Chapter 44
Lark
Remember that hot cocoa and Christmas pudding is not a meal replacement. (What a pity!)
—From Lark’s Christmas to-do list
"I’m moving into the guest room."
Ugh. Seriously? How can he do this? My heart sinks. I feel my spirits dip. But I don’t show him how upset I am.
Instead, I huff. “I hope you realize how predictable this is?"
He seems to take affront to that. "How so?"
"First, you insist you have no feelings for me. This, despite the fact that when the helicopter ran into a little turbulence, you all but threw me down and covered me with your body."
"It wasn’t a little turbulence, it dropped nearly fifty feet, which is serious. And I was doing what any soldier would have done in my position. I wanted to protect my wife."
The way he says 'my wife' has chills clutching at my nerve endings. Only his face is set in tight lines. And his eyes—they have a sheen of cold glass encasing the irises, so I can’t really see what he’s feeling. But I know.
He’s retreated behind those walls I thought, nae hoped, had come down permanently.
Apparently, he has reserves of aloofness hidden deep inside that he’s able to draw up like bridges across a moat.
Once more, he’s that island of detachment with signs saying 'keep off' that I noticed when I first met him. And the more I try to prove the error of his ways to him, the more he’s going to resist. The more he’s going to insist that he has no feelings for me.
Still, I have to try one last time.
"If you don’t care about me, why did you tie me up and fuck me?"
He blinks. Clearly, he didn’t expect me to ask him that outright. Well, too bad.
I’m not going to shove things under a carpet and pretend I didn’t see what I did all those times he made love to me. I’m not a coward. I can name things, even if he can’t.
Hiding and pretending the emotions we feel don’t exist makes for miscommunication, and I’m keen to avoid it.
"I tied you up…because you were my very own Christmas present to unwrap.”
“Oh.” My insides quiver. My pussy throbs. My skin tingles with memories of how I felt when he tightened those silken ropes around my limbs.
“And because that’s the kind of kink I enjoy—when the woman I’m fucking is tied up and helpless and submits to me. So I can do what I want with her body."
I swallow. It’s so erotic, having him talk about his preferences with that emotionless face. The contradiction between the eroticism of his words and the straightlaced features makes me all hot and bothered.
I’m in a lot of trouble if my husband talking has me so turned on.
But there’s something he hasn’t taken into consideration. Something I can read between the lines. Something I can see in how he rakes his gaze over me. And how his fingers tremble to touch me. How his muscles bunch as he holds himself back. How his body wants to protectively lean over me.
I tip up my chin. "If you’d tied up anyone else, it wouldn’t have affected you so much."
He seems to reel back at that. His eyes widen. He firms his lips, but the tendons standing out at his neck tell me my words have hit home.
"It’s because I'm your wife that my submitting to you in bed had such an impact on you," I murmur in a steady voice.
Inside, I’m melting, both from the lust that crackles in the air between us, and because it’s the first time I’ve said aloud that I submitted to him.
And hearing myself admit it brings home the gravity of what happened between us.
He must recognize it too, for his features soften.
He takes a few steps forward, until he stands in front of me.
"I’m grateful you trusted me enough to tie you up. I’ll never forget that you let me pleasure your body and take from you what I needed to satisfy myself. But you must understand it can’t happen again."
His stubbornness is so annoying.
I throw up my hands. "You’re kidding right?”
But no. There’s no mistaking the resolution in his features.
Or the way he holds himself erect. There’s a certain finality in his stance that makes my heart sink.
Oh no. He’s going to brush aside whatever he feels for me.
He’s going to pretend it doesn’t matter.
That it’s fleeting and doesn’t mean anything.
"Don’t do this." I swallow.
But before he glances away, I know my appeals are not going to be heard.
Thanks to the incident on the helicopter, when he realized what he feels for me, he’s running scared. First despair, then anger grips me.
You know what? Fuck him.
If he can’t face his emotions, then there’s nothing I can do. I’m not going to spend my time moping. I’m not going to try to convince him otherwise. This is something he has to realize on his own.
Meanwhile, I’m not going to mope around his house. Except, sleeping in his room, in his bed, which smells of him, is going to make it all worse.
I draw myself up to my full height and tip up my chin. "Fine. You do what’s best for you.”
He seems taken aback then recovers. "I will.”
His features are smooth. Every shred of feeling locked away behind that mask. Someone give this man an Oscar. He’s perfected this role of someone who’s shut down all feelings.
He heads for his suitcase and rolls it down the hall. Then stops. "I’ll meet you in the home office in twenty minutes to start the handover for your new position."
The door closes behind him.
That’s it? He walked out like it doesn’t matter to him that we’re not sharing a bed anymore.
That he doesn’t care I’ll no longer be in his arms at night?
That he’ll no longer do to my body the wicked things which brought me, and him, so much pleasure.
Like it doesn’t matter to him that we’ll no longer be husband and wife in the true sense of the word.
I manage to keep the emotions off my face.
No sense in letting him see how much his words have affected me.
Everything in this room reminds me of him, but I can’t let that affect me. I need to see this through. I must hope that, at some point, he’s going to acknowledge his feelings for me.
Until then, I need to put up a front. And make sure he doesn’t realize how much I miss him.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands, and take a few deep breaths. It doesn’t really help, but it’s a relief to keep moving. To keep my thoughts on what I must do next.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the home office on the first floor.
I haven’t yet given up my apartment. But while we were away Brody asked a team to move my clothes, my shoes, and of course, all of my cosmetics and books into his place.
Yep, he had them working through Christmas to do so.
He hasn’t given me a tour of the house, but it’s not so big that I can get lost in it. It’s not tiny either. There are four bedrooms on the second floor, including the master bedroom.
For a few seconds I mourn the loss of my apartment. I took such pains to decorate it too. Not that he’d mind if I changed the décor in this town house to suit my tastes.
In fact, he’d welcome it.
Too bad, he isn’t as open with revealing his feelings for me.
On the first floor, an open-plan living room flows into the kitchen, which in turn opens onto a deck that faces Primrose Hill.
There’s also a gym and an office/library, which is where I meet him.
He’s seated behind the big desk. Wearing his slacks and button-down, his stance is all business.
I notice the bookshelf lining one wall and can’t resist walking over. My fingers trail across the spines of the books, until I spot a familiar title.
“No way.” I pull it free. “You read romance novels?”
I turn to him, stunned.
He seems uncomfortable, then adjusts his glasses. “I'm terrible at talking about my feelings. I figured I’d try learning from the experts. Hence—” he nods at the book in my hand.
I arch a brow. “And do you think it's helped?”
A faint crease forms between his brows before he smooths it away. “The jury’s still out.”
At least, he’s honest about his inability to speak about his feelings. That’s a start, right? I slip the book back onto the shelf, my heart tugging a little, then cross to his desk.
Once I take the seat opposite him, he nods to the device in front of me.
"I emailed the CEO Delegation of Authority Document. It formalizes your powers, like spending limits, sign-off rights, hiring/firing, etc. You’ll also find the board communications & strategy briefs, annual and quarterly performance reports with the KPI dashboards, operational plans, legal and compliance overviews, and the org chart. "
I’ve been privy to a lot of company information as his EA, but what he’s sent me is akin to handing the literal keys to his kingdom. He’s sent me everything I need to run the business.
"You sure you want me to take over as CEO?” I feel pulled to ask him again.
He places the tips of his fingers together. "As sure as I was that I wanted to marry you."
His reference to our wedding is like a fist to my solar plexus, and I'm not sure I keep the hurt off my face.
It was only yesterday that he tied me up and fucked me.
But with the width of the desk between us, it feels in the past. When his eyes heat, and he sucks his lip inward, I know he’s recalling how he made me do his bidding.
How I sucked him off. How he took me with such assurance. How he made me his.
Then he blinks, and the possessiveness is replaced by a clinical detachment.
Now he’s all CEO. One who’s handing over the tools to his successor.
I pull up the documents on my device. He takes me through them. One after the other. Relentless. Projections. P&L. Cash flow forecasts. Payroll and benefits summaries. HR challenges. Vendor & contracts fulfillment. The hours wear on.
Except for a short break, where he serves me coffee from the minibar in the corner of the room, he doesn’t stop.
His analysis is precise. He outlines foreseen problems in a crisp tone.
Astute. Summarizing complex operational objectives and potential conflict zones between department heads.
My head spins. My eyes hurt, but I don’t complain. I can do this.
I can keep pace with his steel-trap-like mind. I can deliver on the role he’s entrusted me with. When my phone buzzes, I welcome the respite. It’s on my desk, face up.
His glance is drawn to it, as is mine.
The screen indicates: Keith calling
Huh? Why would he phone me? To be honest, I’ve forgotten about my ex. Also, maybe I’m exhausted from perusing all the spreadsheets, but my reflexes are slow.
Before I can reach for my phone, my husband snatches it up and answers. "Hello?" He raises his gaze to mine. "If you try to reach my wife again, I’ll come over and tear your tongue from your throat." He disconnects, then his fingers fly over the screen.
"What are you doing?"
"Blocking him so he’ll never reach you again." He slides the phone across the desk.
A warm rush of sensations pools between my legs. When Brody gets all possessive, it’s the sweetest, most erotic, most reassuring feeling ever. He makes me feel owned and claimed and seen, in a way my ex never could.
Still, I feel drawn to put up a token of resistance. "That was an invasion of my privacy.”
Not that it’s going to make a difference.
Brody’s a law unto his own. Also, he’s invaded so much of my body, him doing the same to my privacy feels minor by comparison.
When he continues to stare at me from under hooded eyelids, I firm my lips.
"You didn’t have to go all caveman." Internally though, my heart booms in my chest, my stomach flutters, and my traitorous pussy is swollen with being turned on at how he told Keith off.
How he seemed pissed off and upset, and jealous that my ex called me.
How can I be so stupidly happy that he asserted his control over me? This, after telling me that he didn’t want to share a room with me.
"I beg to disagree.” He firms his mouth. “The thought of your ex trying to talk to you, makes my blood boil.”