1. The Attachment
CHAPTER ONE
THE ATTACHMENT
Sophie
Present
“Honey, I’m home!” I say cheerfully, removing my leather riding gloves and setting my keys on the marble table next to the front door. I like the way the words echo through the empty house. It feels… satisfying. A reminder that this house is mine as much as it’s his.
Even if I still don’t know what to do with all this space.
The house is quiet, but Julian’s car is in the driveway, so I know he’s home. Walking through the foyer full of plastic sheeting from the renovations, my boots clack against the floor lined with cardboard. My riding helmet is hanging on my arm, but just as I set it down on the table, a deep voice floats down the stairwell.
“Put it back on. You look so fucking adorable in it.”
I smirk when I twist around to find Julian gliding down the stairs in a three-piece suit that fits him impossibly well. My heart squeezes at the sight of him, and I stand there trying not to smile as he walks over to me. Julian has always been larger than life. And sometimes I wonder if I blend into the background of our picture-perfect marriage. The devoted, doting wife. The calm to his storm. It’s not a bad thing… but some days, I want to be more than just the reflection of his light.
I place the helmet back on and clip the strap together to appease him. “Oh? Do you happen to have a thing for sweat? Because I’m sure I smell like the bollocks of the horse I was riding?—”
He grins as he picks me up by the waist and lifts me over his shoulder. “My wife? Smell? Never.” He smacks my arse and I slap his in retaliation as I squeal with surprise and laughter. “Even if you do, you know I like it when you’re a little… musky.”
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, the blood rushing to my face from being upside down.
He chuckles as he carries me up the stairs at a jog like I weigh nothing at all.
It’s one of the things I love about him—one of the reasons I agreed to the marriage. The way he touches me, the way he handles me, still gives me fanny flutters even now, almost ten years on.
“Come on, wife. Let’s get you undressed so I can ruin you for all other men.”
“Ha ha ha.”
He walks down the hallway and into our bedroom before depositing me on our hand-embroidered bedding.
“At least have the decency to take my bloody boots off,” I huff, glaring up at him from under the helmet.
“At your service, my lady.”
My lips twitch but I don’t allow a smile as Julian kneels before me, sliding the riding boots off one at a time. His hands then work their way up my sore calves to my thighs, where he pushes my knees apart and leans forward. My breathing hitches as his hands come to my hips and skim along the waistband of my tan breeches. I inhale sharply as he tugs the trousers down slowly, and I lift my arse so that he can get them down my legs. He removes my sweaty socks and I reach up to unbuckle my helmet.
I could stop him right now. I probably should—my hair is plastered to my forehead, and my breeches smell like leather and sweat. But I don’t. I like the way he looks at me when I let him take charge.
“If you’re going to act like a savage brute, at least let me shower beforehand.”
My helmet falls off the bed, and I begin unbuttoning my navy riding jacket. Tugging it off and unbuttoning my white blouse, I remove them quickly, leaving me clad only in my white knickers and bra.
“No,” he says simply.
“Julian, I’ve been out there all day, and it’s hot?—”
“Don’t care.”
I huff a laugh. “Stubborn mule.”
“Yes, but I’m your stubborn mule.”
I run a hand through his soft, blond hair affectionately. “Yes, you are.”
He groans as he nuzzles his nose along the inside of my thigh. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours,” he says in a faux-whining tone.
“You’ve been working.”
“And? I can still miss my wife while I work. Plus, work is not that important anyway. Not as important as your cunt.”
I smile because I know he means it. But I can’t help but wonder if loving me is too easy for him. Would he love me as much if I became someone else—someone who didn’t need him as much? The thought unsettles me, and I push it away.
“Julian—” His lips graze the seam of my knickers, and I wince.
“Shh,” he whispers, moving them to the side with his teeth.
“Please let me shower first,” I beg, inhaling sharply when his tongue slides through my seam.
“Mmm. Imagine how much fun we’ll have with our shower bench. So much potential for shower fucking.”
“If it ever gets built,” I mutter, gasping when he inserts one finger inside of me. My back arches, and he curves his finger just so… “Fuck,” I whisper, looking down at him with heavy eyelids. “It’s hard to imagine something that might never happen,” I add quickly and sarcastically.
“Shh, pet. No renovation talk while my tongue is on your pussy.”
His dirty words make me bark a laugh. “You’re shameless.” He inserts another finger, and that effectively shuts me up. “Holy shit. Yes. Right there?—”
“I love how vocal you are, Soph. Drives me mad,” he says against my labia.
“Yes, well, you’re just very good at your job.”
“I know.”
His tongue slowly explores me, swirling over my sensitive bud with the practice and ease of someone who knows my body like the back of his hand.
“Fuck.” I circle my hips as he continues. Everything inside of me draws tight, and my eyes squeeze shut. “Julian?—”
He withdraws his fingers and my eyes snap open as he stands up. “That’s it,” he says, chin wet. He licks his lips salaciously and loosens his tie. “Take off your knickers.”
I do as he says with a scowl, tugging them down a little too roughly and flinging them at his face. He pulls the tie loose from his collar, and then he shrugs off his suit jacket. My eyes track the crumpled wool and mohair, and I narrow my eyes.
“Only you would discard a custom-made suit on the floor.”
“Promise to pick it up after we’re done, pet,” he murmurs, unbuttoning the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt.
I smirk as I pull my white sports bra over my head. “Done? Doing what?”
His blond hair falls over his forehead, and my heart skips a beat as he begins unbuttoning the front of his shirt. When he’s playful like this, he reminds me so much of the man I fell in love with ten years ago.
“You know what.”
I twist my lips to the side as I lean back on my elbows. “Well, then, hurry up.”
He huffs a laugh as he discards the white shirt onto the floor, and I roll my eyes. Julian has a lot of fabulous, positive traits, but being tidy is not one of them.
As he steps out of his trousers and boxers, I can’t help but admire his physique. He’s muscular but not chiseled and obsessed about it. His arms are corded, and his biceps could put some of these younger fit guys at his gym to shame. His blond hair makes him look younger than his thirty-five years, but there’s a sprinkling of gray in his scruff which gives his age away.
My stomach clenches as my eyes drag down to his hard cock.
“Spread your legs for your husband,” he says, arching a brow. “Or do I have to do it for you?” he adds, moving my legs apart. “My God. Look at that gorgeous cunt.”
I bite my lower lip as he pushes me flat on the bed and crawls on top of me. Placing quick kisses along my stomach, breasts, and neck, his lips finally find mine just before he pushes into me.
“Oh God,” I gasp. His eyes bore into mine as he begins to fuck me relentlessly. “Yes, just like that,” I hiss, loving the feel of him inside of me like this.
Loving the look on his face when he drives into me.
If I ever doubted how much Julian Ashford loved me, it wouldn’t be during those first few moments of sex. He always looks at me like I’m something to be cherished and revered, and I hope I never take this for granted.
His movements are smooth and familiar, and I move my left knee higher so that he knows I want it over his shoulder.
“Please,” I whimper.
He gives me a cocky smile as he positions my left leg so that it’s over his shoulder. My nails pierce into his biceps as he pounds into me, and I groan.
“Harder.”
He grunts and leans down to kiss me before he slowly drags his thick cock out.
“Now, now… how do you ask politely?”
I roll my eyes. “Pretty please.”
Giving me a lopsided smile, he places one hand around the base of my throat as the other one holds himself up on top of me.
“Who fucks you the best?” he asks, nuzzling his mouth onto the place along my collarbone that sends shivers down my spine every time. That, mixed with the possessive tone of his voice…
It sends me reeling every time.
“You,” I whisper, panting.
“Who knows exactly what you want?”
“ You ,” I moan. “It’ll always be you, Julian.”
“That’s right, baby. Me. Don’t ever forget it.”
He squeezes his hand a bit tighter around my throat, just enough to cause my orgasm to shatter through me unexpectedly.
“Yes,” I hiss, arching my back as waves of pleasure light me up from inside. My toes curl and my eyes roll back as Julian moves his hand down between my legs, extending the pleasure with his thumb on my clit, dragging it out until I’m twitching and gasping.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice ragged. “Fuck, Soph?—”
The low, heady groan that escapes his lips is a holy experience. His jaw goes slack as he comes inside of me, and his arm next to my head trembles.
When he’s done, he pulls out of me and lays down next to me, breathing hard.
I look over at him as my chest rises and falls, and then we both laugh.
“That was unexpected,” I tell him, kissing the scruff along his jaw as I wrap an arm around his warm torso. “But I know what you’re doing.”
He smirks as he kisses my nose. “And what is it that I’m doing?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“And?” he asks, turning to face me.
“You’re being territorial,” I say softly, propping my head up on my elbow.
His smile starts slow and grows as the seconds pass. “Territorial? Perhaps. But I’m also excited.” He takes my hand and brings it to his still-hard cock. “See? Just thinking of another man fucking my wife makes me lose my mind with lust.”
I pull my lips to one side as I study his expression. “You’d tell me if you felt otherwise, right?”
He leans over and kisses my forehead. “I would. I promise.”
“Okay. Because I’d give it up right now if you decided you didn’t enjoy it anymore.”
“Mmm, look at us having such a healthy conversation like adults. Communication, baby.”
I laugh. “I love you.”
“I love you too, pet.”
He sits up and walks to the en suite bathroom that only has a working sink. The shower and toilet are still under construction, as is most of the house. I suppose that’s what we get for buying a house that needed a lot of repairs.
He walks out a few seconds later with a warm washcloth, and my heart squeezes as he slowly runs it between my legs to clean me up.
“Now I really need a shower,” I tell him.
“Me too. Care to join me?” he asks, discarding the washcloth onto the floor.
I click my tongue, and he sighs before he picks it up and walks it to the laundry basket a few feet away. He even makes a show of plucking our dirty clothes off the floor and walking those to the laundry basket after.
“I’d love to join you,” I tell him, but before I can stand up, he picks me up from the bed and carries me out of the bedroom in his arms.
“Julian! There are workers in the garden?—”
He chuckles. “That’s all the way outside. There’s no one here.”
We walk into the small guest bathroom—the one we’re using for the time being—and we step into the shower together. Julian begins washing my hair, his fingers gently massaging my scalp. The motion is practiced, something he enjoys doing whenever we shower together. I lean back into his touch, letting the warm water wash over me.
“This okay?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
Once my hair is rinsed, he reaches for the soap, lathering it carefully before he begins to wash my body. His touch is familiar, yet grounding. Firm yet tender.
When we’re done, he dries me off, and I look up at him with a shy smile.
“God, Soph,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead. “When you look at me like that…” He trails off, and his eyes go watery. “I’m the luckiest fucking man alive.”
“I love you,” I tell him, placing my cheek against his chest.
“I love you more.”
After we get dressed—he in another three-piece suit, and me in loose jeans and a cashmere jumper—we walk downstairs hand in hand to survey the progress of the renovations. My hair is still damp, so I shake it out with my hand as we walk between sheets of plastic to the kitchen.
“The cabinet handles came in today,” he tells me as we walk into what looks like a woodworking shop.
There are large pieces of raw wood everywhere, bits of sawdust, cans of paint, and more of that plastic fucking sheet material. I knew a renovation of this size would take a long time, but as I survey the damage, I can’t envision an end.
I can’t visualize myself here yet.
I can’t see the picture Julian is always trying to paint of the finished project.
All I can concentrate on is the mess.
And I hate when things are messy.
Julian sees it—the finished house, the perfect picture. But I struggle. I don’t want to just live inside someone else’s vision. I need something that feels like mine. A room, a project, a purpose. Something that isn’t plaster and marble.
“This brass will look nice against the brown cabinets,” Julian says, handing me a piece of what I’m assuming will be a handle.
My thumb brushes over the high-quality metal. I know, from what the designer showed us, that this kitchen will be state of the art.
Only the best for my husband, Lord Julian Archer Ashford, Viscount of Brookshire.
I sigh as I lean against the marble island. “I’m excited to see it all come together. Right now, it just feels… excruciatingly slow going.”
Julian presses me into the island and steps between my legs as he takes my other hand.
“I’ve been thinking… maybe we should throw a party when it’s all done. Something big and grand. A way to celebrate what we’re building here.”
Julian smiles. “I like it. Obviously the best champagne, Michelin-starred chefs, live music?—”
“Imagine how gorgeous the staircase would look with some of those fresh magnolia flowers from the tree outside,” I chime in, my heart racing with excitement. “Fresh seafood… we have to take advantage of living so close to the ocean,” I explain. “And once your art and my books arrive…” He grins. My eyes flick between his eyes. “What?”
He kisses me—long, deep, and slow. When he pulls away, he lets out a tortured sigh.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Now we just have to find some friends to fill the place up,” I say sarcastically.
“What about Stella Ravage?”
“Yes, but she’s my only friend. And I’m pretty sure she only took pity on me because she designed the dress I wore to that gala last year, we both happen to be British, and we live in the same city.”
“But you like her, right?”
“Oh, she’s fabulous. But…” I look around. “I don’t know. I know we’ve already been here for two months. It’s just that reality is setting in, and I miss my friends in London.”
Julian smooths a hand over my hair as he pulls me into his hard body for a hug. His hand continues to stroke the back of my head, and I hum contentedly, going completely limp in his arms.
“I know.”
“Do you have any friends we can invite to this hypothetical housewarming party?”
He stiffens slightly—enough for me to notice.
I pull away. “What about that friend you had growing up? Isn’t he related to Stella, somehow?”
Julian’s blue eyes narrow slightly. “Malakai Ravage? Yeah, he’s Stella’s husband’s younger brother. We used to be close, but it’s been almost two decades.”
“You guys didn’t keep in touch after you moved back to London?”
“No.”
The change in his temperament is apparent, but just as I open my mouth to ask about Malakai, he takes a step back.
“I should get back to work. Need anything before I go?”
I shrug. “Another expensive hobby? A career? Perhaps an invisible friend?”
He huffs a laugh. “You know I’d fully support anything you wanted to do. I’ve been telling you for years to get a job or go back to school.”
I place a hand over my heart. “And send my mother to an early grave? Never,” I add, speaking in my mother’s posh, aristocratic accent.
He gives me a roguish smile. “Fuck her.”
I snort. “For now, I’ll settle for toiling away with riding, reading, renovations, and this housewarming party.”
He winks as he begins walking out of the kitchen area. “It’s going to be the best party ever if you’re the one holding the reins.”
“You know it will be.”
“Love you,” he calls as he walks through the house.
“You too,” I say to myself.
Once he’s gone, I sigh and look around the mess. Grabbing the brass handle, I pass it between my hands. I let my thumb brush over smooth curves before setting it down again. I know I can’t hurry up the renovations. I can’t force the workers to show up faster or make the house look like the magazine spreads Julian envisions. But I can do something. A drawer. A room. One small thing at a time.
I set the handle down carefully—like I’ve made a decision, even if I’m not sure what it is yet.
Walking out of the kitchen, I make my way up the stairs to my office.
It’s one of the only finished rooms in the house, and it’s a soft, pink color. I love it, but I have no idea what to do with it. My stomach does that fluttery, butterfly thing when I think of what I want to do. I want to start my own business. I want to work my way up, put in long hours, and attend meetings. I want to create something I’d love as a consumer.
I just don’t know what that is yet.
Maybe that’s what scares me the most—the not knowing. I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m not afraid of starting from scratch. But the thought of never finding that thing ? That terrifies me. I want to matter. I want something that feels like mine in a way this house, this marriage, can’t give me.
My mother had made it very clear that when I married Julian, there’d be no reason to get a job. And since we’d been married right after I graduated college, there was no time to dabble in anything.
I grew up the only child in an upper-class, English family. That meant my father worked and earned money, my mother spent her time at brunch and shopping, and the nanny raised me.
And when I learned that my parents planned to marry me off to Lord Julian Ashford? It seemed like a dream. He was a bit older, handsome, titled, and he’d take care of me forever.
I don’t think they ever expected Julian to turn his back on his aristocratic duties, or for him to take my side over and over and over.
I don’t think they expected us to walk away from everything in England to move to Southern California, but here we are.
In the end, we chose happiness over heritage. The freedom of being selfishly, recklessly in love, and finding a place that was all our own—without the weight of his title and estate holding us captive—felt like the first thing we’d ever truly owned.
No expectations. No duty. Just us, carving out a life that wasn’t dictated by bloodlines or obligations.
That’s why he built this office for me. One day, he’d said.
I sit down in my white chair and spin around a few times. I remember what I said about the magnolia tree, and suddenly, I have a thousand ideas for the housewarming party.
Grabbing a fresh notebook and a pen, I begin writing things down with a large smile on my face.
I don’t know what my business will be yet, but as I stare out the window, I have to hope it’ll come to me soon. Maybe I just need a sign.
Or maybe it’s time I stop waiting for signs and create one myself.