Spicy, Sacred and Intimate

Chapter One: Savannah

"Harder, faster," I gasped, the words catching in my throat as I arched my back, mimicking a desperation I didn't feel.

In the dim designer lighting of our master suite, I watched Jordan’s face. He wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at the way his own muscles flexed in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined our bedroom.

He was a man obsessed with the mechanics of his own power. He thrived on the sound of my breath hitching, taking it as a personal tribute to his stamina.

I tightened my grip on the Egyptian cotton sheets, counting the beats until he would reach the peak of his solo performance.

When it finally happened, he let out a low, victorious growl, collapsing against me with the heavy, unearned confidence of a man who believed he had just rewritten the Kama Sutra.

"God, Savannah," he panted, rolling onto his back and sweeping a hand through his damp hair. "I don’t know how you handled that tonight. I was on a different level. Admit it, you’ve never had anyone who knows your body better than I do."

"Never," I whispered, the lie as smooth as the silk pillowcase beneath my head.

He let out a short, smug laugh, staring at the recessed gold leaf on our ceiling.

"I’ve got that touch, babe. Some guys have to read books or ask questions. I just *know*. It’s instinctive. I can feel exactly when you’re about to break. I know how to f*ck you so hard and you begged for mercy."

"Like I always tell you, I'm so good with women, I've always been good with them and none of my ex ever complained of how bad I treated them in bed."

They didn't tell him how bad he was? They must've been good women? Or maybe they didn't want drama? Or possibly, that's why they left him alone in his relationship to have it alone.

Who would be in a relationship with a man whose mouth was longer than how much he performed in bed?

The problem was never the minutes or how much he spent, just the entirety of how he always touched me was wrong, at first, all I felt was pain and ache all over my body each time he released.

At first, I thought it would get better with time. I only had s*x a few times before I met him, so I didn't know so much but it gets worse or maybe it has been worse from the very beginning and I had failed to acknowledge how bad he had always been.

I stayed silent, my mind already drifting toward the door.

Jordan lived in a world where his prowess was an undisputed fact, bolstered by the same ego that made him the most feared venture capitalist in the city.

He spent his days dismantling companies and rebuilding them in his image; he spent his nights doing the same to me, or so he thought. Why?!

We were the "Power Couple" of the local social scene, the high-stakes investor and the avant-garde bridal designer. My boutique catered to the kind of women who thought a $20,000 veil was a reasonable starting point. We lived in a sprawling, glass-and-steel fortress in the hills, a house designed to be admired, much like our marriage.

"You're welcome, by the way," he added, reaching over to pat my hip with that proprietary tap I’d grown to loathe.

It was the same gesture he used when he closed a multi-million dollar deal.

What does he always mean by you're welcome after a sexual disaster that I would only regret all night.

What p*ss*d me off the most was my ever reply: "Thanks, Jordan," I said, sliding out from under the covers.

"Where are you going?" he asked, already reaching for his phone to check the overnight Asian markets.

"I have a 6:00 a.m. fitting with the Sterling heiress, and I don't want to wake Leo," I lied. Leo was our four-year-old son, the beautiful, accidental catalyst for our marriage.

We had been dating for six months when I got pregnant; the wedding had been a lavish, televised affair six months after he was born.

Maybe I should never have married him if it wasn't for the pregnancy or maybe I was too in love with him to think he would get better with time. All the narratives I whipped together in order to endure have started to fall apart, now I can't even stand sexual days with him anymore.

"Right. Business first," Jordan muttered, already lost in a glow of stock tickers and phone calls, boasting yet again.

I grabbed my robe and stepped out into the hallway, the cold marble of the floors a relief against my feet. I didn't go to the kitchen for water. I didn't check on Leo, who was sleeping soundly in the nursery with his night nurse. I walked straight to the end of the north wing, to the "guest suite" that had quietly become my primary residence over the last year.

I closed the door and turned the lock, the soft *click* acting as a reset button for my sanity.

This room was my sanctuary. It was filled with my fabric swatches, my sketches, and a bed that didn't require me to be a world-class actress. I sat on the edge of the mattress, finally letting my shoulders drop.

I screamed out my lungs for what seemed like an eternity before I began to work my own release, finger f*ck*ng myself till the orgasm actually came, it wasn't satisfying but it was good enough, better than not feeling pleasure at all.

For three years, I had faked every single climax. Three years of "Harder, faster," three years of "Oh god, Jordan," and three years of watching him preen like a peacock while I remained a desert. I had built a career on understanding the intimate desires of women, what made them feel beautiful, what made them feel seen yet in my own bed, I was a ghost.

I was rich, I was successful, and I was lonelier than the women who walked into my shop with cold feet.

Even at the women's gatherings where they boasted about their husbands' stamina, all I remembered was a man who talked louder than he ever worked.

His ego was a wall I couldn't climb over. He didn't want to learn me; he wanted to conquer me. To him, s*x was a presentation, a slide deck where he was the only speaker.

If I ever tried to suggest a change in pace or a different touch, he would laugh and tell me I didn't know what I was talking about. *“Trust me, Sav, I know what you like better than you do,”* he’d say with that blinding, shark-like grin.

How would anyone know my body better than I did? I'm the only person who knows spots and places that would make me feel more than special. But Jordan always claimed he knew me more than myself.

Oh God!

And I always lay back on my bed, always reaching for my toys when my fingers weren't enough.

I looked at the clock. 12:15 a.m.

In two days, Jordan would be heading to London for a week-long summit. I lived for those weeks. I lived for the moments when I didn't have to manage his pride, when I didn't have to perform the role of the satisfied wife.

But as I stared at the door, I felt a simmering, dangerous heat beginning to rise in my chest. What if I just told him the truth? Would he even listen? With his big loud mouth?

I could recall one time I overheard him gossipping to his friends about how he performed wildly in bed. That my legs always shook terribly when I orgasmed, he bet he's the best man in my life for eternity. What if I told him that he wasn't?

He was just a disaster that had slowly turned into my nightmare.

Our marriage was a masterpiece of tailoring, I could still tailor, manage it just like I have always been. Jordan isn't entirely bad, apart from bed issues, he was such a sweet man...but the fabric was beginning to tear.

And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that the next time he told me "You're welcome," I might just be the one to tell him exactly how much he owed me for the performance.

But on a second thought before I drifted off to sleep, I just can't bring myself to hurt his feelings. He had his flaws but does that mean he should be nailed to the cross for it?

But he should be...a quiet part of my nagging before the sleep actually came.

Then came Tuesday, the day I used my own hands to change my entire narrative.

The sunlight had hit the glass walls of the breakfast nook with a surgical precision that made the silver service shine too brightly. I was on my third espresso, dressed in a charcoal silk power suit that cost more than most people's cars. Across from me, Jordan was scrolling through a digital copy of the *Financial Times*, looking every bit the conquering hero in his bespoke Italian tailoring.

"The Sterling fitting went well?" he asked, not looking up.

"She’s a brat, but her father’s check cleared, so she’s a beautiful brat," I replied, my voice as cool as the marble countertop.

Leo sat between us, his nanny hovering two feet away to ensure not a single drop of organic oatmeal touched the hand-knotted rug. Jordan reached over and ruffled Leo's hair.

"That’s my girl," Jordan said, finally looking at me with that shark-like grin. "Always closing. We really are a powerhouse, Sav. Did I tell you I’m being profiled in *Forbes* Next month? 'The Man Who Sees the Future of Equity.'"

"Fitting," I murmured, watching him. "You’ve always been very focused on the vision."

"It’s about execution," he said, setting the tablet down and leaning in. His voice dropped to that intimate register he saved for when he wanted to remind me of our 'connection.' "Like last night. That was... intense. Even for us....you know..." he winked, "You were particularly vocal."

*Intense? Did he mean disaster but happened to spell it wrongly?*

I felt a phantom itch under my skin. A scream wanting to be born. I took a slow sip of my coffee instead. "Was I?"

"Oh, don't play modest now. I know when I’ve got you on the ropes." He winked again, then stood up, checking his Patek Philippe. "I’ve got a board meeting. I’ll be home late, celebrating dinner for the Miller acquisition. Wear the emerald dress. The one with the low back."

"I have a deadline for the Fall collection, Jordan."

He paused, his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed, just a little too hard. "The collection can wait. This dinner is about optics. Everyone wants to see the Thorne-Vane magic in person. Don't be late."

He kissed my cheek and vanished into the foyer where his driver was waiting.

And that was it. It was all so Jordan. The main character syndrome again.

The day was a blur of pins, lace, and demanding brides in my study, I stood before a mannequin, draping a heavy ivory crepe. I looked at the way the fabric fell, very beautifully, very okay. So why does my marriage with Jordan seem like a disaster?

Not like I could confide in any one, not even my sister.

By 8:00 PM, I was standing in front of the vanity in my private suite, zipping up the emerald dress feeling utterly hollow even when my dress stood out so beautifully.

Jordan was waiting in the living room, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch in his hand. He looked me up and down, his eyes dark with that familiar, hungry pride.

He didn't see me, he never always did, just a trophy, a proof of his own high taste.

"Perfect," he said, handing me a glass. "You look like a million dollars."

"Only a million?" I joked, though my heart wasn't in it.  "I thought my market value was higher than that."

He laughed, missing the edge in my voice entirely. "You’re priceless, Sav. And tonight, I want everyone to know it."

The dinner was an exercise in theatricality. We sat at a table with three other couples, all of them wealthy, all of them watching us. Jordan spent the evening dominating the conversation, pivoting effortlessly from market trends to the 'secret' of a long-lasting marriage.

You heard me right, the secret of a long-lasting marriage when he didn't know how to do it to me in bed. I sipped my wine slowly recoiling when his hand touched my lap and I shifted away.

"It’s about never losing the spark," Jordan told the table, his hand sliding under the silk of my dress to rest on my thigh and I tried so hard not to spill my drink.

"You have to keep the momentum. I treat our bedroom the same way I treat a merger, with total commitment to the result."

The men laughed. The women offered tight, envious smiles. I sat there realizing that every person at this table believed him. They believed what he said.

That's why when the men shifted away, their attention was not on us anymore, all they could talk about was the bed games with their husbands.

And I had to pretend all night like I was immersed in the conversation, I was teaching them ways I wished my husband could touch me as if he was actually doing that to me already.

And they marvelled at how beastly my husband seemed to be despite being so gentlemanly.

When we finally got home, the house was silent. The nanny had put Leo to bed hours ago. Jordan led me up the stairs, his hand firm on the small of my back. He was high on the success of the night, drunk on the admiration of his peers.

He didn't wait for the bedroom door to close before he started unzipping the dress.

"Tonight was a win," he whispered against my neck, his hands rough as they searched for my skin. "I’m feeling inspired."

I felt the familiar dread settling in. The ritual was starting. The 'Harder, faster' script was being loaded into my brain.

"Jordan,"

"Yes..."

"Do we really have to do it tonight?"

Chapter Two: The night it went wrong 

"Yes, why not? Shouldn't we..." He murmured resting his head on my neck, his hands slowing down for a second.

"Shouldn't we do what, Jordan?" I asked, my voice flat, lacking the breathy invitation he expected.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his brow furrowed. "Shouldn't we celebrate? The Miller deal, the Forbes profile... I’m on top of the world, Sav. And you’re right here with me. Don't tell me you’re going to let a 'deadline' get in the way of this."

This is not about a deadline, I'm feeling so nervous that I really don't think I want to fake it tonight neither do I want to consult my toys or my fingers. Getting me all riled up for s*x and doing nothing in return is always so frustrating that I could feel my anger wearing thin.

Especially tonight after the conversation with those women.

"I’m exhausted, Jordan. Physically and mentally," I said, trying to pull