Page 18 of The Bonds We Break
But to be married to King ...
The thought brings me back to this bed.
He’s spooned around me. One hand cups my breast, the other sits over my yoga pants but on my clit.
One of his legs is between mine.
And I screw up my face.
This shouldn’t feel good.
I think back to the previous night. That shouldn’t have felt good either. My problem with sex has always been the disconnect between being turned on mentally and being turned on physically. The latter lags the former by a mile.
Sometimes it never arrives.
And often, the smallest thing can halt both my physical and mental arousal.
I liked being told to suck his cock.
But going from observing that this whole cabin is made of wood to giving King a blow job took a brief four minutes. My body didn’t have time to catch up to my head.
The fact it helped me have the last word over King was probably the first time there’s been a silver lining to my struggles to get turned on. I need the anticipation.
And this, lying here with his breath against my shoulder and his hands on my body, would be the perfect way to start. With the idea that when he wakes, we might have the kind of sex that builds slowly so I have time to get fully aroused.
“Switch that fucking brain off,” King mutters, then pulls his hands from around me and climbs out of bed.
The low thrum through my body stops almost immediately as he does. And by the time he returns from the bathroom, I’m calm again. I roll onto my back and look at him as he pulls his jeans up over his ass.
“I have cameras around the exterior of the building. I’ll see if you leave. If you do, I won’t ask questions. I’ll order the immediate execution of your brother. It’s also connected to an emergency battery backup, so don’t think about killing the power or getting any wise ideas of trying to escape.”
I roll my eyes. “What if I want some fresh air or a walk?”
“You want fresh air, open a fucking window. Now make me some breakfast.”
I throw the covers off the bed. “How about you make yourself breakfast?”
“Do I need to re-explain the predicament you’re in right now?”
I take a deep breath. I hate cooking. Not in the I-can’t-be-assed way. Food was my mom’s way to pacify my dad. Whenever he’d go into a rage, she’d use food to put us all back together. While he was sleeping his outbursts off, we’d gather in the kitchen, where she’d make us pancakes. Then she’d spend the rest of the day preparing some extravagant meal of Dad’s favorites. Dishes that took hours to slow cook, so he’d know as soon as he woke up that his wife was in service of him. She’d make ribs and lasagna with homemade pasta and sauce from scratch. I can’t even look at or smell some of the dishes now because it triggers me. I was so anxious and afraid that eating those meals back then made me violently sick.
The idea of going into the kitchen to save Ryker’s life makes me feel like I’m walking in the footsteps of my mom to save my brother from even more violence.
“Breakfast,” King says again.
I tug the sleeves of the hoodie over my hands so he can’t see them shake. “Fine. But I’m not a short-order cook.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ll be whatever I say you are. Now be a good girl and cook.”
I hold his gaze, but whatever he sees makes him grin. “First, I need the bathroom.”
King points to the doorway. “Through there. Don’t lock it. If you do, I’ll remove the fucking door.”
Assuming locking does not mean the same as closing, I shut the door behind me. “This is me, not locking the door,” I yell, opening and closing it a couple of times for good measure.
“Just get on with it,” he yells.
I follow King into the main living space where he opens the curtains. There’s the fading glow of a fire. At some point last night, he obviously lit it, and I’m grateful. It’s warmer in here. He grabs a log off the pile and opens the fireplace door and fluffs the embers with the end of the log before placing it, and a second log, inside.
