Chapter 39
SAPPHIRE
“Hello?” I call as I step out of the elevator and into Eli’s penthouse and lay my bicycle against the wall. “Eli?” I look around and find no one. “Ghost? Anyone?”
Still nothing.
I bend at the waist, unbuckle the straps around my ankles of my wedge sandals and take them off, then give my toes a good wiggle, the cool air drifting between them, and I can almost hear them singing with relief.
“Is anyone home?” I try again, then move my bicycle into the closet Eli cleared out for me to store it.
I practically live here now, just like Ghost. We haven’t officially moved in, but with half my wardrobe here and the play gym Eli bought for Ghost that he loves and spends hours on, it feels like we have.
Since the staff conference a month ago, which was a huge success and earned Safire regardless, we’re close, meaning Mistee and I can begin our search for land to build our new conference facilities on.
The next few months, maybe years, are going to be busy.
Closing the door of the bike closet, I run my finger along the console table in the hall, and smile to myself at the way Eli has straightened the bowl that holds his car keys with the vase of flowers I bought yesterday.
Aligning objects has become more of a habit for him than something he needs to do, he admitted to me last night, telling me he does it unconsciously, the urge no longer taking over his actions and thoughts.
I know that anything could push him the other way again, but for now, he has it managed. Even his family has noticed how much more he laughs and that he no longer works late nights. Before, his alignment nearly dominated his life; his mind was too focused on checking things to do his work.
He’s healing gradually over time with the help of his therapist, sound baths, and talking it out. I’m sure it will become a thing of his past. Even if it doesn’t, I’ll be there for him no matter what.
As I walk through Eli’s apartment toward his home gym, as I suspect he’s in there, I come to a halt when my eyes land on a new painting hanging at the end of the hall on the wall, the spotlight from above giving it the presence it deserves. It wasn’t there this morning when I left for work.
I keep walking, getting closer to the painting that looks like it’s holding space for me, waiting for me to have a private viewing, until I’m standing only a foot from it.
The familiar girl in the painting stares back at me, only this time I notice she’s wearing a smirk, like Mona Lisa’s smile, a cheeky hint of knowing we would meet again.
From the splashes of color, the delicate brush strokes, and her multicolored hair, she looks even more beautiful, more vivid, more captivating than the first time I saw her at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
“Now You See Me.” I whisper the name of the painting that’s imprinted into my mind.
A low mumble from behind me repeats the words from that day. “She looks like you.”
“That’s only because she has multicolored hair,” I reply, hoping that’s what I said from that day, too. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Eli and I have come so far.
In awe, I turn around to face Eli. “You bought it.” It’s not a question.
“I did,” he replies, looking down at me, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his tie long gone and shirt unbuttoned at the neck, making him look sexier than ever.
“You bought another Endee Desree painting.” I can’t believe it.
“I bought it for you.”
Taken aback, my heart turning over with joy, I gasp. “For me?”
“As a moving-in present.” The smugness in his expression carries an air of conquest, as if he already knows I’ll say yes without even asking, like he doesn’t have to.
I tilt my head to the side and ask, “And what if I don’t move in?” I’m definitely moving in, I’m only teasing.
He inhales a deep breath and rolls his eyes because he knows I wouldn’t make it easy for him. I never do.
“Then I would take it down, wrap it up, drive it to your place, and rehang it on a wall of your choosing.”
“Just like that?” I dance my fingers up the soft cotton of his shirt, scrunch the fabric between my fist and pull his lips down toward me.
“Just like that, baby.”
Baby.
I love it when he calls me that.
“You’re lying.”
“You bet your ass I am, Rebel.” He wraps his arms around my waist, eating up the space between us, the heat of his firm body against mine, then says, darkly and oh so sexily, “I would handcuff you to the bed and do that thing with my tongue you like until you can’t take any more until you’re begging me to move in. ”
Mmm. That gives me an idea. “I’m not moving in.”
“No?” His eyes close to slits, calculating, a smirk tugging at his lips.
He knows what I’m up to. “Nope. I don’t want to move in. It would be terrible.” All the sex might kill me.
A low growl from his chest tells me I hit the spot, and before I know what’s happening, he’s lifted me up over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift like I weigh nothing, and is storming away from the painting toward his bedroom.
I might be squealing, but I don’t mean it. None of it. In fact, this is the reaction I wanted.
“How many orgasms will it take to convince you to move in, Sapphire?”
“Five.”
“Let’s make it six,” he says firmly, slapping my ass.
“Okay.”
Who am I to argue?