Isabella needs time to adjust. She felt pleasure from Lila’s attentions last night. The sounds she made testified to it. A little humiliation will go far with her.
Patience is the highest of all virtues in this particular moment. I exercise it for most of the afternoon before I dismiss my staff and go looking for my wife.
It was three years ago when I saw her at the club. Isabella was with her friends, the five of them drawn in a tight circle to dance for a bachelorette party. They took turns fending off guys and replaying their excitement again and again. Isabella played her part to perfection, the way she did for our wedding and for the wedding night.
Her body was utterly tantalizing. Every movement drew me in. The sway of her hips. The fall of her hair. I wanted to know how she looked on her knees. Wanted to see her that way in the middle of a crowd.
My imagination was interrupted at the moment she made a graceful exit.
She gathered up her purse from their booth and moved away from her friends with promises to return quickly and a relieved set to her shoulders.
I waited fifteen minutes before I followed her. An absurdly long time, looking back. Patience was a virtue then, too. Because Isabella was too absorbed in the music to notice me when I finally found her hiding place.
An unused private room. Hard bass vibrated through the room from the main club, but Isabella seemed oblivious. She sat at a piano we kept around from when the club had live music. The song she played was slow and haunting. Lonely. A poignant counterpoint to the frantic copulation of pop music out there. My cock was already hard from the sight of her dancing. The music did something else entirely. A knowing snapped into place. I would have her as my bride. I would do whatever maneuvering it took to make that happen. She would be mine.
Now she is.
I let Wolf out to roam the grounds outside and start my search in the quiet places in the chateau. Isabella is not in her room, or the sitting room, or the library. She is not in her walk-in closet or even mine. I need music. That’s where she’ll go.
I’m right.
I find her in the ballroom, where a grand piano sits draped in heavy linen when it’s not in use. The fabric has been pulled away and neatly folded. It sits beside her on the bench as she plays. It’s a different song than the one from the club but just as haunting. She scrambles to her feet when I come in, eyes fiery. “Go away.”
“We should talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
I step farther into the ballroom, crossing the parquet flooring that has been worn by a thousand feet and then shined to faultlessness, worn and shined. “We’re going to talk anyway, my dear wife. You’ll use your words instead of sharing your feelings with the piano.”
“Or else what?” Her blue eyes flash like a stormy sky. A dimple appears in the center of her chin to highlight her determination. “You’ll use corporal punishment? You’ll spank me?”
My hand itches to do it. Aches to do it. Isabella is the picture of heated frustration. She’s pink-cheeked and angry and pushing. These moments are opportunities to demonstrate her role. To demonstrate mine. My wife will not be a whirlwind who flies through the house every time she disagrees with me. She won’t refuse to talk to me when she does. I won’t have it.
This, despite how hard I am. I never wanted the kind of relationship my parents had. There was too much acid. Too much acrimony. Emotions ran far too high to be controlled or managed. In my own life I insist on control. And I will have it here, too.
“Calm down.” I keep my tone level. Isabella won’t force me to match her in this. I feel a pull at the center of me that keeps my back straight and my eyes on hers, unwavering.
“So you’ll actually spank me.” She folds her arms over her chest, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “You’ll punish me. Your hand. My ass.”
“It’s tiresome to repeat myself this often, so I’ll say it a final time. If you refuse to discuss this rationally with me, then I’ll use other methods to convince you.”
A punishment won’t change her mind… at first. It’s a heightening of the emotions already in play. For the person who is submitting to the punishment, this presents itself as pain that builds to release, followed by clarity. Isabella needs this as much as anyone I’ve ever seen.
“Well, I won’t be calm. Why should I be calm? You lied to me.” She stabs a finger in my direction. “You purposely hid things from me so I wouldn’t understand. You’re a liar. You’re an asshole, exactly like my brother said.”
That amuses me. “Your brother warned you about me.”
“He said people talk about you. That you’re controlling. That you’re a freak.”
“Is that so?” It’s oddly endearing to me that he tried to warn his sister. If only her father had been as concerned with her welfare as he was about his hotel.
She lifts her chin. “And he was right.”
Isabella’s eyes widen as I stalk toward her at the piano. There’s fear in those eyes, of course, but other things, too. A quicksilver flash of relief and desire. I cage one hand around the back of her neck and turn her when I’m seated on the stool. Then I bend her over my lap. Isabella struggles within my grip. “You’re not doing this. You’re not going to do this.”
I pause, leaning back enough to let her escape if she really tries. “Do you want me to stop, Isabella? Or should I call you Isa the way your family does? If you really want me to stop, say the words.”
“Bastard,” she says. Her hips buck unconsciously against my leg. I consider telling her, but I don’t want her to notice that she’s enjoying it. Not quite yet. “Asshole. Freak.”
“And apparently you knew that before you married me, so what are you so shocked about?” I flip her dress up to expose the curve of her ass. Isabella wears no panties, no thong, nothing. She won’t be wearing them in my house unless I give her express permission.
That will come later, when she’s trained.
Now she’s as wild as an unbroken horse, swearing extensively. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so irritated. This is not the Isabella I agreed to marry, and now we’ll spend valuable time making her into that woman.
“Now you tell me what happens next,” I say, still giving her enough room to escape if she chooses. “Am I going to spank you? Or are you going to walk away from our contract?”
She shivers, and I know it’s not entirely fear. It’s curiosity. Arousal. “I hate you.”
That’s answer enough. “Every time you speak you earn five more.”
The first five swats are hard enough to stun her. Isabella reaches for her ass with one hand with a shocked gasp. I pin her arm behind her back. She had her chance to walk away. She didn’t want it. “If you can’t keep your hands still, I’ll tie them,” I inform her. “Trying to cover yourself is a good way to get hurt.”
“I’m already hurt.”
I cut her off with another series of hard spanks. I had intended to go easy on her for her first punishment, but no. That won’t get her attention. “You’re hurting in the moment, but there won’t be lasting harm. No, you’re simply being punished. You disobeyed my commands, and these are the consequences.”