Chapter Sixteen #2
He looks startled at that. Then he says, “Well, everything these days is classed as traumatic. In the old days we just got on with it.”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t make what you suffered any less real. A single traumatic event can cause PTSD, but CPTSD—complex PTSD—stems from prolonged and repeated trauma. Have you ever been to counseling?”
He shoves his fork in his pasta. “No. Peter and Joyce wanted to send me, but I refused to go.” No doubt he sees it as weak to seek help.
“Do you ever feel empty and worthless?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, honey, that’s the point I’m making. You’ve mentioned that you have difficulty forming and maintaining healthy relationships. That you have trust issues, and you isolate yourself socially. Didn’t you ever think there may be reasons for that? It’s not due to a weakness of character.”
He doesn’t reply, but I can see him thinking about it.
I understand more now about why he was an absent father.
He struggles to show affection, to open up, and Eleanor’s coldness would only have exacerbated that.
Some men might have gone the opposite way, supplying the warmth and affection they lacked in their childhood.
But Spencer must have thought it was safer to leave their upbringing to his wife and their nannies.
He kept himself separate so he couldn’t be a threat to them.
“I think you blame yourself for not being there more for your children,” I say. “But you shouldn’t. Despite your upbringing, or maybe because of it, you worked hard to provide for your wife and children. That’s not a small thing.”
“Maybe. But kids should have a father who’s around to help them do their homework and to throw a ball with them. I think Dad was disappointed I wasn’t more loving toward them.”
He’s obviously referring to his foster father. “I doubt he was disappointed,” I say softly. “He knew what you’d been through, and he would understand why it was difficult for you to show affection.”
He stabs his last meatball, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, but I’m glad he’s talking to me. It helps me see the real Spencer and understand him better.
I have the last mouthful of pasta, then push my plate away and lean back with my wine glass. “Do you think Orson and Scarlett will get married?”
He does the same, stretching out his legs. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve never seen him like this with a girl before.”
“Are you okay with it? Her being Blake’s daughter and all?”
“I’m trying to make peace with that. It was all a long time ago.”
“You never told me about Amiria. You carefully sidestepped the question.”
“Did I?” He smiles.
“I’m curious. What was it about her that you liked so much?”
He sighs and looks away, out at the darkening view.
It’s raining now, the droplets highlighted by the lamp that stands by the window.
“I was eighteen,” he says. “So young. She came into my life like a comet, blazing through my solar system. Now I realize it for what it was—my first crush—but I thought I loved her for many years.”
“And that’s why you hated Blake so much?”
“It was one reason. I thought we were friends, and when he took her away, it felt like a huge betrayal. You don’t do that to people you love. I discovered we had very different views on a lot of things. He had no scruples at all. If he wanted something, he took it.”
“I thought that was your motto? See, want, take?”
“I’ve joked about it,” he says. “I don’t believe it.
I acknowledge that I’ve pushed people’s limits, and I can be ruthless in business, but I’m not unscrupulous.
I’ve never made a deal that wasn’t completely above board.
” He’s a little stiff, resentful that I might think that of him.
What a puzzle this man is. Layered like an onion.
No, more like a trifle. There’s a sweetness to Spencer beneath his tough exterior. A softness he likes to hide.
“What are you smiling at?” he asks suspiciously.
“I was just thinking that you’re more like Tiramisu than a casserole.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Come on. Pour me another glass of wine, and I’ll get dessert.”
His lips curve up as I bring the Tiramisu over. It’s in one big bowl, and I place it between us, move my chair closer to him, and pass him a spoon. “It’s meant for sharing,” I say, dipping into the creamy mascarpone mixture.
He leans on the table and takes a spoonful, and our eyes meet as we eat it. “Wow,” he says, his eyes widening. “That’s a helluva lot of rum in there.”
“And coffee liqueur. You won’t be able to drive home after you’ve eaten this.” I’d forgotten that he doesn’t drink alcohol.
“I see. You have ulterior motives.”
“I do.” I wait to see if he protests and declares he can’t eat it.
He studies the dessert. Then he dips his spoon in. Lifting it, he looks at me and holds out his spoon. Pleasure flowing through me, I open my mouth.
He moves it to my nose and leaves a big blob of mascarpone mixture there. It’s such an un-Spencer thing to do that I must look startled, and he laughs as he leans forward, closes his mouth over the bridge of my nose, and gently sucks the mixture off before pressing his lips to mine.
Mmm… a sweet, creamy kiss… my favorite. He takes his time, tasting me with his tongue, and by the time he moves back, my heart is racing and I know my face is flushed.
Smiling at each other, we eat the Tiramisu, both knowing it’s more than a dessert. It’s a symbol of the fact that he’s decided to stay. We have all evening together, and then he’ll go to bed with me, and I’ll have him to myself all night. I’m so happy and excited I could burst.
Our conversation turns to lighter things—music, art, movies—and we chat away while we finish our dessert and drinks. After that, I clear the dinner things away while he makes us coffee, and then we take them into the studio.
As the rain continues to pour down outside, Spencer settles himself in the chair, I put some jazz music on, and then I pick up my brush and start to paint.
I work for maybe an hour and a half, starting to put the finer details to the base colors.
Tonight I mainly work on his eyes, because I want to capture the beauty of the blue, as well as the expression they have when he looks at me.
When I finally put down my brush, he rises and stretches, then comes over to look at the painting, his eyebrows rising as he sees himself looking out from the canvas.
“It’s really good.” He bends to get a better look at the brushstrokes.
“No need to sound so surprised.”
He chuckles. “Do I really have gold flecks in my eyes?”
He’s leaning close to me. I can smell his cologne and feel the heat from his skin. “Mmm, can’t remember, let me look.”
He straightens and looks at me, and my heart leaps. I move closer to him, looking up into his eyes. “Definitely,” I murmur, my voice husky with desire, and then I lift onto my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
His arms snake around me, pulling me close, and I warm all the way through. I lift my arms around his neck, and we have a long, sensual kiss, while his hands travel up my back. They slide down my ribs and follow the curve of my waist before hooking up my dress and settling on my bare butt.
“It’s been almost impossible for me to concentrate all evening knowing you’re going commando under this dress.” His hands skate over my skin, making my nipples tighten, and bringing goosebumps out all over.
“Mmm…” I shiver, and he groans.
“I can’t resist you,” he says hoarsely, pressing kisses to my face, my hair. “I know I shouldn’t want you, but I can’t keep away.”
“I’m glad. I want you too.” Once again, heat flares between us, and our kisses turn demanding, his lips crushing mine as he pulls me tightly against him. I love the way he reacts to me. I understand why being in charge is so important to him, but I love that I make him lose it.
I can’t believe he’s only been with one woman his whole life. That he hasn’t been with anyone since Eleanor died. No wonder he says he can’t resist me.
I tear my lips away from his and take his hand. Then I lead him out of the studio toward my bedroom.
The rain is hammering on the roof and windows. I flick on the small lamp on my bedside table. It fills the room with a cozy glow, and casts our shadows on the wall as I return to him and we start undressing one another.
“I want you,” I whisper again as I push his shirt over his shoulders.
He lets it drop to the floor. “I want you too.” He takes the hem of my dress in his hands, peels it up my body, and drops it onto the chair in front of the dressing table.
After unbuckling his belt, and letting him take out his wallet and toss it onto the bedside table, I undo the button of his trousers, then slide the zipper carefully down. He already has an erection. I love the way it strains toward me as if begging me to touch it.
He steps out of his trousers and flicks off his socks. I slide his boxers down his legs. And now my heart’s racing because we’re both naked, and I have him in my room, and he’s mine to play with, all night.
I kiss down his chest, then his belly, and finally drop to my knees before him. I take his magnificent erection in my hand. Then I press my lips to it and kiss down the shaft.
“Ahhh…” He slides a hand into my hair and caresses it while I take my time exploring, kissing down to his balls and slipping a hand beneath him to caress them, then kissing back up and teasing the head and the slit at the top with my tongue.
Finally, I close my mouth over the end and slide my lips down the shaft, and he groans and tightens his fingers in my hair.
I’m never going to be able to fit all of him in my mouth, and I’m no expert at deep throating, but I do my best, and his sighs and gasps suggest he’s enjoying it.
I was planning to try and take him all the way, but after a few minutes he says, “Marama,” and puts his hands under my arms, and I let him lift me to my feet.
“Sorry,” I say, “did I do something wrong?”
He just laughs and gives me a wry look. “No.” He steers me to the bed and gestures for me to climb on.
I climb under the duvet and lie back on the pillows, and he slides in beside me and wraps his arms around me. Mmm… this is nice… he’s warm, and he smells amazing, and there’s something safe about being in his embrace like this.
“I wanted to make you feel good,” I tell him.
He kisses me. “You do, baby girl. I just want to lead for a while.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He chuckles and tips his head to the side. “It’s nice to feel wanted,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning into mine. “I like that.” Then he kisses me, and every other thought flees my head.