Page 41 of Silent Ties

My hands tug at his when he begins to squeeze tighter. “I need more, Max. I need. . .”

He whispers into my ear, the sensation skittering over my skin. “Me. You need me.”

Fingertips press down firmly and I swear spots buzz in the corner of my eyes.

His hand dips under the waistband of my pajamas. I hiss when he tugs my underwear, the fabric biting into my sensitive skin.

“Always so soaking.” He pulls the underwear back and forth, the material rubbing my clit. “If you wanted some help you didn’t have to be a brat. Just ask next time.”

My face is so hot that it takes me a moment to realize tears run down my face.

He relaxes the pressure on my neck and I rock back on my heels, searching for stability. I don’t find any when I meet his coal-dark eyes that I swear are rimmed with fire.

He almost looks disappointed when he says, “You need my protection, so stop asking me for a divorce.”

I don’t nod or shake my head. I simply stand there with one of his hands around my throat, and the other down my pants.

“I want my own room,” I demand. If he won’t divorce me then he should give me some space.

“Not happening.”

“I want to go out more.”

“By all means sweetheart, leave the house.” He leans incloser, two fingers plunging into my core. “But be prepared for my cock when you get back.”

My inhale is shaky as he thrusts in and out.

“It always is though, isn’t it?” His breath is hot and he bites my earlobe. “You’re asking for stupid stuff when you know the truth. You like it hard and rough and your favorite thing is to be a brat because you know I’ll have to punish you. And you like your punishments.”

I shake my head.

“Good girls don’t lie, Russ.” Another finger presses inside me. “What was that?”

“No. . .”

“You’re riding my handing.” There’s a proud smirk on his face. His entire face lights up and that’s what I want. I don’t want the blank mask. “We’re going to get a whole fist in there one day, aren’t we.”

“No!” I begin to squirm.

“Russ,” he warns, tightening his hand on my throat. Even without his stern touch, my feet root to the ground at the dark voice.

“Stop it,” I cry.

“Stop soaking my hand,” he replies, mistakenly thinking that’s what I meant.

He never says my name during sex and my stomach tightens because it sounds like he’s scolding me. Sex is the only time he uses affectionate pet names, calling me wife or sweetheart while he pounds into me.

His thumb circles my clit, the tension building but there’s no release. My waistband snaps, his hand retracting from my pants. He unties the string, loosening them so they fall around my ankles.

“Get on the floor.”

A balled-up sleeve wipes at my nose. “I don’t want to get on thefloor.”

“Get on the floor.” His voice is harder than I’ve ever heard but I rock back on my feet, not wanting to give in.

He shoves down on my shoulder, my knees landing on the kitchen floor. He nudges me down, my hands smacking the tile.

He presses into my back, his hands gently tucking my hair behind an ear, the movement not matching the words that leave his mouth. “If you act like a bitch, I fuck you like a bitch.”

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