Total pages in book: 230
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Not on the first day.
She needs this time to let her new reality settle in. Of course, she won’t leave. Not with the infusion of cash her father is probably already squandering.
Isabella needs time to adjust. She felt pleasure from Lila’s attentions last night. The sounds she made testified to it. A little humiliation will go far with her.
Patience is the highest of all virtues in this particular moment. I exercise it for most of the afternoon before I dismiss my staff and go looking for my wife.
It was three years ago when I saw her at the club. Isabella was with her friends, the five of them drawn in a tight circle to dance for a bachelorette party. They took turns fending off guys and replaying their excitement again and again. Isabella played her part to perfection, the way she did for our wedding and for the wedding night.
Her body was utterly tantalizing. Every movement drew me in. The sway of her hips. The fall of her hair. I wanted to know how she looked on her knees. Wanted to see her that way in the middle of a crowd.
My imagination was interrupted at the moment she made a graceful exit.
She gathered up her purse from their booth and moved away from her friends with promises to return quickly and a relieved set to her shoulders.
I waited fifteen minutes before I followed her. An absurdly long time, looking back. Patience was a virtue then, too. Because Isabella was too absorbed in the music to notice me when I finally found her hiding place.
An unused private room. Hard bass vibrated through the room from the main club, but Isabella seemed oblivious. She sat at a piano we kept around from when the club had live music. The song she played was slow and haunting. Lonely. A poignant counterpoint to the frantic copulation of pop music out there. My cock was already hard from the sight of her dancing. The music did something else entirely. A knowing snapped into place. I would have her as my bride. I would do whatever maneuvering it took to make that happen. She would be mine.
Now she is.
I let Wolf out to roam the grounds outside and start my search in the quiet places in the chateau. Isabella is not in her room, or the sitting room, or the library. She is not in her walk-in closet or even mine. I need music. That’s where she’ll go.
I’m right.
I find her in the ballroom, where a grand piano sits draped in heavy linen when it’s not in use. The fabric has been pulled away and neatly folded. It sits beside her on the bench as she plays. It’s a different song than the one from the club but just as haunting. She scrambles to her feet when I come in, eyes fiery. “Go away.”
“We should talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
I step farther into the ballroom, crossing the parquet flooring that has been worn by a thousand feet and then shined to faultlessness, worn and shined. “We’re going to talk anyway, my dear wife. You’ll use your words instead of sharing your feelings with the piano.”
“Or else what?” Her blue eyes flash like a stormy sky. A dimple appears in the center of her chin to highlight her determination. “You’ll use corporal punishment? You’ll spank me?”
My hand itches to do it. Aches to do it. Isabella is the picture of heated frustration. She’s pink-cheeked and angry and pushing. These moments are opportunities to demonstrate her role. To demonstrate mine. My wife will not be a whirlwind who flies through the house every time she disagrees with me. She won’t refuse to talk to me when she does. I won’t have it.
This, despite how hard I am. I never wanted the kind of relationship my parents had. There was too much acid. Too much acrimony. Emotions ran far too high to be controlled or managed. In my own life I insist on control. And I will have it here, too.
“Calm down.” I keep my tone level. Isabella won’t force me to match her in this. I feel a pull at the center of me that keeps my back straight and my eyes on hers, unwavering.
“So you’ll actually spank me.” She folds her arms over her chest, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “You’ll punish me. Your hand. My ass.”
“It’s tiresome to repeat myself this often, so I’ll say it a final time. If you refuse to discuss this rationally with me, then I’ll use other methods to convince you.”
A punishment won’t change her mind… at first. It’s a heightening of the emotions already in play. For the person who is submitting to the punishment, this presents itself as pain that builds to release, followed by clarity. Isabella needs this as much as anyone I’ve ever seen.