Page 46 of Shame

She doesn’t say no, so I haul myself up and follow anyway, bringing the empty champagne bottle and flutes with me.

She takes two glasses out of the cupboard, then points wordlessly at the liquor cabinet.

I hand her the scotch. She holds the bottle in her hand for a minute, then sets it down, turns again—always twisting away from me, like she can’t look at me—and presses up onto her tiptoes to grab the vodka instead.

I follow the curve of her bare arm to the black silk of her shirt, stretching against her slight breasts, and suddenly I’m hard.

I want to fuck my wife against the kitchen counter.

I want to drag her to the floor and make her scream.

“What are you thinking?” she asks as she turns away from me again.

How does she know I’m thinking anything when she won’t even look at me? “I was thinking you look really hot right now.”

“Stop being surprised I’m attractive, Luke.”

“I’m never—” But maybe I am. “If I have been remiss in telling you how gorgeous you are, I will rectify that.”

She snorts. “I know I’m pretty. That’s not what I’m talking about.” She lifts her glass to her lips and tips it back, swallowing the neat vodka in three slow pulses of her throat.

“No,” I say hoarsely. “I know.”

She turns and looks at me for the first time since she headed for the kitchen. “Do you?”

“You’re a fucking sex kitten, and I lost sight of that for a while.”

She wipes an errant drop of vodka from the corner of her mouth. “Exactly.”

“I want you so much it hurts.” My confession rips from my chest, and I gesture to the erection throbbing against the front of my dress pants. “Feel for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Her eyes glint dangerously. “Do you think sex will fix what’s broken between us?”

No. “Tell me about the quiz you want me to take.”

“Maybe another time.” She reaches for the bottle again. “One more drink before bed.”

“What do you want tonight?”

Her gaze falls from my face, dragging down my body. “I don’t know.”

My cock presses obscenely against my fly, aching for more than just her doubting eyes. “Anything, baby.”

She jerks her head up. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay.”

“You called her Kitten. Capital K.”

“I told you—”

“You told me lies. You told me bullshit lies that maybe you also told yourself, because maybe you didn’t want to be her Master for real, capital M, but you were, at least to her. In those moments, you were.” Her voice is hard now, sharp and pointed. “And I don’t want to be a lower-case anything to you, do you get that? I want a fucking capital letter. That’s what I want.”

She slams back another shot of vodka, then swings past me.

My glass is still sitting on the counter, untouched.

“You know what I did this morning,Luke?” She exhales sadly. “I went to the sexual health clinic to make sure that I don’t have any infections because you brought someone else into our marriage bed without telling me. You don’t have any right to stand in my kitchen and try to make this about sex.”

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