Chapter 47
Quentin
I flicker my gaze over the features of my sleeping wife. Every night, after working until the early hours of the morning, I make it home, but do I sleep? No. I prefer to spend the time watching her.
I take in the way her cheeks are flushed, how her lips are parted, how her hair is a halo around her shoulders. She’s on her side, with her face turned toward me.
The first time I watched her sleeping, I spent the night in the chair next to her.
The next night, I sat on the bed.
On the third, I lay down on my side and watch her until the first rays of the morning light came through the window. My wife sleeps deeply. My climbing into bed didn’t register with her.
A strand of hair has fallen over her face.
I reach over and tuck it behind her ear, then freeze when she mumbles something under her breath.
She falls silent, her breathing evens out, and I allow my muscles to relax.
I don’t want her to find me in bed with her.
I don’t want to fall asleep next to her.
If I did, I’d wake up wrapped around her, and my dick, which is already erect by her proximity, would not take no for an answer.
She moans in her sleep. That’s never happened before. She must be dreaming. Her sleep camisole leaves very little to imagination, with her full breasts pushing the material tight across her chest, the shape of her nipples outlined by the fabric.
I sweep my gaze down to where her camisole has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale, creamy skin.
And below that, her panties ride high on her legs, showing off the thick spread of her thighs.
I swallow hard. The crotch of my pants—I didn't bother to undress so I don’t get too comfortable—is too snug.
I adjust myself. Then, unable to resist the allure of the woman next to me, I reach over and slide my fingers under the gusset of her panties. Jesus, she’s soaking wet.
She’s sleeping, and unaware of what I’m doing. I should... put distance between us. I should get the hell out of this bed before I make her come in her sleep.
I begin to pull away, but she moans, then spreads her legs apart.
The lips of her pussy glisten with her arousal, and just like that, all thoughts of leaving vanish from my head.
She’s my wife and she’s turned on. She moans again, then squirms in her sleep.
And when she widens the space between her thighs, I don’t hold back.
I tease her slit, then slide two fingers inside her. Goosebumps pepper her skin. She turns her head in my direction, but her eyes are closed. I resist the urge to lean in and kiss her. If I do, she’ll definitely wake up. Instead, I ease my fingers in and out of her, in and out.
Her pussy clenches, then ripples around my fingers. My dick extends, and fucking hell, I can’t hold back. I shove my other hand down my pants and squeeze my cock from base to crown. The pain cuts through the noise in my head and helps me focus. I add a third digit inside her, and she groans.
Her breathing grows heavy, but her eyes are closed.
Thank fuck. I weave my fingers in and out of her, while also jerking myself off.
My movements speed up, the moisture squeezes out from between her legs.
Jesus, this woman… She’s so fucking sexy, it slays me.
The pressure at the base of my spine builds, and I know I’m not going to last long.
I curve my fingers inside her and am rewarded by a shudder that sweeps through her.
She pants, her mouth open in a silent cry.
Watching her come sends me over the edge.
I swipe my cock from base to crown one last time, and my balls explode.
I come and come in my pants like a teenage boy, then lay there with my fingers inside her pulsing pussy for a few seconds. I pull my fingers from her wet channel and suck on them, then scoop up some of my cum and paint it on her lips. She licks it off, then turns over on her side.
I pull away without waking her, then roll off the bed, head toward the ensuite bathroom, and step into the shower.
That orgasm should have relaxed me, but looking at my hard cock, you wouldn’t know it. I need her more than ever, and not only in a physical way. I want her with me, next to me, by my side, in my life.
But I can’t have that. I will not let myself have that.
I’m torturing myself by having her here under my roof. I’m setting things up to hurt her even more by being unable to break things off with her.
Whatever happened to the bravery I was known for in military strategy?
Come up with a ballsy plan to keep ahead of the enemy?
I’m your man. Want to structure an audacious acquisition to grow the Davenport Group’s profits?
I’m one step ahead of you there. But shoring up my courage to tell my wife that I want to leave her, and I lose my balls.
I switch off the shower, grab a towel and dry myself, then walk out with it wrapped around my waist. I walk into my closet, and dress quickly. With a last look at my still sleeping wife, I head out of our bedroom and for the office.
The door to my office flies open. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Davenport, I tried to stop her.”
I look up to find my assistant red-faced and on the heels of a young girl who’s barged in.
She looks like my wife but is not my wife, because I recognize her from the picture my wife showed me of her and her sister. She’s thin, almost painfully so, and is wearing tights and an oversized sweatshirt with the words “Royal Ballet School" on it.
She marches over to my desk and slams down an oversized backpack with various badges pinned onto it. “You have some nerve making my sister unhappy,” she fumes.
The soft American twang to her accent, not to mention the way her eyes dart arrows at me, reminds me of Raven.
A sharp tug winds itself around my heart. I ignore it and nod at the girl. “Lizzie, good to meet you.”
“It’s not good to meet you, Mr. Asshole Davenport. Or should I say Mr. Butthead Davenport?” she snaps.
Behind her, my assistant draws in a sharp breath.
I wave at her. “It’s okay, Mary.”
“But, but...” she splutters.
Guess she’s never been exposed to temperamental artistes. Trust my wife to change one more thing.
“It’s fine. Lizzie’s my sister-in-law.” I rise to my feet and nod toward my assistant. “You can leave us.”
Mary sniffs, then turns to go.
“Oh, Mary, could you send in some”—I turn to Lizzie— “ice-cream?”
“What?” She blinks.
“Do you prefer cookies?”
“Cookies?” Her eyes light up, then her shoulders slump. “Can’t. Diet. Ballet, and all that.”
“A no-sugar, no-carb, buckwheat, organic, dark chocolate-chip cookie, with very little calories?” I nod in Mary’s direction.
She looks at the girl, then back at me, before sniffing again, then turning and walking out.
“If you’re trying to weasel your way into my good books, it won’t work.
” She plops herself into her chair. “Also —” She stabs her thumb over her shoulder.
“Why are you keeping her on? Don’t you lifestyles of the rich and famous bosses prefer shapely assistants who cater to your every need?
” She uses her hands to demonstrate the shape of a curvy woman.
“If you mean Mary, she’s been with the company for thirty years.
She came with this office and is only a year from retirement.
She’s given her life to this company. Why would I let her go?
If anything, I plan to reward her loyalty and ensure she’s set up for the rest of her life, so she can enjoy her retirement with her grandkids. ”
Lizzie regards me with a strange look on her face.
“As for your second question, I only have eyes for my wife,” I state.
She scoffs, “Is that why you made her cry?”
I squeeze my fingers around the edge of my desk. My heart threatens to cleave its way out of my ribcage. How could I have done that? How could I have caused her pain? “She... cried?” I ask in a hoarse voice.
“Oh, she didn't say it was because of you; she’s too loyal to you. But when I called her this morning, her eyes were red-rimmed. She said she’s been painting non-stop and not sleeping much in preparation for her exhibition.”
“I’m aware she’s getting her paintings ready for her showing.” I also know she’s been putting in long hours and not taking out the time to eat. Which is why I told my housekeeper to bring Raven’s food to her studio at mealtimes, to ensure she eats.
It’s why I decided to spend my nights at the office, sleeping on my pull-out couch so she won’t be disturbed by my presence. She's going to crush this showing; I have no doubt. “She’s brilliant. And soon the world will recognize that, too.”
Lizzie nods slowly. “She is. And I'm so pleased she’s getting her due.”
“The two of you are close.”
She levels a look at me, a very knowing look.
A look which makes her seem older than her eighteen years.
A look I recognize, since I’ve seen fellow Marines with that similar look in their eyes after their first tour, when they’ve had to grow up quickly.
Both of these girls have been through a lot in their young lives.
I tend to forget that my wife faced challenges very early on which granted her more life experience than many of her peers have.
It hasn’t made her cynical though, unlike me with my own past.
“Vivian stepped into my mother’s role after she passed.
” Lizzie folds her arms together. “She became my de facto parent, especially since my father was busy trying to hold down a job and provide for us. Then, after my father fell ill, Vivian stepped into the role of breadwinner, as well. She’s a brilliant painter and loves poetry, as I assume you already know. ”
I nod.
“She’s so talented”—Lizzie’s features soften—“I was sure she’d be a well-known painter by now. She even got admission to the Royal Academy of Arts but decided not to join.”
Again, I’m aware, thanks to my friend, the private detective. But nothing like hearing about her past from someone close to her.