Chapter 2
Sasha
Carter actually thinks he’s going to put me over his knee and spank me.
Boy, does he have another think coming.
Had he missed me teaching kickboxing this morning? One swift kick, right to the family jewels. That’s all it will take to bring him to his knees.
One kick.
Sure, Carter’s six foot five and built of nothing but solid muscle. But I’m strong—he should know, he’s the one who’d trained me at Barbells, the gym he owns, the one we will soon co-own. And I’m faster than him.
Disciplining me just isn’t… him. He’s a sweetheart. A dedicated boyfriend. Holds the door for me, talks to my mother on the phone when she calls, helping her with her broken English. Runs to the store for chocolate and Midol at that time of the month.
Tells me I’m beautiful even when I have the flu.
I stopped wearing makeup when we first began dating because he loved the look of my bare face so much.
He adores me.
And… the proposal.
I was the envy of all the Bachman women.
He’d rented the entire rooftop bar, just for us. The diamond is a three-carat, marquise-cut beauty, on a raised platinum band. It had been ethically mined—that’s just the kind of guy Carter is—by a man in Africa who’d personally earned half the money Carter had paid for it.
After reciting a tear-jerking poem he’d written for me, he asked for my hand, and I’d accepted.
Carter and I love to celebrate. Immediately after I’d said yes, he surprised me by having the entire Bachman clan come up from our Village and party the night away.
My favorite champagne flowed like water from fountains.
Platters of sashimi—no carbs, no guilt—had just been flown in that morning.
It had been the Bachman party of the year.
I’ve been planning our wedding forever, mostly because I love a good party and because I want the whole clan dancing until sunrise. I want it to feel like us, not like a competition with anyone else.
And Carter has always loved making me happy.
Carter and I have been together long enough that somewhere along the way I got used to being the one who pushed hardest in every disagreement.
That’s how we learned to work—argue, negotiate, kiss, make up. Sometimes I win. Sometimes Carter lets me think I won.
The truth is, I like being in control. I’m good at it. I built my life around being strong enough to handle whatever comes at me, and trusting someone else to make the final call still hits a nerve I don’t entirely understand.
Especially here, where every conversation seems to include another rule about what a Bachman woman is supposed to be.
Tonight, for example, I want to go out. I can practically hear the beat of the club music thumping through my veins.
All my friends will be there, and I just found that lost, slinky little black dress hiding in the back of my closet.
The one that barely covers my ass and will send Carter into a fit of rage if he sees me wear it out.
Which he won’t.
Because I’m going to sneak out.
Sure, I have a five a.m. spin class teaching the elite housewives of New York City how to cycle their already skinny asses off. I’m only going to have a few drinks and dance for a couple of hours. That still leaves three hours for sleep.
I’ll be fine.
Tonight, for example, Carter tells me no and every rebellious instinct in me comes roaring awake. It isn’t only about the club. I need one night where I’m not someone’s future Bachman wife. One night where I’m simply Sasha—loud, sweaty, dancing, and entirely myself.
I have never been very good at being told who I am supposed to be.
Things are going as per our usual.
But then, Bronson Bachman came over, whispering something in Carter’s ear just as I was stomping up the steps. The way Bronson eyed me, contempt flashing in his dark irises, made a shiver run down my spine.
The nerve.
Who does he think he is? Giving me those dirty looks?
I guess he is the head of the Bachman clan. One of, if not the singular most powerful men in New York City.
But he needs to mind his own business.
This is between me and Carter.
When I get through the door, I slam it behind me for good measure.
I run up the stairs to the second floor and watch Carter from the window. Bronson says a few words. Carter gives Bronson a nod, then comes flying up the porch steps, two at a time.
Carter busts through the front door, shouting my name. There’s an edge to his voice I don’t recognize. Bronson must have gotten him riled up pretty good.
Nothing I can’t handle.
I step out from where I’m watching in the living room window. I lean one hand on the frame of the doorway that connects the living room to the stairwell, where he stands below.
I look down, batting my eyelashes and sweetly say, “Yes, my love?” I put my other hand on my hip, turning my body. I know my shirt is rising, showing off my toned midriff. I know that when I turn just so, the curve of my ass is sticking out. Luring him in.
He’s not buying it.
He narrows his eyes at me. “That’s enough, Sasha. It’s time I took you over my knee and taught you a lesson about respect.”
I almost laugh out loud. Despite my best efforts to hide my amusement, a smirk plays at my lips.
But something changes in his face. His features turn to stone. His gaze hardens in a way that makes me tremble.
A shiver of fear runs down my spine.
Seconds later he’s up the stairs, next to me on the landing.
He grabs my upper arm. His fingers tighten around my bicep.
I give a little gasp—I’m surprised by the pain of his hold.
He yanks me toward him. His face is inches from mine.
Heat and anger radiate from him. There’s a strange tightening in my stomach and I feel as if I’ll start sweating.
I try to tug my arm away, but he’s holding me too tightly.
I stare into his eyes and what I see there makes me freeze.
He wants to hurt me.
When he speaks, his tone makes me tremble. “I mean it. Get yourself upstairs, right now.”
His fingers dig into my flesh. His broad shoulders seem even larger as he looms over me. Fire flashes in his eyes.
To my surprise, I’m hit by an intense wave of desire. My nipples tighten, my core turns to lava. I’ve never seen him this way and it’s turning me on. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Up to the bedroom. Right now.”
“But Carter, I—”
His words are cut from steel. “Not another word. Get up there and wait for me. It’s time you and I had a little chat.”
I’ve been around the Bachman wives long enough to know what talk and little chat are code for.
He thinks he’s going to beat my ass.
And there’s no way I’m going to let it happen.
First, I have to play nice. Arranging my features into an apologetic face, I say, “Oh, Carter. Has it really come to that?” I look at him from beneath my dark lashes and give him the teensiest, tiniest pout. He’s already starting to cave. His eyes soften. His jaw loosens.
His voice is apologetic when he speaks. “I’m afraid so.”
He lets me go.
I humbly slide up the stairs. I roll my hips as I make my way. I’m just a naughty little sex kitten going upstairs for her punishment. And he’s buying it.
Once inside the third-floor master bedroom, I quickly start changing.
Stripping out of my black spandex workout clothes, I slide into the tiny dress—the short black and silver striped number that barely covers my ass.
I slip into black strappy sandals. My ponytail from the gym will have to do.
Pretty soon I’ll be dancing and sweating anyway.
It’s been less than three minutes since Carter sent me up, and I’m ready to go.
I told you I’m fast.
I go to the doors that lead to the balcony overlooking the back garden.
Down the narrow steps of the fire escape I fly—all the Bachman rowhomes have one; you can never have enough getaway routes.
My feet hit the street and I take off in a run.
My sandals kiss the pavement lightly, barely making a noise.
I get to our back gate, press my thumb against the keypad. Through the first gate, then the second. Into the back of Barbells, our gym. One more keypad and I’m through the side door and onto the New York City streets.
It’s too chilly of a night for such a dress, but I’m plenty warm from my escape. Two blocks later, I’m smiling at Manny, the bouncer blocking the door of my favorite club.
Gotcha’s.
I couldn’t grab my purse with my cash and ID. It was on the first floor with Carter. But they know me here. Manny pulls the black velvet rope back for me. He winks. “Evening, Sasha. No Carter, tonight?”
“Nope. I’m flying solo.” I flash him my most charming grin. With a swish of my long ponytail, I sashay into the club.
They know me here. I’m not looking for a man or a free drink. I’m looking for music, my friends, and one reckless night where I get to feel like myself.
But before the drink, one quick dance.
Not bothering to find my friends yet, I elbow my way through the crowd, right to the center of the floor.
The room is dark, the colorful lights flicker and swirl over the black walls and ground.
The music thumps a steady rhythm that overtakes my body.
My eyes close; my arms reach up over my head.
The sound reverberates through my limbs.
I sway back and forth, my hips gyrating to the beat.
It’s one of my favorite songs—one I play when I teach my Zumba classes. I’m finding myself doing exactly what I tell my class to do: let go and release your inner sex goddess. I can feel others’ gazes devouring me as I lift my arms higher. Shake my ass harder—
Suddenly, I’m ripped from my meditative dance—someone’s grabbing my arm and yanking me hard. I lurch from the center of the floor.
“What the hell—” I start to scream. Then I stop.
I’m staring into the face of my fiancé. For the second time tonight, I’m gasping from the pain of his grip.
His blond hair stands on end. His chiseled jaw is clenched.
His green eyes are normally happy, sparkling. Now they flash at me, daring me to speak. He turns, pulling me further from the dance floor.