Little naïve pathetic loser.

“Are you going to make me tell you again?” she snapped.

And then – hiss, it was going to hiss – he really did it. He pressed his hand down and started whining. Casey was sure she could smell flesh cooking, could hear the hiss of iron–

Of his flesh, and she found herself wanting him, for the first time since their marriage. Not the other Casey, but the real her; she stared at how utterly beautiful he looked as the hiss serenaded her.

Her body sparkled and she knew she’d touch herself later.

He snatched his hand away. “Jesus Christ.”

“Tut-tut. I didn’t ask you to stop.”

“Please.”

“Scottie, darling…”

“Can I use my other hand, at least?”

“No, you can’t. Now do what you’re told.”

When he hesitated, Casey darted her hand out and curled it around his wrist. He didn’t fight her; he let her guide him, pushing his palm down on the plate.

She was in charge and nobody could tell her otherwise. Scott deserved this and nobody could ever argue with that. They were facts as true as the sun rising, as the colour of grass, the depth of the ocean.

When his moaning started to ruin it – he’d need a gag if he wanted to whine that loudly – she let his wrist go.

“Shall we order pizza?” she said.

Scott took a step back and opened his mouth. He was about to shout at her.

She gave him a look; she wasn’t going to let him disrespect her.

“Sure.” He stared down at his burnt hand. “Pizza sounds good.”

His tone was so goddamn annoying, threatening to ruin her high. It was the weakness of it; that was the worst part. He wanted the wife who did what he wanted all the time, but he was too scared to fight for it. He was truly, unquestionably, without a single doubt – and obvious to anybody who’d spent even thirty seconds with him – a pussy.

Casey remembered once in school, screaming that at the so-called bully as she held a bunch of her ugly bleached hair in her hand, staring down at her. What are you going to do now, pussy? And the same word, in another place, but it was power; this was power.

She had the blood of a lion and the scars of a warrior.

“Go on then,” she said, as she strode into the hallway. “Don’t get the order wrong. You should know what I like by now.”

“So that part was real, was it? That’s our whole marriage? Ham and pineapple pizza?”

He said it to himself, but he was speaking loudly, a passive-aggressive way to make her hear it but so he could still deny it later.

And maybe later she’d find something else then, if the selfish dick wanted to play that game.

For now, she went into the living room and sat down, turned up the music, and graced the crowd with her voice.