Chapter 1
On the night of our arranged marriage, Edward Holmes said gently, "Once a week. If you ever don't want to, you can stop anytime."
I bit my lip and nodded, but my heart sank. He was setting a quota on our wedding night, so how badly did he not want me?
After that, every time we were intimate, he finished before midnight on the dot, as if one extra second would kill him.
Then came the night my best friend arranged a male host to drive me home, and Edward hauled me straight from the front door into the bedroom.
Edward's eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was hoarse enough to scare me. "You think I don't touch you enough?"
He was a wild animal off its leash all night long.
Only when I was crying and begging did he stop, and his hands shook as he kissed the tears off my face.
"Baby, it's not that I don't want you. I'm scared of hurting you. Every time we finish, I have to stand under a cold shower for half an hour before I can sleep."
*****
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered like daylight, but I wasn't in the mood to look.
The sheet of paper in my hand was crumpled from how hard I'd been gripping it.
It was our prenuptial agreement, and Article 7, Clause 3, in plain twelve-point type, read: [Both parties voluntarily agree to maintain a moderate and regular sex life, with the specific frequency to be determined through negotiation.]
They called it negotiation.
I looked up at the man on the other end of the couch.
Edward had just showered, and his hair was still damp. He wore a charcoal robe, the collar hanging open over a slice of hard, lean chest.
He was holding a file, eyes down, reading with total focus, and the cold, clean line of his profile belonged on the cover of a men's magazine.
Our marriage license was still in my purse, the ink barely dry.
"What are you thinking about?"
He spoke out of nowhere, and his voice came out low and rough, as if the steam from the shower had gotten into it.
I came back to myself, met those bottomless eyes, and straightened my spine on reflex. "Nothing."
He set the file down, stood, and walked over.
The hem of his robe swung with each step, showing a stretch of smooth, muscled calf. It hit me that I had met this man exactly five times in my life.
The first was a dinner with both sets of parents; the second was the setup at a coffee shop; the third was the engagement party; the fourth was signing the license.
And the fifth was tonight.
It was our wedding night.
He stopped in front of me and looked down, the lamplight laying soft shadows across his face. I thought he was about to do something, and my heart skipped, and my fingers twisted into the hem of my nightgown without my permission.
Then he spoke, "Once a week."
I froze. "What?"
His tone was calm, like a man closing a deal. "Sex. Once a week. If you ever don't want to, you can stop anytime."
I searched his face for any trace of a joke in that cool expression.
There was nothing.
He wasn't joking.
Once a week.
On our wedding night, my husband told me we were having sex once a week.
My throat closed up, but I pulled together a decent smile and nodded. "Okay. Whatever you want."
He looked at me for two seconds like he had more to say, and in the end, he only said, "Mm."
Then he switched off the overhead light and left one dim lamp glowing by the bed.
"Get some sleep," he said.
He lay down with his back to me.
I lay on my side and stared at that broad back until my eyes stung.
Once a week.
How much did a man have to dislike a woman to put a number on it on their wedding night?
I bit down on my lip and fought the tears with everything I had.
*****
After that, it really was once a week.
Every Saturday night, he came home a little earlier than usual, had dinner with me, and moved closer at around nine-thirty.
He would kiss me.
He was a good kisser, gentle and slow, like he was afraid of disturbing something precious. His hands ran hot, and when they landed on me, they carried a careful, deliberate restraint.
He would hug me.
He held me tight, like he wanted to press me into his bones, but at eleven-thirty on the dot, he stopped.
The first time, his kisses had me dizzy and sure that something more was coming, and then he stopped cold, laid me gently back on the pillow, got up, and went into the bathroom.
I could hear the water running in the bathroom.
It ran for a long, long time.
It ran so long that I was half asleep by the time he came back to bed with the cold clinging to his skin.
At the time, I figured it was a rich-boy thing, some cleanliness hang-up.
The weeks that followed went exactly the same way.
After every time, he took a long shower. Some nights I woke up at two in the morning, and the water was still running.
It was strange.
But I didn't dare ask.
Ours was a business marriage, a family arrangement, a trade where each side got what it needed. I didn't dare want more from it, and I didn't dare ask him why.
Then one day, I overheard him on the phone with a friend.
He thought I'd gone out, so he took the call in his study, and pieces of his voice drifted through the crack in the door.
"Yeah, just once a week.
"I'm afraid she can't take it.
"It's early. We'll take it slow.
"She's pretty delicate."
I stood outside the door with my nails digging into my palms.
So that was it.
Afraid I couldn't take it? He meant I bored him so badly that touching me any more than that was a chore.
"Delicate" was a polite way of saying he couldn't stand me.
I took a deep breath, turned, and walked away.
I didn't cry.
It was a business marriage. Love had never been part of the deal.
But that night, I couldn't sleep.