Chapter 3
Carter
My palm stings. My cock is straining uncomfortably hard against my trousers.
She’s tugging at the end of her hair. She’s biting her lip. She doesn’t want me to see the tears that are brimming in her eyes.
She’s sorry. She’s my sweet Sasha.
I want to gather her up into my arms. Tell her it’s going to be alright. Eat her wet cunny and make her scream my name.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
I don’t know that everything is going to be alright. That will be up to her.
Her hand is trembling in mine as I take her up the front steps. As I press my thumb against the security keypad, I see a new wreath hanging on our door—I’d missed it earlier. It’s made of cranberries and mums. She’s hung it for fall. A sharp pain tears through my chest.
I can’t imagine living here without Sasha.
But I will.
I’ve made a commitment to the Bachman name, and I’ll uphold it.
Once a Bachman, always a Bachman.
I’d told myself she would eventually understand our way because she loved me.
That was cowardice dressed up as patience.
I let Sasha believe our relationship would stay exactly as it had always been while privately expecting her to step into a structure I had never fully explained.
I cannot ask her to trust rules I was afraid to discuss.
Hell—the real truth was that I thought I could keep the difficult parts of this life separate from the woman I loved and we would be fine.
I’d been kidding myself. You can’t live the Bachman life without understanding what the Bachman lifestyle asks from both people.
The men lead. The women choose to place their trust in that leadership. But headship is not a prize a Bachman man wins. It is a debt he takes on. Protection. Provision. Loyalty. Restraint. If Sasha gives me the gift of her submission, I answer for the care I take with it.
Sasha has never feared strength. What frightens her is the idea that trusting mine might require surrendering her own.
Except right now.
The door opens. She waits for me to direct her where to go.
This is new.
“Go have a seat on the couch. We need to talk,” I say.
The pitiful glance she gives me almost breaks my heart. “Carter, I—”
“Now.” I will be strong. I will be the man that I know I’ve not been.
I’ll be a Bachman. I’ll uphold my vow.
Whether she chooses to accept, that will be up to her.
We go up the stairs to the living room. She sits on the couch. Her face winces as her poor bottom contacts the cushion.
I’d spanked her hard. I came up to our room expecting her to be there, and she wasn’t. She had climbed down a fire escape and vanished into New York without a phone, purse, or ID after letting me believe she was safely upstairs. That is the part I cannot shrug off as Sasha being Sasha.
When I saw her on the dance floor, relief hit first. Anger followed close behind. The dress stirred every possessive instinct I have, but the dress was not the offense. The deception was. If I am going to demand that she trust my judgment, I have to be disciplined enough to know the difference.
I sit beside her.
Her gaze is soft. Sorry. She sniffles.
She looks so small. Vulnerable. My throat feels tight. “Sasha, do you like living here in the Village?”
Her fingertips reach for her ponytail. She tugs on the end of it. I don’t even think she’s aware she has the habit. “Y-yes?”
“Do you like living with me?” I ask.
“Of course! I love living with you.”
My chest is tight. I can barely speak. But I have to say the words. “Do you love me?”
Her eyes widen. She’s shocked I would ask such a thing. “You know I love you, Carter. Why’d you even ask something like that? Do you… do you not love me anymore?”
She’s crying.
I look away. I can’t watch her cry—I’ll gather her in my arms, and we’ll be right back where we started.
Nowhere.
I say, “I love you more than anything. But I’ve made a vow.”
“To the Bachmans? I know. You told me all about it when we got engaged. And I’ll make the same vow when we get married.”
I lock eyes with her.
She goes to speak but her words catch in her throat. A sudden recognition flashes in her eyes. She knows I’m about to give her an ultimatum.
I drop the bomb. “I can’t marry you. Not unless we both truly adopt the Bachman lifestyle.”
Her face changes, and I force myself not to retreat from the truth. “And before you answer, I owe you something. I should have had this conversation with you before I proposed. I kept waiting for you to become the woman I expected instead of telling you what I expected. That was not fair to you.”
She blinks at me. “You should have told me.”
“Yes. I should have.”
Her brow furrows. She doesn’t understand. “But you’ve spanked me. We made it through that. I can… do that again.” She squirms in her chair. A flash of the sight of her exposed cunny, the memory of the scent of her arousal hits me. My cock hardens.
Down, boy.
Shoving aside my desire, I press on. “It’s not the spanking.
It’s trust. We can argue. God knows we always will.
I don’t want a wife without opinions. But when a decision touches the danger of this family, I need to know you will hear me instead of treating every no as a challenge to defeat.
If you choose me as the head of our household, I owe you something in return: I listen before I decide.
I never use your submission to make you smaller.
I never confuse my pride with your safety.
And if I ask for your trust, I earn it.”
Her eyes sharpen. “And when I think you’re wrong?”
“Then you tell me. Loudly, knowing you. Submission is not silence, Sasha. But after I have heard you, there will be times when the final call is mine—and accepting that has to be your choice. Not something I frighten or spank you into.”
She’s quiet. One hand picks at a sequin on the hem of her dress. One hand twirls and tugs at her hair. She won’t look at me.
It’s time to tell her the truth. The whole truth. I say, “Who do you think I asked for permission to marry you?”
Her eyes meet mine. Her brow knits. “My father? You called him… I remember because you were unsure the country code for Greece—”
“A formality. I went to Bachman’s Jewelers for the ring. Before I bought it. I asked Bronson’s permission. He has the final say of who can enter the family. And he had reservations. But I promised him that you were meant to be a Bachman. I told him how much I love you. Trust you.”
“He didn’t want you to marry me?” Anger wells in her voice.
The hurt hits first. Then comes the armor I know so well—chin high, eyes sharp, every vulnerable thing locked behind anger.
I steady my voice, keeping it level. “No. He didn’t. He said you wouldn’t be able to commit to the lifestyle. But I told him he was wrong. And that I can’t live without you.” Was I the one who was wrong about you?
Her brow narrows. Her eyes flash. When she speaks, her words are quiet. Cold. Calculated.
“Well, it looks like you’ll have to find a way to live without me, after all.”
My world comes crashing down.
Her words are a punch and it lands in my chest, knocking the wind from me. I can barely breathe. I feel the blood draining from my face.
I’ve seen this coming.
It’s been like a small tugging in my gut for some time. A nagging doubt. My instincts telling me how it really is between us. I just didn’t want to listen. I let my love for her cloud the reality of the situation.
Maybe Bronson was right about one thing: I cannot decide for Sasha that this life is hers. She has to choose it with her eyes open, or I have to let her go.
I stand, staring down at her. I say, “It’s over.”
She’s sitting there on the couch. Furious. Her dress has ridden up around her hips. The way she’s sitting, I can see a peek of that perfect cunt that I know is dripping wet. Leaving a spot on my couch. Right underneath the ass I’ve just reddened.
She crosses her arms over her chest. Her breasts rise, bare beneath her dress.
She pouts. This simple gesture is my undoing.
I have to have her, one last time.
The idea of never touching her again tears through me. I want one last kiss so badly I can taste it, but wanting her does not give me the right to take anything.
If she wants me too, she will have to choose it.
I step close but keep my hands at my sides. “Tell me to leave you alone, Sasha, and I will.”
Her eyes blaze into mine. “I am furious with you.” Her breath catches. “Kiss me anyway.”
She’s so lithe—long and lean, all furious energy in my arms. But she asked for this kiss. That matters. I can be stronger without using that strength to erase her choice. I give her exactly what she asked for and no more than she welcomes.
I push her up against the wall. My hand goes to the center of her chest. Pinning her into place. Her eyes flash at me. She’s furious, but the fury is clouded with desire. She’s breathing hard. I can feel her heart banging against her chest. She’s biting her bottom lip.
I leave my hand, holding her there. With my other, I grab that ponytail. The one she’s so often swinging around in her sassy manner. I wrap my fingers around it and pull.
Hard.
She gives a shocked gasp and her head rolls back. I lean down, my face beside hers. My mouth finds her ear. “I’m going to have what I want.” I take the delicate lobe between my teeth and bite. She cries out.
The tip of my tongue trails downward, finding that delicate spot on her neck she so loves to have kissed… softly. Instead, I zero in on it, biting then sucking.
She cries out again. Her fingers find my shoulders, the tips of her nails bury into my flesh. My mouth forms an unbreakable bond with her delicate skin and I mark her. I can picture the purple bruise that will arise for all to see. My goodbye kiss.
“Carter.” The sound of her raspy voice stops me in my tracks.
She’s pleading.
I release her hair. My mouth leaves her neck. I take my hand down from her chest and take a step back.
What have I done?
Her eyes find mine. I’m not sure what to say.
Before I can speak, her mouth is on mine. Her hands are around my neck, in my hair, clawing, grasping. She kisses me with an intensity that makes my gut clench. My cock hardens and rises and presses against the fabric that constricts it, until it’s painful.
My hands find her ass. Bare under her almost nothing dress. Still warm from my striking palm. I clutch her curves, digging my fingers into her flesh until she breaks the kiss to cry out in pain. Then I’m shoving the fabric up over her hips. Her fingers fumble to undo my belt, push away my pants.
My cock lunges from its cage. Long and hard and ready to conquer.
I grab her waist. My fingers wrap so tightly, her hipbones lock into my palms. I push her ass up against the wall. I bend my knees, shoving my cock to her pussy. I find her entrance. She groans as I press against her.
My hands go beneath her thighs. In one fluid movement, I lift her up, her legs wrapping tightly around my waist, and I plunge inside of her hot, wet sex.
Again, I tug on her hair. Bring her long ponytail down. This time, I pin the end of it against her lower back.
She cries out and the walls of her pussy constrict around my rock-hard cock. I thrust my hips forward, driving my full length inside of her. She gasps. I pull back and go again. She’s screaming my name and I’m relentless. Her hands wrap around my shoulders, her nails scratch my back, my chest.
I just keep fucking.
Her legs wrap tighter around my waist. She buries her face between my neck and my shoulder.
She’s getting tighter, wetter. I know her signs and she can’t take much more.
I give three more hard thrusts, then I hear it.
That familiar mewing noise she makes just before she comes.
Just at the sound of her, my balls constrict, the base of my cock tightens.
My mind goes blank and my only existence is the place we are joined and how damn good it feels to be coming inside of her.
My hot seed fills her and I give one last thrust. My entire body tingles as I release her from my grasp, sliding her legs down to the floor.
Her hands are on my shoulders. She catches my eyes, then looks away. We stand like this for a moment.
Her before me. My hands still on her waist.
An awkward silence hangs between us.
I drop my hands. I leave her, pulling up my pants.
We avoid one another’s gaze. Put ourselves back together.
She’s straightening her dress. Smoothing back her hair. I tuck my shirt into my pants. Zip my fly and buckle my belt.
When we are done, we linger. The space between us is only a few feet but seems vast. Impossible to close. After what we’ve just done, I find it so strange that I feel I can’t touch her. That I need to keep my distance from her.
Finally, she looks up at me. She clears her throat. She bites her lip. She says, “So where do we stand, now?”
My heart grows cold, hard. “Do you submit yourself to me?”
Her brow narrows, as if something about this very simple premise—the one my world is built on, the one she was supposed to commit to—is confusing her. She shakes her head. “No. Hell, no.”
The room is filled with the familiar scent of our fucking. My cock is still wet, from me. From her.
I say, “Then it’s over.”
Her anger melts. She looks up at me with wide eyes.
I have to get out of here. I can’t be in the same room as her. I need to see my brother. Be with him and his wife to get my head together. Holding my voice steady, I say, “I’ll be at John and Mary’s. You have the night to get your stuff out of here.”
“Where will I go? What will I do? Carter?” She reaches for my hand.
I slip my fingers from her. My heart tears in two as I turn my back on her. I leave the house.
My house. Where I now live alone.