Page 28 of The Butcher's Wife
I take another swig of wine.
People are supposed to drink because it makes them happy and loose, so why does each sip sink me deeper into a bad mood? I scowl at the microwave clock. How is Dom not home yet?
Completely alone, I scoff loudly.
I still can’t believe he said no to a fuckingblowjob.
He doesn’t want me?
Good.
Great.
I don’t evenlikegiving blowjobs, and I hate gagging. I’ve already had to grin and bear it for one husband. I’m glad Dom doesn’t want that, too.
My chest rises and falls, and I sip a little more from the bottle.
What I want is a man to please me for once.I want to be the selfish one who gets to come, roll over, and fall asleep,exhausted and sated. I want a man to tend to my needs. To see me storm into the house and anxiously wonder how he’ll guide me to the bed to eat me out, to dissipate my anger.
I only realize I’m smiling when it slips off my face. I take another gulp of wine, crisp and bitter.
Okay, I don’t want that, necessarily. I’m not an asshole.
I just want a man to care.
I huff bitterly into the mouth of the bottle. Fat chance.
First, I found a husband who wanted too much, then I found one who doesn’t want anything. Maybe I’m just not cut out for marriage.
I swing my head back and blink slowly at the ceiling. So, then what?
The elevator dings.
I sit up immediately, the world blurring a second too slow around me.
Is he home early?
Part of me panics at the thought of being caught unawares, tipsy, and wearing only his shirt like a lover. The other part of me, the old programming that’s determined to please him, thrills.
Try to deny me now.
I lurch off the couch toward the foyer to catch a glimpse of the elevator just as the doors split open.
And there’s no one inside.
The sweet anticipation curdles in my gut. My mouth goes dry, and my heart thuds in my chest. The short foyer tunnels to the completely empty elevator, opened wide like a dying man’s last desperate breath.
It shouldn’t do this. It only opens if someone has a key code or they call up first. This is impossible.
The doors stay open for a long time, as if tempting me to enter, to let myself be eaten, but drunken bravery—or fear—keeps me rooted to the spot.
The moment the doors whisper closed, I bolt.
8
DOM
Serafina never would have beenas bold as Annetta was this morning.
