To Have and To Kill

On our wedding night, my husband proposed a game.

Absolute honesty. Trading secrets lethal enough to destroy us both.

"I fucked Chloe today," he went first..

My turn. "I killed a man."

He threw his head back and laughed out loud. He was so sure it was a pathetic joke.

He laughed too soon.

——

"Eve, darling." Richard’s thumb dug into the pulse point at my throat.

He shoved my thighs apart. He didn’t wait for my answer. His free hand grabbed the lace of my lingerie and yanked it down. The chill of the air conditioning immediately hit my bare breasts.

"Since we're legally married now, why don't we play a little game?" His teeth scraped the skin right above my collarbone. He bit down. Hard. I tasted copper in the back of my throat.

"What kind of game?"

"The deepest, most unspeakable ones we have. Absolute honesty. It makes a marriage bulletproof."

I arched my spine. A soft moan slipped through my teeth.

"Alright," I agreed softly. "You first?"

I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, playing the willing prey.

He shoved two blunt fingers inside me. No prep. Just dry, punishing friction.

I gasped. My nails bit into his shoulders. He watched my face, his eyes tracking the pain flashing in my pupils.

"I fucked Chloe today," he stated. He set a harsh, mechanical rhythm. "In the church vestry. Right on the vanity bench while you were out front picking out the floral arrangements."

Chloe. His personal assistant.

His hand stopped moving. He hovered over me, scanning my features. He hunted for the shatter. The tears. The frantic screaming. This was his actual foreplay—crushing the dignity of the woman pinned beneath him.

I forced my lungs to expand normally. I felt the raw burn between my legs. I smiled. Just a slow, lazy curving of my lips.

"I hope you didn't stain her dress," I whispered. I slid my hands down his chest and popped the top button of his tailored shirt. "That would have ruined the group photos."

His jaw locked. A muscle ticked furiously beneath his skin. This wasn't his script.

He jerked his hand free. A wet, slick sound echoed in the quiet room. He deliberately wiped his fingers on my stark white thigh.

"You're not angry." He didn’t ask. He accused.

"Men need variety, Richard." I shoved his chest, forcing him flat onto his back. I straddled his hips, feeling his arousal hard against my skin. I unzipped his trousers. "I'm the one wearing the diamond."

I sank down on him. Slow. Deliberate. He hissed through his teeth. His hands shot up, grabbing my hips like steel vices.

For the next few minutes, there was only the violent slap of flesh and the creak of the bedframe. He thrust upward, trying to pound the submission back into my bones. I rode the impact. I let my head drop back. I kept my moans perfectly calibrated to feed his ego.

He came with a guttural grunt. His nails dug half-moons into my hip bones.

He shoved me off immediately. He rolled to the edge of the bed, grabbing the two crystal glasses on the nightstand. The intimacy vanished. The cold, arrogant billionaire returned.

"Your turn," he said. He took a heavy swallow of the Pinot Noir and shoved the other glass into my hand. The crystal stem was greasy from his grip. "Tell me a secret, Eve. A real one. Did you cheat on your college finals? Kiss the pool boy?"

I sat up. The silk sheets pooled around my waist. The physical evidence of his dominance dripped down my inner thigh. I stared at the dark red liquid in my glass. It looked identical to the blood on the yacht's deck fifteen years ago.

"I killed a man."

My voice lacked any inflection. I looked him dead in the eye.

Richard froze. The silence in the room stretched out, thick and heavy. Then, a sharp bark of laughter tore out of his chest. He threw his head back, laughing so hard the wine sloshed over his rim.

"God, you are a piece of work." He wiped a tear from his eye. "Trying to spook me? Retaliation for the Chloe confession? You win, babe. You're terrifying."

"I'm not joking."

"Right." He smirked. He took another gulp of wine, his eyes trailing down my bare chest with dismissive amusement. "Who was it? The mailman?"

"Arthur." I placed my wine glass flat on the marble table. The glass clinked sharply. "My father."

The smirk died on Richard's lips. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbow. The arrogance faded, making way for a dark, creeping calculation.

"Arthur drowned," Richard said slowly. "You were seventeen. He got black-out drunk and fell into the river. I read the private investigator's background check."

"You read a piece of paper." I crossed my legs, pulling the blanket up to cover my chest. The dynamic had shifted. He didn't deserve to look at me anymore. "There are always other options, Richard. Sometimes the truth just wears a convenient outfit."

Richard went totally still. He swallowed loudly. His knuckles wrapped around his wine glass turned a stark white.

"Do you want to hear the details?" I tilted my head, offering the warm, patient smile of a mother reading a bedtime story.

"Do you want to know exactly how a seventeen-year-old girl makes a grown man vanish without a trace?"

"If you want to drag out this sick fantasy." He shrugged, faking total indifference.

But he didn't take another sip of his wine. He just stared at me.