It Stings So Sweet (2 page)

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 sl
apped 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 are
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?”