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“Stephanie,” he cuts in, smirking. “You’d know, drunk or not, if I’d fucked you. You’d be covered in cuts and bruises. You wouldn’t be able to walk. And you sure as hell wouldn’t be questioning it. Because you’d feel it. I’d still be dripping down your thighs. So no, we did not have sex.”
You’d be surprised how freeing it is to submit to me. The places I could take you... the things I could make you feel. You give me control, and I’ll give you the world. You’ve already had a little taste.”
How do I explain to a fucking neurologist that I need my brain scanned because I’m too obsessed with my wife?
