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Sighing, he curls his palm around the back of my neck. “And that’s why you’re so fucking tiny and I have to keep telling you to eat.”
“I can’t help being short.”
“I bet I could span your waist with my hands and my fingers would be touching. You need to eat more but don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
God, that shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. No one has ever cared if I ate before. Food has always just been a necessity. I became a vegetarian after Bruce dragged me, Mom, and the other kids to a petting zoo that had a restaurant attached. I ordered a burger, and when the waiter delivered it, he proudly told me that I was eating Myrtle, a calf that had been in the petting zoo until she got fat enough to slaughter. Giving my burger a name made me sick to my stomach, and I’ve been a vegetarian ever since.
Bruce and my mom accepted my choice to not eat meat pretty easily and stocked the freezer with vegetarian meat substitutes, but meals weren’t a grand occasion in our house, and as long as I wasn’t starving myself, no one cared how much food was on my plate. Oz seems almost preoccupied by controlling what and when I eat. I don’t know if that has anything to do with him ensuring I’m eating a balanced diet or if he simply enjoys being in charge of my routine.
My only experience with any kind of power exchange relationship is through the books I’ve read, but Oz hasn’t suggested anything that involves safe words or whips and chains—thank God. His dominance is both more subtle and yet more overt than the things I’ve read in books. Just like he told me, his controlling nature is a lot more nurturing than anything I’ve ever read about. He wants to control me to make sure I’m okay, healthy and well cared for, and that feeling is intoxicating.
At the back of my mind, he’s still the monster of my nightmares, but the last few days have stolen at least some of my fear of him and replaced it with want. I think a part of me will always be a little scared of him, but he promised to replace the bad feelings with good ones, and I believe that he’ll do his utmost to do that.
“$134.17,” the cashier says.
Fumbling for my purse, I go to reach for my credit card, but Oz glares at me, pointedly handing over his own card. I wither beneath his steely gaze, pushing my wallet back into my purse and crossing my arms over my chest self-consciously.
Once Oz has paid, we load the bags back into the cart and he reaches for my hand, towing me out of the store. After stowing the cart, he reluctantly releases me so he can carry the groceries, the muscles in his arms bulging from the weight.
He scowls at me every time I offer to carry anything, and after the third time, my stomach is twisted into so many anxious knots, I stop asking to help and just follow him to the truck.
“I need an ATM so I can give you half the money for the groceries,” I say awkwardly after we’re both settled into our seats.
“No,” he snaps, pushing the button and bringing the truck’s engine to life with a roar.
“Shall we take it in turns then? What about the bills? How much is your rent?”
“Etta.” My name on his lips is a clear warning, but I don’t heed it.
“I need to know how much my half is,” I protest, suddenly worried if I’ll be able to afford to pay half the bills on his huge house when Octy and I were worried about being able to afford a tiny two-bedroom apartment.
“Stop.”
Instead of listening, I keep going, and a part of me wonders if I’m pushing him to see what will happen. “What about internet and utilities?”
“Henrietta Jayne Malik, shut the fuck up or I swear to fucking god, I will pull over and fuck all the fucking stupid right out of you.”
My lips clamp together so hard they hurt.
“That’s better,” he snaps, flipping his indicator and slowing to a stop on the side of the road.
My heart starts to beat erratically as he kills the truck’s engine and twists in his seat until he’s facing me. “Do I have your attention?” he growls.
I nod.
“Good. Now you listen to me. We don’t split the fucking bills or take it in turn to pay for fucking groceries. We’re not fucking roommates. You’re. My. Wife.”
Goose bumps pebble across the skin on my arms and the back of my neck. This version of him is absolutely terrifying. A vein bulges in his neck as he glares at me menacingly, but I’m shocked to realize I’m not frightened, I’m turned the hell on. My pussy clenches, then heats, and I know if I reached between my legs, my panties would be wet.
I have no idea how I can possibly be horny. I’ve had more orgasms in the last few days than I’ve had in the last five years, but somehow, even when he’s as furious as he is now, my body reacts to my Oz, like it’s readying itself to soothe him.
A week ago, I’d have peed myself in the face of this kind of animosity from him. His anger would have triggered a flashback to the weekends he spent with us when he’d scream in Bruce’s face, then take out his wrath on me.
But I’m not scared.
We’re not children anymore. We’re adults. Yesterday we got married, and even though he’s a monster, he’s my monster now.
“Are you listening to me?” he demands.
