Don't Call Her Angel

By Cara McKenna

Peering into Emily's and Rasul's lives from the outside paints an unlikely picture-the sweet, deferring Southern bride and her cold, self-possessed, ex-military husband. Peer into their bedroom and the scene grows starker still. Domineering man, submissive girl, a sex life not for the faint of heart. But peer inside their heads? That's another matter entirely.

Obsessive, traditional and controlling, Rasul never planned on marrying an American woman, let alone a kinky one. A dark past has left Emily with unusual appetites, ones Rasul has come to embrace-a small price to pay to indulge his sexual power trip, the thrill of being the one who makes her every desire real.

But bringing another man into their bedroom? For most husbands, that's a kink too far. For Rasul, it's yet another sin he never dreamed he'd commit before he met his wife…and an invitation to spoil her rotten too good to pass up. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094452159

Cara McKenna

Meg Maguire has published nearly forty romances and erotic novels with a variety of publishers, sometimes under the pen name Cara McKenna. Her stories have been acclaimed for their smart, modern voice and defiance of convention. She was a 2015 RITA Award finalist, a 2014 RT Reviewers' Choice Award winner, and a 2010 Golden Heart Award finalist. She lives with her husband and baby son in the Pacific Northwest, though she'll always be a Boston girl at heart.

Book preview

1

At six o’clock, Emily looked up as the rumble of the garage door announced her husband’s punctual return.

She glanced around the kitchen as she passed through and deemed it tidy, a pleasant place for a man to come home to.

Emily’s momma would have rolled her eyes at such a thought. Such a wifey thought—her never-married mother’s favorite derogatory adjective. Emily didn’t care. She loved that it still felt like the moments before a first date when her husband drove up, and that he still excited her as he had three years ago when they’d first laid eyes on each other.

She smoothed her hair, freshly brushed, her makeup just retouched, though her husband likely wouldn’t notice either effort.

Yet he couldn’t be faulted. More often than not, he came home with a head full of worries Emily couldn’t begin to imagine, plus it wasn’t as though he didn’t look at her, or indeed enjoy looking at her. Besides, Emily hadn’t married Rasul for his ability to spot whether or not she’d gotten highlights done or changed her perfume. She’d married him for how he made her feel, and the way he looked at her, a stare so intense it probably melted all her foundation off anyhow. She’d married him for his strong hands, rough voice, his kind heart and the way she felt around him, a wondrous mix of secure and electrified.

The garage door rattled shut and Emily held her breath as boots mounted the steps, as the knob turned and the door swung in. Her blood pumped quicker and a grin overtook her face. Goddamn, how was this possibly her husband?

He smiled as he stepped inside and Emily waited. Certain things must be done before she could greet him properly. He toed his boots off on the mat and ditched his briefcase on the counter. He offered Emily a kiss—a quick kiss, firm and possessive, chased by another smile.

Hey, you.

Hey, yourself. You want a drink? she asked.

Rasul nodded. He walked back to close the door, lingering there, waiting for Emily to turn away.

She grabbed him a beer from the fridge, listening as he went through his private ritual, turning the locks just so, jiggling the knob, tugging, starting it all over. He must have had a relatively calm Monday at work, as he only relocked the door four times before deciding it was sufficient.

As he took a seat at the dining room table with a sigh, Emily poured herself a glass of white wine and cut it with orange juice.

My little lightweight, he teased in his warm, dark accent, and they tapped their drinks together.

She gave him a looking-over, curious as always about what went on inside that private head, though realizing she’d probably rather not know. How was work?

Rasul shrugged, as much information as he ever offered about his job. He worked for the federal government just a few miles from their home in Virginia, as an interrogator. Born for it. Back in the Middle East, he’d served in his homeland’s army all through his twenties, and though he was five-eleven, something in his posture or expression made him look about seven-foot-three. Black eyes and brows and permanent five o’clock shadow, shaved head, a body that made a delicate Georgia flower such as Emily fan herself to fight off a swoon.

She imagined he spent his days slamming his fists on desks under the glare of bright, hoodless bulbs, scaring pertinent intelligence out of bad men, yelling until spittle peppered their faces. His bosses treated Rasul like a Rottweiler, only really caring what he did once they gave the order to sic, and as such he refused to adhere to the agency’s dress code. Jeans and a black tee shirt were his uniform for every occasion save weddings and funerals. If his regular bonuses were any indication, he did his job damn well, and no one seemed to mind if he was occasionally mistaken for a security guard. In fact sometimes, here at home, he resembled that role a bit too closely for Emily’s taste.

How has everything been around here? He often came home hoarse, but not tonight. Tonight his deep voice with that strangely elegant lilt sounded rich and mysterious. Commanding.

She glanced around the kitchen. Fine. Quiet.

The house was too big for them, too new to her still after only eight weeks. She missed their old apartment, but she’d grow to love this home. Add a dog and a couple of kids someday and it’d be the perfect size.

You look nice, he said.

Emily smiled, glad of this hint that he was relaxed enough to have spotted her effort. Thanks. Thought I’d grill steaks tonight, since it’s finally feelin’ like spring. Made a casserole for you for tomorrow. Chicken and spinach and some other things.

His gaze jumped instinctively to the stove. He didn’t rise to check the burner knobs though, another sign he was feeling calm today. Sounds lovely. Though not as lovely as you being home.

She smiled tightly, annoyed he’d hit their one raw nerve. Rasul wished she’d stay home, as if her working were an insult to him and his earning potential, his manhood. Emily had tried playing housewife full-time for a month after they’d married, but it made her feel isolated and idle and paranoid. She was a fidgety person, and work kept her brain busy. It’s only two shifts a week.

"Two night shifts."

She smiled and shook her head. You met me at that bar. Plus nobody’s gonna jump out of the bushes and knife me in Reston.

His nostrils flared and he sipped his beer.

Neanderthal, her mother’s voice said. Her momma had fashioned herself a breed of preachy feminism later in life, and had never approved of Rasul. She’d sat through their small backyard ceremony looking as though she were smelling something foul. His race and lapsed religion had nothing to do with it—not directly, anyhow. She simply thought her son-in-law was pushy and cold, and didn’t care to listen to justifications about cultural rifts. Emily liked those things about him though. Plus he’d never outright forbid her to work if that’s what she wanted.

It’s only for a few more months, she reminded him. When she’d moved here with her dusty GED she’d worked as a cashier at Target. She’d swapped it for a job tending bar, which she’d held on to for nearly four years, and now here she was, signed up to start a nursing course in the fall. That might as well be a fast-food gig in this affluent area, but for a girl who grew up in a single-wide, Emily felt poised for greatness.

When September rolls around I can finally start feeling like a grown-up, she said.

I’m very proud. Anyone aside from Emily might have been unconvinced by Rasul’s dry tone, but she knew him. She knew from the shapes of his cheeks when he smiled and the way his eyes softened that he was indeed proud. He spent his days screaming threats to get the truth out of people, but Emily could read his emotions like a polygraph, every tiny, silent hint he offered.

He set his beer on the table and spread his legs, patting one. Emily relocated, straddling his thigh to rest her back along his arm and hard chest, relaxing instantly. An unlikely match, the ruthless former soldier and his small, blonde Southern bride.

Emily had spent most of her life being called slow or simple, overhearing her aunts saying things like, Thank goodness she’s pretty. If she don’t get herself in no trouble with the local boys she might just stand a chance at marrying well someday. God knows she ain’t the brightest penny in the fountain. But Rasul never made her feel that way. He liked that she could sit in front of C-SPAN for three days straight with her eyes taped open and still not retain a single word of it. He liked that she knew the lyrics to every Patsy Cline song but stared blankly at people when they asked her opinion about this or that politician.

But you live right outside D.C.! people would say. In those moments Emily just shrugged her apology. Politics, foreign policy, current events…it all went over her head like Rasul’s phone calls home. Like the voice of the teacher in those old Peanuts cartoons. Yes, ma’am.

You feel nice, she murmured, taking in his warmth and the reassuring comfort of his size.

So do you. A man of few words, but the ones murmured against her neck spoke volumes. I’ll miss you tomorrow.

You too, she said.

Miss your body in our bed.

Emily shivered, already slipping into her role, the quiet, obedient one. Strong hands palmed her bare arms and goose bumps rose across her skin.

When Emily had finally mustered the courage to tell her mother she planned to marry Rasul, they’d both been a little tipsy. Her momma had met Rasul twice and already deemed him an unfixable, backward-thinking chauvinist ogre.

I’m telling you, you’ll regret it. Welcome to the rest of your life, Em, she’d said, waving her hands as though gesturing at a movie screen showcasing Emily’s bleak future. Welcome to forty years of selfish, boring missionary monotony with that man. You’re just a blow-up doll to a patriarchal thug like him. A blow-up doll who can cook and nod and make babies and look pretty while she’s at it. If he’s doing anything to impress you in the bedroom now, honey, well, you can kiss that goodbye the second he closes the sale. That’s all you are to him, baby girl. Another piece of property. Mark my words, kiss your own pleasure sayonara.

Emily smiled at the thought.

Momma, if you only knew.

2

Rasul gave Emily’s thigh a light smack. Up you get.

She stood. You hungry now? she asked, praying she could guess the answer.

Not for dinner.

She smiled and headed for the stairs, to the second floor and their bedroom. She did like this about their fancy new house—carpeted steps meant she

Reviews for Don't Call Her Angel

[Heather O'Neale · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Loved it until the ending. Somehow I wanted Jeremy to be her partner