The Imperfect Marriage: Quentin & Vivian's story. Age Gap Marriage of Convenience Romance (The

Chapter 51

Vivian

My husband surprised me again. He’s been so patient, so understanding, it’s hard to reconcile this tender side of him with the dominant, macho, alpha he is. I realize, I might have misjudged him. There are more facets to Q than I appreciated. After he asked—no, begged me not to ask him to stay away, and I agreed, he’s been sleeping in our bed the last few nights. But he hasn’t touched me, except to spoon me.

I woke up when he slipped into bed last night, then sighed in contentment when he pulled me into his arms. And I woke with the evidence of his arousal stabbing into the small of my back. I knew he was awake, and for a few seconds, I was sure he was going to make love to me. But he pushed my hair aside, kissed the curve of my shoulder, wished me a good day, and got out of bed. He bathed and left me with another kiss on my forehead.

Oh, my God, I felt so desired. I felt his restraint, and that turned me on even more. In a daze, I made it to my studio to find he’d left me a cappuccino in an insulated tumbler. I almost burst into tears with his thoughtfulness, then indulged myself by sipping the cappuccino slowly.

Why does it feel like our relationship has evolved? That he’s even more in tune with my desires? It makes me feel cherished, but also… Nervous? I place the tumbler aside, then walk over to my easel to survey the last painting I created. This is the final one I need for the show.

It’s also the only one that isn’t Quentin-themed. An abstract in blue and black, with wing-shaped shadows hidden between the layers of colors, it’s the darkest painting I’ve ever created, and the most personal. I wasn’t sure what it was meant to be, only that I felt compelled to splash colors onto the canvas. Now that it’s done, I can see it in perspective. I know what it is. I don’t want to sell this one, but I committed to the gallery owner to deliver twenty-five paintings, and this is one of them. I can’t go back on my word.

There’s a knock on the door, and when I turn, it’s to find Lizzie popping her head around. ”Can I come in?” She beams at me. I wave her in, and she walks over and hugs me. ”So good to see you!”

”You, too.” I squeeze her shoulders. ”How was the tour?”

”Great!” She steps back, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes. One I recognize. It’s how I feel when I’ve completed a painting and I know it’s good. It’s that sense of complete satisfaction at having emptied everything you have into your creation. That sense of having plumbed the depths of your subconscious and given it shape, knowing it”s not yours anymore.

We smile at each other, and then Lizzie hugs me again. ”Marriage suits you.”

“Thank you.” I bite the inside my cheek. “I heard about you confronting my husband, by the way.”

She seems a little taken aback, then she holds up her hands. “I’m sorry if it felt like I was interfering... Which I was. But when I realized how unhappy you were on that phone call, and I could tell you’d been crying…. And while you didn’t let slip much about the details, I gathered enough from our various conversations to realize your man was being bull-headed. He needed a talking to, and?—”

“You decided you were the person to give it to him?” I half smile.

“Something like that.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I hope I didn’t make things worse. I mean, clearly, I didn’t because you’re here all smiling and glowing. And I’m sorry if you feel I overstepped, but you’ve done so much for me Vivi, and I couldn’t stand by and see you unhappy. I had to do something about it.”

I take in her nervous tone and the anxiety in her features. I do think she overstepped, but that’s Lizzie. She’s impetuous and spontaneous and she meant well. Besides, whatever she told Q seems to have changed his mindset completely. “I am grateful for what you did, but”—I wag my finger— “don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, but I don’t think I”ll need to, going by that dazed look in your eyes.”

“Dazed look?” I scoff. “Must be from all the painting.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Oh, shut up”—I pat her cheek— “and speaking of… Being on tour seems to suit you. Must be all that sweating during a performance, hmm?”

She laughs; so do I. Then she shifts her weight from foot to foot. ”I may have… uh… met someone.”

A burst of happiness blooms in my chest. I feel so happy and I want Lizzie to feel the same. “How wonderful!” I throw my arms about her. “Tell me all about it.” I pull her over to the couch in the corner, then head to the small refrigerator in the corner.

”Wow, all the comforts of home.” She accepts the bottle of water I offer her.

”Quentin insisted, after he found out I hate to leave the studio when I’m working. He keeps it stocked with water, juices and healthy snacks, so I never starve.”

”That’s very considerate of him.”

I nod. ”He knows how to calm me down and anticipate my needs before I do. And he”s so caring. Oh my God!” I’m swooning, but I can’t stop myself.

She flashes me a knowing smile. ”He’s one hot silver fox.”

You have no idea.I clear my throat. ”Anyway,I’m done with the paintings. I can relax.”

She glances at the one on the easel. ”That’s very different from your normal style.” She rises to her feet and moves toward it. She surveys it closely. ”It’s edgier, and evocative, and sexy; yet also, haunting. There are depths to it… It feels like every time I look at it, I could find a new meaning.

”I do like it.” I walk over to stand next to her. ”I wish I didn’t have to sell it.”

”So don’t.”

I shake my head. ”I’m contracted to give all twenty-five of the paintings for the show.”

She shoots me a sideways glance ”You could afford to buy it, you know?”

I scowl. ”What are you talking about?”

”Pay the gallery owner and buy it for yourself.”

I laugh. ”That’s insane. I painted it. And you’re saying I should buy it back for myself?”

”You have the money, don’t you?” Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket; her hands fly over the screen. There’s a smile on her face. ”I have to go. Someone”s waiting for me.”

”Is that the boyfriend?”

She rolls her eyes. ”Too early to call him that.”

“But it’s headed there?”

She blushes a little. “We’ll see.”

“You haven’t told me anything about him yet,” I remind her.

“Let’s save some of the gossip for next time, shall we?”

Hmm. Why do I get the feeling she’s hiding something?I open my mouth to ask, but she leans in and kisses me on my cheek. “No more questions; I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

Okay then. Guess I’m not the only one who needs a little space.

She turns to leave.

I call after her, ”See you at the exhibition.”

”You haven’t seen Quentin, have you?” I lock my fingers together, cursing myself for asking the question which has been buzzing in my mind all day. It’s been five days since he first left me the cappuccino in an insulated tumbler. He’s taken to leaving it for me on my bed stand so it’s the first thing I see when I wake up. Every night, he sleeps with his big body curled around me. But no matter how late I stay up, I haven’t managed to catch him. I’ve been sleeping in, thanks to the relief of getting all my paintings out the door.

I woke up today, determined to talk to him. But it was already two p.m. by the time my eyes opened. Damn, I missed him again. I’ve missed hearing his voice, missed his chuckle, his devilish smirk, that spicy male scent of his, and that tenderness in his eyes. I miss how he anticipates my every need. More than anything, I want to kiss him and be held by him when I”m awake—instead of only when I”m asleep. So, I”m disappointed that I slept in so late. On the plus side, I feel like a new person. By the time I make it down to grab something to eat, it’s three p.m.

Mrs. Harmon looks up from the casserole she’s been putting together in the kitchen and shakes her head when I asked if she’s heard from Q. ”Afraid not. Are you sure he hasn’t messaged you?”

I begin to shake my head, then realize I haven’t checked my phone in the past few days. I often get that way when I’m painting. I forget about the world. I head to my studio and, after scrounging around, find the device under an unused canvas. I bring it to our bedroom and plug it in. As soon as the battery is charged enough, I switch it on. A stream of messages pops up.

Ten missed calls and twenty messages from Zoey. Two missed calls and a few messages from Summer. A couple from Lizzie, letting me know she’ll be stopping by. Then, six from Q.

Husband: This made me think of you.

There’s a picture of a pink rose in full bloom attached to the message. My heart flutters. A warmth steals over my cheeks. Oh my God, was Q walking in a garden somewhere? The picture seems to imply that, for the rose is part of a bush. It’s not in a vase. My big tough husband took time out to go to a park? OMG, he’s changed so much.

Husband: And her unmatched loveliness of looks. And the rare splendor of her locks, were mine.

I can hear his dark voice reading out Poe’s words in my head. I shiver.

Husband: I dreamed of you last night. I wish I were there with you right now.

Oh my God, I press my hand into my chest. I can’t get over how open he’s with his feelings.

Husband: I miss you, baby

A giddy sensation takes ahold of me. It feels so good to know he missed me too.

Husband: Miss you

Little sparks of happiness flare in my chest.

Husband: Have I told you lately how much I miss you, wife?

Those sparks of happiness grow into bubbles of fire that float through my blood stream.

The last message pops up.

Husband: Get dressed, I’m taking you shopping. Be at the front door by 5 p.m.

Ooh, shopping?He’s never taken me shopping before. To be honest, I’ve never been shopping with friends, because... Until I met Q, I never had the money to spend on myself. And even if I had, I didn’t have friends to go out with. And when I took Lizzie to the mall, I preferred spending money on her. To have my husband taking me shopping... It’s a dream come true. It’s something I never thought could happen to me. I glance at the time on the screen of the phone and squeak. I have under two hours to get dressed. Just enough to primp myself, and slough off the fuzz on my legs and underarms. Not my pussy though. Since Q had told me he adores it unshaved, I haven’t touched it.

By the time I finish shaving, then take a long soak in the tub, followed by slathering lotion on my limbs and blow-drying my hair, I have half an hour to go. I run into the closet and, of course, can’t decide what to wear. With ten minutes to spare—which is how long I dawdled—I pull on a skirt and blouse, then slip my feet into a pair of low-heeled boots. A brush of mascara and lipstick, then I grab my coat and bag and rush to the front door.

When I pull it open, it’s to find a car idling at the bottom of the steps. It’s the Cadillac Eldorado, and Q is standing next to the passenger door. He tracks my progress, and the intensity of his gaze liquefies my knees and turns my pussy into a mushy, soggy mess. I manage to make it to the bottom of the steps without tripping. When I reach him, he draws his gaze down my face, to my body, and all the way to my feet. By the time he reaches my face again, I feel like I’m about to dissolve into a hot puddle of need at his feet. His eyes gleam in appreciation. ”Hello, beautiful,” he says. Then he holds the front passenger door open. ”Get in,” he commands.

Instantly, my already erect nipples turn into bullet points of lust. Ugh! That dominant tone of his never fails to strike a chord with that slut inside of me who wants him to have his wicked way with me.

I slide into the seat and fasten my seatbelt, without revealing how horny I am. When he enters his side of the car, I turn to him. ”Where are we going?”

”If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He flashes me a wicked grin that spikes my pulse rate further. Then, he steps on the accelerator and roars down the driveway. On the short ride into the city, he plays music—classic rock, which I happen to love. I pull topics out of the air to avoid the one topic I don”t have an answer for yet. I can see the question in his eyes, but when I deflect by talking about the weather, he accepts my lead with a knowing glint in his eyes.

We discuss the last soccer match, which Arsenal won—a team we both support. He tells me about a new pub that’s opened in Primrose Hill, and which he wants to take me to. By the time we come to the news headlines, we’re pulling up in front of Selfridges.

It’s a department store in the city I used to want to go to, but never could afford. Oddly enough, I can afford it now, but it hasn’t crossed my mind to go. He slides out of the car, comes around, and opens my door. He helps me out and tosses his key to a waiting valet. When we walk in, there are no shoppers around.

”Where is everyone?” I wonder aloud as he guides me to an elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

”I had my team book the space so we could shop in privacy.”

”Oh—” I swallow my surprise as the doors close. In the silence that follows, my heartbeat is so loud, it drowns out all other thoughts.

He must notice the confusion on my face, for he links his fingers with mine. ”You okay?”

”Yes… No…” I shake my head. ”I don’t know. It’s just… I feel a little befuddled.”

”Why is that?”

The doors slide open, and he guides me down the carpeted hallway to where a woman in a pencil skirt and jacket is waiting for us. ”Mr. and Mrs. Davenport? This way please.” She shows us to a circular dressing room which might have been transported straight out of the set of Pretty Woman. There are mirrors taking up one corner of the room, and next to them a platform, meant for whoever”s getting dressed. Next to it, is a rack of dresses. There’s a couch near us, which Quentin drops into. He pulls me down next to him, and I go without resistance.

”Please give us a few minutes.” He gestures to the hostess, who fades away.

This world is one I”m not used to. I may have the money, but not the sophistication or the confidence to use it for myself. It’s never mattered to me before, but sitting next to him in this gorgeous room, I’ve never been more aware of the differences between us.

”What’s on your mind?” He takes both of my hands in his. ”Tell me.”

”It’s just”—I wave my hand in the air—”I’m not used to having an entire department store shut down for me so I can shop.”

The gesture is typical Q. Since he promised he’d show me through his actions how much he loves me, he’s been so attentive. I’m relishing every minute of it. But this? Holy hell, this is huge.

It’s not something I ever imagined anyone would do for me. Does he know I’m self-conscious about trying on clothes? I have to try on a few sizes before I find the one that fits my curvy figure. And it’s not something I relish doing in a crowded row of changing rooms. To be able to do so without feeling self-conscious is incredible.

It reinforces what I sensed earlier: my husband anticipates my every need and wish with unerring accuracy. It shows how tuned into me he is. To be at the receiving end of all that attention is hugely satisfying, and I admit, arousing...but also, unnerving.

His gaze flits across my features, then he sighs. ”You’re not used to me doing normal things with you.”

”This”—I look around the space again—”is not normal.”

He half smiles. ”I mean, I never took the time to know you better, to take you on dates, or to take you shopping.”

”Is that what you’re doing now, getting to know me better?”

”I’m trying to give you everything you might have missed out on when you were taking care of your family.”

My pulse rate spikes further. A thousand hummingbirds seem to be flapping their wings in my belly. ”No one has ever—” I choke up, unable to finish my sentence.

”That’s because none of them were me.” He brings my fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. ”Let me do this for you. Let me spoil you. Let me give you permission to spend your own money.”

I frown. ”You mean?—”

He nods. ”You’re a millionaire. You can buy your own dress for your showing. All I’m doing is opening the doors for you to fulfill your potential.”

I stare at him, unable to comprehend, at first, what he’s saying. Then it sinks in. He’s helping me help myself. He’s showing me it”s okay to take care of my needs. For so long, I’ve put everyone else before me. I’ve forgotten that, sometimes, I need to turn that attention on myself. He could buy me the dress. Hell, he could buy out the department store, if he wanted.

Instead, he’s making it clear I have the power to make myself happy.

He’s showing me I’m not dependent on him anymore; at least, not materially. This is akin to opening the door of a cage and giving the bird a chance to fly away, but the bird doesn”t know how and has to be coaxed out. I try to comprehend all of this as I gaze into his eyes.

His smile disappears and he releases my hands, only to curl his fingers around the nape of my neck. He brings me close and presses his forehead to mine. ”I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything you desire. The success you so deserve for your talents. I want you… To fulfill your potential.”

My heart swells in my chest until it feels too big for my body. A jolt of what I can only describe as happiness thrums through my veins. This man... He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a soulmate. Everything I hoped to find in a partner I”d want to spend my life with. That he’s so supportive of my art is so special and so affirming. He looks into my eyes, and I know this is one of those pivotal moments when our relationship levels up further. “I appreciate you telling me this… So much,” I whisper.

That’s when the hostess returns. ”Are we ready?”