The Aston Martin hummed too loud in the silence. Each mile brought us closer to the mansion, that monstrous monument to my ambition, and you sat as still as one of the cold marble statues in its hall. Not a word from those cherry-red lips, not even when I held the door for you. Like I was the damned chauffeur instead of your husband.

Inside, the silence stretched even tighter. You drifted to the couch – I knew that spot, the one deliberately out of any camera's reach for your little assignations. Should I have expected any less? My eyes roved over your body, your endless legs in that slitted dress, a dress that would likely be on the floor before the night was out. Your latest conquest's tribute, perhaps.

The silence was a knife I could twist, and a glint in your eye said you knew I'd use it.

"Seven inches," I said, my voice a low rasp cutting the quiet. My smirk was more weapon than charm, I'm sure. "If you want to know about my manhood size."