: Chapter 15

Have you ever realized in real time that maybe you’re taking something a little too far?

I have.

Today.

In the middle of our kinky etiquette, when I had Hudson lying flat on his back, me hovering over him, my breasts right next to his mouth, I realized that maybe things had gone too far.

Yet I couldn’t stop.

I was way into the process of it all, and Madame Lori was a very good instructor. I didn’t think etiquette class was going to be that fun, but wow, it was way better than I expected.

Now, did Hudson have fun? That would be a no. After I made him hard when he was tied up, he stopped talking to me.

I know sliding my finger down his crack was a choice I probably shouldn’t have taken part in, but then again, he’s the one who has said he’s my husband. He’s the one initiating all of the touching, the hand-holding, the cuddling. So this is an extension of that. Plus, I really liked the drumming. That was a new technique to put in my arsenal. Who knows when I’m going to use it, but when I do, whoever the lucky recipient is will be like, Wow, this girl, she knows how to drum the dick to full-staff potential.

Anyway, now that class is over and Hudson and I are driving in silence through the streets of London, I truly question what’s going to happen next. He said we were going to Harrods, but after what he just went through, is that still the plan? Or is he taking me back to the hotel, where I’m certain he will pack my things and send me back home?

Sure, he’s mad at me because I was the Dom in class, and sure, I engaged, but we can’t forget that he was the one who booked the class for us. It would be one thing if I had stupidly booked the wrong class, but it was him. If he needs to be upset with anyone, it should be himself. Also seems pretty hypocritical to be mad about intimacy when he’s the one who’s been creating intimacy between us recently.

I look over at him and the clench in his jaw. Seems like he only wants it to be a one-way street.

Trying to bring light to the situation, I say, “For what it’s worth, Madame Lori said I aced the class, so…you’re welcome.”

He flashes a death glare in my direction, and I shrink in my seat.

Maybe I shouldn’t have talked about his nipples.

Or how he has yet to pleasure me. But it was the truth. The drought is big over here, and it’s not like it’s getting any better. He even said yesterday how he has blue balls.

I think I might have to take matters into my own hands because this is stupid. Us not having sex, it’s just…stupid. We’re about to enter some high-stress situations, and I think fucking will help with that. Then again, after what we went through this morning, maybe stepping back and not pushing it like I used to might be best.

I think I’ll have to roll with what he wants to do now that I tied him up and drummed his balls.

Pulling my phone out of my purse, I shoot off a quick text to Stacey.

Sloane: Might have drummed on Hudson’s balls today. Don’t ask. But he’s not happy.

Thankfully she’s awake and texts me back.

Stacey: Umm, what?

Sloane: Long story, but the car right now is really cold. Like frigid.

Stacey: I thought you weren’t making a move anymore.

Sloane: I wasn’t but then he got sick and I helped him and he was so sweet and then we spooned and here we are now, me drumming on his balls making him hard only for me not to finish it off because we were in public. One guy totally came in his pants but Hudson is too good for that, despite me telling the teacher that he was quick on the trigger.

Stacey: What? How can someone ramble in real life and in a text message?

Sloane: That’s not rambling, that’s the truth. That really happened.

Stacey: I’m going to need some coffee to understand this.

Sloane: All you need to know is that I made him hard.

Stacey: I’m sure it’s not the first time given what you told me. Why is now different?

Sloane: Because things are different. He talked to me last night, made a joke actually. I think he’s cracking, and I don’t think he likes that he’s cracking, and now that I think he’s cracking, what do I do? Do I keep pushing?

Stacey: Honestly, Sloane, I don’t know if cracking him is a good idea. I thought you were there for business, not to see if you can get your boss to fuck you.

Sloane: I know, same, but don’t you think we should fuck?

Stacey: I don’t think you should have even married him.

Sloane: You know, you are more agreeable with coffee in you.

Stacey: Facts. When do business things start?

Sloane: We’re going to Harrods to get clothes, and according to the schedule, tomorrow is our first business event. We’re going to a fancy club.

Stacey: Oh, that should be interesting. Never been to one of those.

Sloane: We have not. I think he wants to get me an outfit that I can wear to it.

“We’re here,” Hudson snaps, pulling my attention away from my phone and out the window, where an ornate brown building with green awnings comes into view—a stack of letters that spell out Harrods lines the building, making this moment feel…magical.

As someone who admired Nancy Meyers’s The Parent Trap, with Lindsay Lohan, Harrods has always been stuck in my head as a must-see place while in London. And here I am. With a grumpy husband, ready to go on a shopping spree.

Fun.

The driver opens my door for me, and I slip my purse over my shoulder as Hudson walks up next to me and takes my hand in his.

Well, at least he’s holding my hand. I’ve got that going for me.

Together, we walk up to the entrance, where a bellman dressed in green opens the door. I’m immediately struck by just how beautiful the store is. I’ve seen videos and pictures of the Macy’s flagship store in New York City, but this, this doesn’t even seem to compare. The opulence, the architecture, the noticeable smell of wealth.

This is far beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.

“This way,” Hudson says, leading me toward a back corner where we’re greeted by a worker wearing white gloves. Yes, white gloves. Hudson gives the guy his name, and we are ushered into a private elevator, taking us to a more secluded floor.

“Hudson Hopper,” a lady in a pencil skirt and cream blouse says as she walks up to us in her modest kitten heels. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lorraine, and I’ll be your personal shopper today.”

“Lorraine, nice to meet you,” Hudson says. “This is my wife, Sloane.”

“Hi, Sloane,” Lorraine says with a kind smile. “We have a lot picked out for you. Please follow me.”

Personal shopper…fancy.

We follow Lorraine into a room encased by glass with a couch and a few chairs. There are mannequins sporting some of the latest fashions poised around the room and flutes of champagne on the coffee table for both me and Hudson.

Doubt Hudson will touch it after what happened to him on the plane.

“I’ve pulled quite a few outfits. Mr. Hopper, if you’d like to take a seat, I can start getting your wife into the selections⁠—”

“I’d like to help her into the outfits,” Hudson says, his grip on my hand growing tighter.

Uh-oh.

Why do I feel like that’s not going to go over well for me?

“Oh, are you sure? Usually, I help the clients into their outfits and then we bring them out here and take pictures if it’s something you like.”

“I’m sure,” Hudson says. “No one sees my wife naked but me.”

“Of course. My apologies,” Lorraine says, looking positively terrified at Hudson’s authoritative, dark voice. “Allow me to show you to the room so you can get started. Right this way.”

She takes us to a dressing room in the back, off to the right. The door is open, so when we step in, I’m not only surprised by the amount of clothing on racks but also by the size of this room. There’s a settee in the corner, three mirrors in the other corner, and the rest of the perimeter is lined with clothes ranging from formal wear to everyday casual to…is that lingerie?

Um…sir.

My underwear is fine, thank you very much.

Hudson releases my hand and walks up to the racks of clothing. He pulls out a brown dress with polka dots and hands it to Lorraine.

“No,” he says and then snags a few more. He picks up a short cocktail dress and says, “We need this in a different color. Something that will make her eyes pop.” Oh, well…thank you. “And this, another color. These pants, I want them in black. No prints.” He moves over to the lingerie, and I half expect him to pluck it all and tell Lorraine to remove it, but instead, he says, “I want her in ice-blue lingerie, as it will look perfect against her skin.”

“Of course,” Lorraine says, arms full of clothes. “I’ll be right back.”

“Please knock before coming back,” Hudson says, his eyes on me, and yup, I know I’m in a whole lot of trouble. I might have had my fun earlier, but now it’s time for Hudson to have his fun.

Lorraine shuts the door behind her, and Hudson takes a seat on the settee. With a nod, he says one single word. “Strip.”

I clear my throat, feeling weary. “Um, what’s that?”

“You heard me,” he replies, that dark tone almost menacing. “Strip.”

I set my purse down and say, “I know that you’re a little⁠—”

“I said strip, Sloane. We don’t have all fucking day.”

Yikes. Okay. So he’s angry. I get that. I mean, I did just hog-tie him and play with his ass crack in front of a woman wielding a riding crop. So maybe I need to just do as he says.

I walk up to him, turn around, and ask, “Can you unzip me?”

He stands and moves behind me, his body so close that I can feel the heat pouring off every inch of him. He takes the zipper and slowly pulls it down my back until the dress is loose. Then he pushes the straps from my shoulders, revealing my white push-up bra underneath. He sends the dress to the floor, and I step out of it before bending over and giving him a view of my lacy briefs as I pick up the dress.

“Turn around, Sloane,” he growls.

I turn around and set the dress on the settee next to him. His eyes feast on me, devouring me inch by inch as he takes me in, slowly making his way up and down my body until his eyes find mine again.

Legs spread, he says, “On your knees.”

“What?”

“On. Your. Knees.”

A shiver races up my spine as my body gets sucked in by his command. I lower to my knees in front of him, waiting.

Then he says, “Hands on my thighs.”

I slide my hands over his thighs and scoot in a little more. He lifts his hand to my cheek and runs his thumb just under my eye. “Submit to me.”

He can’t be serious.

Back there, at the class, that was kind of a joke.

But right now, here, this feels nothing like a laughing matter.

This feels real.

“Sloane, as my wife, you will submit to me.”

“Hudson.”

“Submit,” he says, sitting up now and leaning forward so our faces are nearly nose to nose. “I need you to remember who calls the shots here. Not you. Not your little quips or your sarcasm and wit. Me. I’m the one in fucking charge, so this is a reminder, one that you’re not going to forget. Fucking submit…now.”

If I weren’t so turned on, I might actually be terrified.

And this possessive behavior is what I was looking for from Hudson when it comes to intimacy, that I knew was deep within him—that I knew wanted to come out. Between this side of Hudson and the fun-loving side of him that I saw in Bora Bora, it’s hard not to get wrapped up in him.

Eyes on him, I say, “I’m here to service you.”

“Good…girl.” He tips my chin up with his finger and then places the softest of kisses right on my nose.

God, what I wouldn’t give to have that kiss anywhere else—my forehead, my cheek, my mouth, my body. Because I know the nose kiss means nothing. I know the nose kiss is his way of putting me in my place.

I hate the nose kiss.

Despise it.

There’s a knock on the door. “Mr. Hopper, I have that lingerie you asked for.”

Hudson stands from the settee and moves over to the door, where he cracks it open and takes the hangers from Lorraine.

“Thank you,” Hudson says and then shuts the door again. When his eyes meet mine, he commands, “On your feet, face the wall.”

I get up and walk over to the empty wall, turning to face it. He hangs the lingerie on one of the racks and walks up behind me where, to my surprise, he unclasps my bra.

“Don’t fucking move,” he says in his rich, velvety voice.

My heart rate increases as he slides my bra off my shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. His fingers play along my bare back before he lifts an ice-blue lace bra in front of me. With my back toward him, I’m not sure he can see anything, but if he could, he’d see exactly how hard my nipples are. How they’re begging for his touch, for his palm, for any amount of pressure from his dexterous fingers.

He slips my arms into the bra and brings the straps to my shoulders. “Adjust yourself,” he says.

Sad he’s not going to do it for me, I lift my breasts into the cups, and when they’re secure, he clasps the bra. Goose bumps spread across my skin as he slides his hands in my underwear and drags them down until they hit the floor. I step out of them, my ass on full display, and toe the underwear to the side. He then stands back up, trailing his fingers up my legs, over my rear, and to my back, where he grips my hips and speaks softly into my ear. “Don’t move.”

“I’m…I’m not,” I say as I feel myself start to get wet as a dull throb erupts between my legs.

This teasing, it feels like torture, but it also feels like everything I’ve been wanting—everything I’ve been asking for and needing when it comes to him.

He walks back over to the rack, and I hear him unclip something, a pair of underwear I’m assuming.

He then squats back down and says, “Step in.”

I look down to see a matching ice-blue G-string at my feet. Again, no price tag. Because this is personal shopping. I step into the leg holes and then he slides the soft material all the way up until it’s secure around my waist. “Turn around,” he commands.

I turn around to face him and watch as his eyes once again devour me. He wets his lips, his hunger clear in his eyes as he lightly pushes me against the wall. He takes both of my hands in his and pins them against the wall above me. Then with his other hand, he trails a finger over my collarbone, then across the swell of my breasts.

“You will not wear any color but this, understood?”

His finger travels between my cleavage, down my stomach, and right above the waistband of my G-string. My breathing becomes labored, my core so freaking wet and ready for him that if he doesn’t take me in this dressing room, if he doesn’t give me what I want, I very well might perish on the spot.

“Touch me,” I say.

“I am.”

“No,” I say. “Touch me where you know I want it.”

His teeth pull on the edge of his lip as he lowers his hand between my legs and hovers. He then sticks out one finger and lightly grazes my slit. “Here?”

My eyes roll in the back of my head as a quiet moan falls past my lips. “Jesus, yes.”

“Or…” His finger glides up my stomach to my breast, where it circles my nipple over the fabric of my bra. “Here?”

I pull at my pinned hands, but he doesn’t let them move.

“Answer the question, Sloane.”

“Both,” I say. “I want both. God, I’m so wet right now. Give me relief, Hudson.”

A sardonic smile passes over his lips. “You’re wet?”

“Drenched,” I say.

“Good,” he responds and then releases my hands. “Then try on the dresses.”

And with that he leaves the dressing room, leaving me horny and extremely frustrated.

Well played, Mr. Hopper, you asshole.

If you thought the atmosphere in the car was icy on the way to Harrods, that’s nothing compared to what it is right now.

It is positively arctic.

We have not spoken a word to each other, other than Hudson nodding his approval to outfits he liked on me and me thanking him for the clothes when we checked out—because I do have manners despite how pissed I am.

While they packed up the clothes, he was off in a corner on the phone talking to someone, leaving me sitting there, waiting like some disregarded housewife. Nothing about the interaction at Harrods was what I thought it would be. And I could tell that Lorraine felt bad for me—and awkward—because after Hudson left the room, she was the one in charge of dressing me, despite Hudson saying no one saw me naked besides him. Talk about mixed signals.

I know that entire situation in the dressing room was his way of getting back at me for the drumming, but his felt more malicious.

Perhaps because she felt bad about the disconnect Hudson and I were suffering through, Lorraine slipped a complimentary bottle of perfume into my bag that she told me would make Hudson wild for me. As if I needed the help. I thanked her kindly despite wanting to throw the perfume back at her and tell her I didn’t need it, that the stupid ice-blue lingerie should do the trick.

Guess who won’t be wearing the lingerie though. This girl. That’s right, if he thinks he can control me, he is sorely mistaken.

When we arrive at the hotel, the bellman opens our doors and fishes out the bags from the trunk. Hudson moves to my side, takes me by the hand, and together, we walk into the hotel and straight to the elevator that’s waiting for us. I will say this, money gets you a lot of things, service being one of them. It’s wild to me how many people are willing to be at your beck and call.

As we ride up to our room, Hudson’s hand remains glued to mine, but his attention is on his phone. I understand he has to work, but Jesus, it’s all he ever does.

When the elevator doors part, we head to our room, a trail of bellmen holding bags behind us. Hudson opens the door and lets me in first before the bellmen. I stand there and watch them set the bags on the dining room table before Hudson tips them, they leave, and he shuts the door.

I’m about ready to go off on him when he says, “Get ready. We’re leaving in an hour and forty minutes.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

He peels his eyes off his phone and looks at me. “We have dinner…with Sheridan and Archie. They want to welcome us to London. Wear the black sequin dress. We’re going somewhere nice.”

I work my jaw to the side and cross my arms at my chest. “Anything else, your majesty?”

“No,” he says, dismissing me.

I have never loathed someone so much in my entire life. Like absolutely despise. If I could throw one person to the wolves, it would be my husband. Straight to them, no regrets, please have a meal on me.

Frustrated, I move into the bedroom and head toward the bathroom, where I pause for a moment.

You know what? I’m frustrated because this man is getting me horny as hell and not doing anything about it. It’s about time I take care of things. I march into the bathroom, draw myself a bath with some of the lavender bath salts the hotel provided, then slip out of my clothes, walk naked to my nightstand, and grab my vibrator from where I noticed the staff placed it when they unpacked.

Already feeling relaxed from the possibility of taking care of things, I walk back into the bathroom, test the water, and slip into the tub. Thankfully, it fills up fast, and the jets help as I settle in and make myself comfortable.

Glad my vibrator is waterproof, I lean my head against the tub, spread my legs, and turn it on. I take a second to run the vibrator over my breasts, making my nipples hard for me to play with before bringing it down my stomach and between my legs, where I rest it right against my clit.

“Fuck,” I draw out as I sink deeper into the water.

Yes, this is what I want; this is what I need.

This release.

“God,” I moan as the vibrator does its work. Always takes me seconds. My body is already warmed up, my nerve endings all pulling toward my stomach. To slow down the process, I slide the vibrator inside and let it vibrate against my inner walls, keeping me excited but never pushing me over the edge as I continue to play with my nipples.

“Fuck, so good,” I whisper as I pull the vibrator out and bring it back to my clit. “Fuck, yes,” I say, my voice carrying through the bathroom. Was that too loud?

Then again…

What if I am too loud?

What if he hears me from the other room? What if he hears me as I come?

The thought of that only turns me on more.

So I close my eyes and let myself feel, let myself get lost, let my mind drift to the moment in the dressing room where he had me pinned against the wall, his finger trailing all over me, when I was so needy and aching for him that I thought I’d burn up on the spot.

“Yes, God, yes,” I say, my legs spreading wider. “Fuck.” My lips clamp together. My body starts to shake, my fingers pinch my nipple. “Oh fuck,” I yell. “Yes, fuck.” My voice becomes breathy, my pulse hammers in my throat, and every sensation in my body pools in the pit of my stomach as my orgasm reaches its apex. “Fuck, I’m…oh God, oh God,” I yell, my entire body on fire just before my orgasm hits me, tipping me over the edge. I squeeze my legs together, pressing the vibrator into my clit as I come over and over again until I can’t take it anymore and release.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I open my eyes and turn to set my vibrator down, only to find Hudson in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the frame, staring at me.

My cheeks go red from embarrassment even though there was nothing embarrassing about what I just did. No, what I just did was exactly what I needed to do. It was exactly what I craved.

“Get a good show?” I ask him as I grab a bar of soap and start lathering up. I’m not sure how much of me he can see from there, but I don’t bother to cover up.

Without a word, he turns away and shuts the door behind me.

Well, I think I got my answer.