How About Forever? (Sequel)

My Love, My Life, Arson - 5

EMILY'S POV

I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my booba. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected real estate woman in the Rosewood, and she's given me goddamn hickeys. How did I not feel her doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why - Mrs. Orgasmic was using her fine-motor sexing skills on me. I gape at my reflection. My wrists have a red welt around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they'll bruise.

I examine my ankles - more welts. Holy fuck, I look like I've been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look. My body is so different these days. It's changed subtly since I've known her . . . I've become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. I'm well groomed except for these hideous love bites.

I don't want to think about grooming at the moment. I'm too mad. How dare she mark me like this, like some teenager. In the time we've been together, she's never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why she's done this. Damn control freak. She's gone too far this time. I stalk out of the en suite bathroom and into the walk-in closet, carefully avoiding even a glance in her direction. Slipping out of my robe, I pull on my sweatpants and a camisole. I undo my ponytail, pick up a hairbrush from the small vanity unit, and brush out my tangles.

"Emily," Alison calls and I hear her anxiety. "Are you okay?"

I ignore her. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what she's done to me, I doubt I'll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for a while now. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare she? I'll give her are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at her, turn, and leave - though not before I see her shocked expression and her lightning reaction as she raises her arm to protect her head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off her forearm and onto the bed.

I storm out of our room and run downstairs and stomp out on to the porch. I need some space to calm down. It's dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the fresh bread from the bakery fills the air. I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the houses where tiny lights wink and twinkle on their front lawn. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I'm aware of her behind me before I hear her.

"You're mad at me," she whispers.

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"How mad?"

"Scale of one to ten, I think I'm at forty."

"That mad." She sounds surprised and impressed at once.

"Yes. Pushed to violence mad," I say through gritted teeth. She stays silent as I turn and scowl at her, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from that expression and that she's made no move to touch me that she's out of her depth.

"Alison, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall."

She shrugs minutely. "Well, you won't take your top off again," she murmurs petulantly.

What? And this justifies what she's done to me? I glare at her. "I don't like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It's a hard limit!" I hiss at her.

"I don't like you taking your clothes off in public. That's a hard limit for me," she growls.

"I think we've established that," I hiss through my teeth. "Look at me!" I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my boobs. Alison gazes at me, her eyes not leaving my face, her expression wary and uncertain. She's not used to seeing me this mad. Can't she see what she's done? Can't she see how ridiculous she is? I want to shout at her, but I refrain - I don't want to push her too far. Heaven knows what she'd do.