.”
The confession costs me, but he doesn’t gloat. Just nods like he’s received confirmation of something he already knew.
“I’ve had sex before,” I tell him, not sure why I’m volunteering this information. “It wasn’t… like this.”
“Of course it wasn’t.” There’s no arrogance in his tone, just simple certainty. “They weren’t me.”
I laugh despite myself. “God, your ego is the size of Russia.”
He turns away without warning, his back to me now as he moves to stand by the window. The sudden cold where his body heat had been seconds ago feels deliberate, calculated. Like flipping a switch.
Suddenly, another question entirely comes to mind.
“Are you… safe?” I ask, the words awkward on my tongue. “I mean, you didn’t use anything, and I just realized I don’t know if you’re—”
Great timing, Bella. Maybe check for deadly STDs BEFORE the guy comes inside you? Just a thought.
“Clean?” he finishes, eyebrow arched. “Or fucking other women?”
I flush but hold his gaze. “Both, actually.”
“I’m clean,” he says flatly. “I get tested regularly. And no, I don’t fuck all of the other women.”
The emphasis on “all” isn’t lost on me.
“If you need proof,” he continues, reaching for his phone on the nightstand, “I can have my medical records sent to you in the morning.”
“No, that’s—” I stop, suddenly realizing I’m out of things to say. What do you say to a man who just gave you multiple orgasms and then offered to email you his STD test results?
“Actually, yes. I would like to see those records. And I’ll get you mine, too. Fair’s fair.”
He nods once, then stands, tapping something on his phone. He doesn’t return to bed.
“You can sleep as long as you need,” he says, not looking at me as he pulls on a pair of pants. “Start work in the afternoon.”
Just like that, he’s gone. No goodnight. No explanation. Just the soft click of the door and me, alone with the aftermath of whatever hurricane just tore through my body.
I pull his pillow to my chest, inhaling his scent like some lovesick teenager. Then I catch myself and throw it across the room.
What the hell am I doing? This man isn’t my husband—he’s my jailer with benefits. The fact that he’s spectacular in bed just makes the cage more comfortable.
10
