A shiver runs through my body on hearing his words, and I lean forward slightly, my throat pressing onto his palm. There is something disturbingly sensual in having his hand wrapped around my neck, knowing he can feel every draw and release of my breath, and, if he wished to, he could cut off my supply of air altogether.
It should scare me. I don’t deal well with giving a man, any man, a semblance of control over me, ever. Still, for some reason, this doesn’t bother me. Maybe it’s because his touch is feather-light, his fingers barely pressing on my skin, as though he doesn’t truly want to scare me, and as if this is a game. Yes, such a contradiction—my husband. Ordering four innocent men to be executed, then offering to carry me around the apartment because I’m sore.
I press my palms on
