Mr. Beautiful

Instead, he opened his mouth once, snapped it shut, nodded curtly, and strode away.

I joined her in the tack room, still slapping the crop restlessly against my palm.

My voice was thick with lust.  "Pull down your pants and lean over, palms on the wall."

My suit was ruined by the time we were done.  Custom-made suits were not designed with stable f**king in mind.  They certainly weren't made for rolling around in the straw, wrestling, getting down on all fours in the dirt, f**king like animals, the list went on and on.

The ruination of this suit had been absolute and absolutely worth it.

She could barely walk from the stable to the house.  She had to lean on me heavily the entire time.

She'd be sore tomorrow, as much from the rough, excessive f**king as the spanking.

We had dinner plans with Stephan and Javier.  I'd almost forgotten, until I saw them waiting for us on the back porch.

Clark was with them, chatting and laughing.  Blake was there too, I saw.

And Joseph.

Stephan started shaking his head as we got closer.  "I won't ask," he called out, a laugh in his voice.

"That's for the best," I told him.  "We'll be down for dinner in thirty.  We need a shower.  We're both filthy."  My eyes went to Joseph for that last bit, and I smiled coldly when I saw him visibly flinch.

That jab must have really gotten to him because the next day he made a point of seeking me out, his intention clearly to give me a piece of his mind.

He found me in my study at the house.  He knocked, and I called him in.

"Do you have any idea how selfish you are, to keep her with you?" he asked emotionally.

This had been eating at him, clearly.  Thoughts of my wife consumed this man.

Hatred, raw and fresh, rushed through me.

"She could do better, and you know it," he continued.  "She could find a nice man, a normal guy that loved her and treated her with respect, someone that didn't subject her to that vile stuff you do to her for your own entertainment.  She could find someone to help her heal, instead of exploiting her issues."

"And I suppose you think you're that guy?" I bit out.

He didn't answer, but he didn't need to.

"You don't get it," I said scathingly.  "You don't understand her at all.  You are just the sort of man that would make her miserable.  You'd expect her to hide who she is, make her hate it.  You would make her feel bad about herself, when there is no f**king thing about her that she should feel bad about."

"You should feel bad about it.  I saw her wrists yesterday.  Saw the marks, yet again.  Shame on you."

I stood, smiling nastily.  The joke was on him.  I was shameless, always had been.

I held out an arm, indicating the door.  "If you can't reconcile yourself to working for a man of my particular proclivities, by all means, resign.  No one is stopping you."

He shook his head, over and over, glaring at me.  "No, no I will not quit.  You want me gone, you'll have to fire me, and we both know your wife won't like that."

The way he said your wife, that sneer in his voice, it was too much.

Some tight thread inside of me snapped, and I had his shirt in my hands between one breath and the next.  I shoved him against the wall, getting in his face.

"That's right," I growled at him.  "My wife.  Mine.  Mine in ways you'll never know.  You think you've seen the marks?  You haven't seen the half of it.  I've marred every inch of her, staking my claim."

He took a swing at me.  I was pretty happy about it, even while he clipped me in the chin.

Happy because, well, game on.

I slugged him back, with relish, catching his jaw.  I'd wanted to do that for years, and so I did it again.

I had him on the floor, and we were both a few hits in, panting, when he spoke.

"She's not an object to be owned," he gritted, hands on my hands on his shirt.  I'd started slamming his back, is head, into the floor.

"Not an object, no, but mine nonetheless.  And that will never change."  My voice was quiet.  The words were each pushed out of me on jagged breaths, but they were full of conviction all the same.

I cocked my fist back to punch him in the face when her voice stopped me.

"James," Bianca gasped, sounding shocked, distraught.

With a curse, I straightened, getting to my feet.

She stood in the doorway, Clark just behind her.

I raised a brow at him.  "I'm surprised you didn't interfere."  As I spoke, I moved to her, pulling her into my chest.

"It looked like you had it under control," Clark shot back.  He sounded smug about it, too.

He had been the one to teach me to fight.

Protectively, possessively, I took Bianca from the room.

Her reaction was not what I expected.  She could still manage to surprise me.

She wasn't mad at me, not at all.  Instead she fretted over my bruises, kissed each one, and demanded gently that I tell her everything.

I was helpless against her tender onslaught.  I told it all.

In the end, it was Bianca that fixed things.  Quietly and resolutely, she fired him herself.

"I'm so sorry," she said simply, right after she'd done it.

My gut clenched.  "Why are you sorry?  Did you have feelings for him?'