Benjamin led her away to a sitting area overlooking the harbor. Though Mrs. Smith had no interest in seducing this man, she did want to extract information from him. After disarming him with questions about his business, she turned the topic back to his son’s bar mitzvah.
“Are you looking forward to the party?”
“Am I looking forward to being crammed on a luxury power yacht with three hundred people?” He snorted. “No. But if it makes my son happy, that’s all that matters.”
Mrs. Smith pumped him for details for another ten minutes. When she was satisfied, she bid him a good night and left the party.
As soon as she reached the beach, she took off her heels and left them on the seawall. The sand was soft beneath her feet, but she longed for the cool caress of water. Wading in up to her ankles, she headed for her boathouse.
She scanned the quiet harbor. Her children were out there, swimming under docks and boat hulls. She would rejoin them soon enough.
“Hey!” a man shouted from behind her.“HEY!”
Mrs. Smith didn’t turn around. Recognizing Don Pulaski’s heavy breathing, she smiled to herself. She’d known he would follow.
Human men were all the same. When she wanted them, they were as pliable as warm wax. But when she was done with them, they turned combative. Their lust morphed into a different breed of desire. A simmering, heated rage.
This is why she wasn’t surprised when Don’s hand closed around her arm and he yanked her out of the water. He smelled of booze, sweat, and cigars. His tie hung loose. There was a red stain on his white shirt. Fury danced in his eyes.
Grabbing her other arm, he shook her like she was a rabbit in a hound’s mouth. “Did you fuck the valet?”
She gazed at him flatly. “Yes.”
“Whore,” he spat.
She found his anger amusing. “I don’t belong to you. I belong only to myself.”
“But whyhim?” His fingers burrowed into her arms. “He’s a total loser.”
“You’re all the same to me.”
His face clouded with anger. He cupped her jaw and squeezed. “Fucking whore.”
Her hand whipped through the air, striking Don’s cheek with such force that his head rocked back.
The slap echoed over the surface of the water. In the distance, there was a splash. Then another. And another. Her children were close. They’d sensed her hunger. The possibility of violence.
Mrs. Smith needed to couple with another man tonight. A virile man. If she wanted a better performance than Don Pulaski had delivered thus far, she needed to bring out his baser self.
Don grunted, sounding more pig than man, and slapped her back.
The blow sent her careening to the ground. She fell on a patch of broken shells, which sliced through her silk dress and the skin on her lower back with the precision of a scalpel.
Her mouth curved into a smug grin. And then, Don was on her.
He tore the bottom of her dress and shoved his body between her thighs. His hand searched for a pair of nonexistent panties.
When he hesitated, Mrs. Smith worried that he might walk away, so she punched him in the chest. He caught her hand and pinned it over her head. Eyes blazing, he pushed her dress high up on her belly and penetrated her.
She laughed softly, stoking his ire, and he responded by wrapping his hands around her throat.
By the time he came, Mrs. Smith’s crimson face was flecked with spittle. Her back was bleeding. Her arms and neck were a garden of blooming bruises.
She leveled a dangerous look at Don.
“You have served your purpose,” she said, lying in the sand with her pelvis tilted toward the night sky. “Do not come near me again. Disobey me, and I will cause you more pain than you’ve ever known.”
Don looked into her black eyes and blanched. Suddenly disorientated, he fumbled with his pants and lurched across the sand.
