It Stings So Sweet

by Stephanie Draven

  CHAPTER

  Two

  He wants to punish me. Why does the thought steal my breath, warm my blood, and quicken my pulse? It recalls to mind one late-night encounter, early in our marriage, bent over the bed. In his excitement, he’d taken the belt from his pants and slapped it against the back of my thighs. Once, twice, maybe three times. No more than that. I only remember that I yearned for him to do it harder. But the next morning he was so sheepish that I dared not raise the subject. And he never did it again. Still, the memory of it forces me to exhale sharply with a thrill of anticipation.

  Unfortunately, I doubt that is the kind of play-pretend punishment my husband wants to dole out tonight. I’ve told him it was only a kiss, but he’s unconvinced. Perhaps he’s imagining me naked, in bed with another man. Even if that were true, isn’t a divorce enough punishment for a single night’s indiscretion? The divorce will cause a scandal but I know there are men who will overlook any black mark on my name if it means they stand a chance of inheriting my father’s money.

  So perhaps Jonathan has something crueler in mind.

  “You want to punish me …” I repeat slowly, worried that the wet glass is going to slip through my hold. Just saying the words makes me feel vulnerable. “Will punishing me make you feel better about what happened?”

  Jonathan crosses his arms over himself, one hand held up, fingers worrying over each other as he considers my question. “I’m not certain,” he finally says. “We’ll have to find out. The only thing of which I am certain is that if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I’m going to leave.”

  And I’ll never see him again. Of this much, I’m certain, too. This, and the fact that he wants me to drink.

  Lost in the unfathomable depths of his glacial eyes, I tip my head back and swallow everything in my glass. The liquid burns the back of my throat, but I don’t stop until the glass is empty and I’m panting for air.

  “Atta girl,” he says, one eyebrow raised, and I cannot tell if it’s surprise or admiration. Something changes in him. Something snaps. Unravels. His shoulders loosen; his posture becomes more languid in the way of a predator toying with his prey. A hapless waiter passes too close to us, and Jonathan blocks him. While the waiter tries to regain his balance, Jonathan grabs a mint julep from the waiter’s tray and offers it to me with a leer. “Drink this, too, Nora.”

  So he wants me drunk. He must want me on the floor tomorrow morning, heaving and sick. I deserve it. Bent beyond oblivion is probably the only way to escape the pain of heartbreak anyway, so I snatch the glass from him and gulp it down, mint leaves and all.

  My head already spinning, I grab the edge of the bar for balance. He wants me to drink? Then I’ll drink. I turn, jostling bottles together in a frenzy, refilling my empty glass. I don’t know what I’m pouring. I’ll happily drink it all.

  “Stop.” Jonathan catches my wrist, his grip like iron. Not since the first night we met has he pressed his fingers into my flesh to the point of pain. Somehow, until this moment, I hadn’t remembered how good it felt. I’m unable to fathom how I can be so aroused by him. How, even now, I want desperately to rip his clothes off.

  “I’m just doing what you told me to do, Jonathan. You wanted me to drink.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to kill you with it. That’s enough.”

  Booze sloshes in my belly with the poison of despair, and I fall silent.

  With his chin, Jonathan motions to Mr. Kendrick. “Go ask him to dance. I want to see the two of you together.”

  I think I understand the reason for this strange demand. “Jonathan, I told you it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him!”

  “I don’t believe you, Mrs. Richardson,” my husband replies, skewering me with his last name. “Even if I did believe you, it wouldn’t matter. Kendrick watches your heart-shaped ass every time you walk across a room. When you turn to face him, his expression glazes over as if he were trying to guess if your nipples are pink or red or brown. He’d love to put his slobbering lips all over you, given half a chance. He’d love to fuck you if you let him, and who can blame him? So why not give him a taste of what he fantasizes about …”

  Jonathan has never spoken to me this way before. Not even the first time. Flushed with instant fury, I want to strike him, but he still has my wrist locked in his grip. As I struggle, he grabs my other wrist for good measure and we draw a few stares.

  Jonathan laughs, attempting to convince outsiders that we’re just a playful couple, up to hanky-panky, but nothing about my anger is feigned. Jonathan only proposed because I was pregnant. After the miscarriage, he moved into his own bedroom. In all the months since, he’s never laid a hand on me. Now he expects me to believe he actually cares whether or not someone else wants me?

  “You’ve just been waiting for this,” I hiss. “Haven’t you? You’ve just been waiting for an excuse to leave me and I was foolish enough to give it to you.”

  My husband works his beautiful, angled jaw, holding something back. For a moment I think he’ll retreat behind his mannerly veneer. He’ll say that this isn’t the time or place for ugliness. He’ll spout some platitude about wishing me well and apologize for having lost his temper. He’ll be a gentleman instead of a fiend.

  And I’ll hate him for it.

  Instead, he says, “The only thing I’m waiting for is to watch you dance.”

  In all the time I’ve known him, my husband has never been petty. And yet, I much prefer this bullying to the cool distance between us. I see him, somewhere, in that temper. The real him. The one he hides from everyone. So I only say, “Be careful what you wish for.”

  I use the back of one hand to brush away my brimming tears, careful not to smear my mascara, knowing that there isn’t a man on the dance floor who would refuse me. They all know who my father is. They want me for my fortune, but they never make me burn with lust the way my husband does. Perhaps I have only ever wanted him because he’s the one thing I can’t have.

  So if my husband is going to leave me, maybe it’s best if his last sight of me is in the arms of another man. I hope it pains him. I hope it stabs at him. Probably it will only make him feel justified in walking away.

  But he doesn’t walk away. Even after I make my way onto the dance floor with Mr. Kendrick and let him put his clammy hand between my shoulder blades, my husband just stands there at the edge of the party, arms folded over his chest.

  As I’ve said, I loathe men like Paul Kendrick. Men in my father’s social circle whom I’ve known all my life. Men who haven’t ever known a day of adversity and who have no mercy or compassion for anyone who has. Paul Kendrick is, of course, a perfect dancer, executing the fancy footwork of the Charleston with utter grace while the frenetic pace requires all my concentration. With my knees bent and springy, my breasts jiggle to the music and my dance partner makes only a token effort not to notice them. He has that glazed expression that Jonathan described and I wonder if it’s true that he’s trying to guess the color of my nipples. They harden at his attention, much to my shame.

  My beaded gown slaps against my thighs as I twist on the balls of my feet. I wonder if men are looking at my legs, catching a glimpse of my garters when I kick too high. I have never before considered that men might be appraising me this way—for my body alone. That this very moment, as furious as Jonathan is, he might be appraising me this way. The thought stokes a furnace in my belly and I dance harder, putting a shimmy in my shoulders.

  I’m tall and leggy, but curvier than is fashionable. The straight flapper gowns don’t drape the way they should on me. But Jonathan has filled me with curiosity about just how my body might appeal.

  “Your husband is watching you,” Paul Kendrick says, not even winded. “I don’t think he’s enjoying this party. Maybe you need to be born to the right kind of people to get the most out of these functions, eh?”

  It’s an unsubtle cut from an unsubtle man and I let my elbow jab into his ribs as he turns me. My teeth ar
e clenched and perspiration drips down the back of my neck. I’m unutterably relieved when the song comes to an end.

  “Well?” I ask, returning to Jonathan’s side. “Did you see what you wanted to see?”

  My husband nods, gaze intent. “I did. It wasn’t him.”

  “Now you believe me?”

  “I believe my own eyes, Nora. I know how you look at a man who kisses you.”

  “It’s been so long since you kissed me, I somehow doubt you remember.”

  Jonathan blanches and I feel the momentary thrill of having pierced his armor, but he hands me another drink. This one has a pineapple on the rim. “I remember everything, Nora. Now part those treacherously beautiful lips of yours and drink up.”

  Pulling the fruit off the glass and rolling it between my teeth, I sway slightly to the music and the strange pleasure of finally having my husband’s complete attention—even if it is the wrong kind of attention. “Mr. Kendrick doesn’t believe you’re enjoying yourself tonight, Jonathan.”

  “Oh, but I intend to,” he says with an ominous note. Then, using one long finger to tap the bottom of my glass, he forces a splash of liquid into my mouth. Our eyes lock and I swallow, remembering the way he tastes. The way he smells. The way he feels inside me.

  His hand brushes my jawline, holding me still like he did the time he forced his tongue in my mouth, kissing me so hard that his teeth cut my lip. In spite of everything, I want him to do it again, right here and now. He has to know it. He has to see it as I angle my face up to him in offering. “Jonathan, I’m lightheaded …”

  “Poor little bunny,” he says, using my father’s nickname for me. Then he dips his head and nuzzles my ear. The warmth of his breath gets under my skin, seeping into my blood and setting it to boil. Then I feel the sharp bite of his teeth on my earlobe. “Too dizzy to do what I tell you?”

  “No,” I whisper, not knowing or caring what he does to me so long as I can keep him this close.

  “You’re going to dance with our host, next. Show me and Teddy Morgan what a vamp you can be.”

  Anger and inebriation make for a dangerous cocktail. I grip my husband’s lapels, nails digging in. “I’m not a vamp.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrow to slits. “Then why did you step out on me? Unless you wanted me to notice. Is that it? Because I tell you, Nora, you have my interest now. Show me how much you liked playing the slut for Big Teddy Morgan and I won’t look away.”

  “Stop it, Jonathan. Just stop it. It wasn’t Ted Morgan, either. I’ll tell you who kissed me—”

  “But I’d rather guess,” Jonathan interrupts, his hard body boxing me in. “I’d rather watch you dance with every cake-eater in the joint. I want to see them paw you, and pinch your ass, and sneak a peek at your gams when your skirt flips up in the back.”

  “Why? Just to humiliate me?”

  “Now you’re on the trolley!” Both of his dark brows shoot up to accompany a mirthless smile. But when my lower lip trembles, he falters and the grim smile fades away. I see a mask of regret descend over his expression, as if he stands in shock at his own behavior. “You can stop the ride any time you like, Nora.” The pressure of his fingers turns gentle. He’s rueful. Embarrassed. “I’m handling this badly. I shouldn’t have come to this party tonight. I just hoped to spare you the embarrassment of trying to explain things to your friends and family. I suppose it’s too late for that …”

  “We shouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone, Jonathan! It was just a kiss.”

  This irritates him, if the flush on his face is any indication. “Quite right. I ought to be a gentleman about this.”

  “I don’t want you to be a gentleman,” I say, even at the risk of prolonging our argument because I’ve seen more passion from him in the past few hours than in a year’s time. He’s here with me now in a way he hasn’t been since we were first married. “I’m sick to death of it!”

  He glances up, gauging me. “You’re playing with fire, Nora.”

  He is the flame, and I’m already burning. “You don’t scare me, Jonathan. You never have.”

  A flash of something lights behind his eyes. “Are we going to play this game, then? Because if we are, this is the right song, Nora. Ted Morgan’s on his way over. Are you going to dance with him?”

  Everything about my husband is a provocation now. His stance, his words, everything. Maybe it’s the buzz of liquor that addles my brain, but I like the word game. There’s hope in that word. Games can be won. And I have nothing left to lose. “I’ll dance with him if you stay to watch it.”

  “Oh, I’ll be watching, Nora.”

  “Then I hope you choke on it.”

  He leans in closer, whispering in my ear. “There’s a reason they call him Big Teddy. He’s hung like a horse. I’m guessing if he tried to put it in your mouth, you’d be the one to choke on it.” His crudeness embarrasses me and I turn my head to the side, but he makes me look at him, his face very close to mine. “What’s the matter, Princess? I thought you didn’t want me to be a gentleman. Am I too vulgar for you? That’s what all your friends say, don’t they? You’ve probably always feared the real Jonathan Richardson might make an appearance and send you into a fainting spell with his rough, uneducated tongue.”

  “I said I’ve never been afraid of you!”

  “Well, you should be,” Jonathan says, grinding his teeth.

  I think he’ll say more. I want him to say more. Instead, he points at Big Teddy. “Go dance the tango with Ted Morgan. Press against him. Make him hard. Make him want to fuck you so badly that he can’t keep his hands to himself. Let him catch a whiff of that sexy perfume drifting up from between your legs. You’re aroused just thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  It’s a lie. I’m trembling with arousal, but it has nothing to do with Ted Morgan. It’s that the crueler Jonathan is, the more I seem to like it. I don’t understand, but I don’t need to. I only know that the way he stares at me now makes me feel like the only woman in the room. And I am intoxicated on more than liquor.

  My husband calls out to the barrel-chested tycoon. “Teddy! Take my girl off my hands for a spell, won’t you? She’s keen to dance tonight but I’ve had a bit too much of the giggle juice.”

  “Posilutely!” Big Teddy says, grabbing hold of my hand in one of his meaty palms and yanking me towards the dance floor. He’s a fleshy middle-aged man. Jolly. Too affable to notice the way my husband’s eyes burn holes in his back.

  It’s a twisted game we’re playing. It’s clear to me that Jonathan’s fury isn’t feigned. He’s been betrayed. He wants to punish and humiliate me. The idea that another man put his mouth on me has ignited a fire in my husband. But it isn’t only anger. I can read Jonathan’s body the way I’ve never been able to read his mind. Looking at him now, I can see the sexual tension roll off his body in waves. I realize with shocking clarity that he’s excited.

  Jonathan wants me.

  And maybe I am a vamp, because the jolt of that realization makes me damp behind my knees, at all my pulse points, and between my thighs. What’s more, my nipples tighten harder, creating bumps that must be visible against the thin drape of my dress. My dance partner pretends not to notice, but when I glance down I see the enormous ridge of Big Teddy’s cock swell under his pants. Under the searing glare of my husband’s scrutiny, I press a little closer, trying to brush against Big Teddy with my belly and thighs as we tango.

  I’m rewarded by sexual heat that arcs through this other man’s body, across the dance floor to where my husband is standing. Now it’s as if Jonathan and I are dancing together, this interloper between us. Teddy’s hand dips lower on my back than is appropriate, but then, this is a graceful dance not meant for the likes of him.

  Perhaps my brazenness has encouraged him. I feel wild and licentious, just as I did the first night I met Jonathan. And with my eyes locked on my husband, I do exactly as he instructed, taking every opportunity to rub up against Big Teddy
’s body.

  And, god help me, I like it.

  Perhaps my obvious pleasure at the feel of this man’s enormous erection is proof to Jonathan that I’m a tramp—that he can’t trust me to be faithful. But with every gyration, I feel as if I’m touching Jonathan, not this other man. I half want to crawl up my dance partner’s body, and the shock of my desire makes me stumble.

  Big Teddy catches me, taking the opportunity to draw me closer. “Had a little too much to drink tonight, Mrs. Richardson?”

  The man thinks he’s taking advantage. He even has the grace to be somewhat red-cheeked and ashamed of himself. But that doesn’t stop him from pressing his erection against me. I feel it pulse against my leg.

  “Mmm,” I say, not sure I trust myself to speak.

  The dance floor is crowded now and we’re jostled together, so I angle my hips, grinding slightly against him. He’s wide as a bat and my clitoris pounds at the pressure between my legs. I could come like this. Just rubbing against this thick prick. I am so near the edge I think anything might push me over. What would Jonathan think of that? Would it please him? Would it make him want me more? Or would it make him walk away?

  Big Teddy’s voice lowers, grows husky. “Between you, me, and the gatepost, what’s the story, doll? Your man two-timing you and you’re trying to get a little tit for tat? Or don’t you get enough at home?”

  There hasn’t been any at home since I miscarried, but I say, “Some gals just can’t get enough.”

  Teddy gives a belly laugh that vibrates all the way down my body to the molten hot spot between my thighs. “May I cut in?” Jonathan asks, tapping Big Teddy’s shoulder with a good deal more force than is required.

  I hadn’t seen my husband approach, but I’m desperately grateful that he’s here now.

  Big Teddy releases me, his eyes averted as he adjusts the crease of his pants. “Quite a live wire you got there, Richardson. Has she met the star of our party? I can introduce her to Clara—”

  Jonathan spins me away without letting the man finish.