Chapter 52 #2
Husband: Get dressed, I’m taking you shopping. Be at the front door by 5 p.m.
Ooh, shopping? He’s never taken me shopping before.
To be honest, I’ve never been shopping with friends, because...
Until I met Q, I never had the money to spend on myself.
And even if I had, I didn’t have friends to go out with.
And when I took Lizzie to the mall, I preferred spending money on her.
To have my husband taking me shopping...
It’s a dream come true. It’s something I never thought could happen to me.
I glance at the time on the screen of the phone and squeak.
I have under two hours to get dressed. Just enough to primp myself, and slough off the fuzz on my legs and underarms. Not my pussy though.
Since Q had told me he adores it unshaved, I haven’t touched it.
By the time I finish shaving, then take a long soak in the tub, followed by slathering lotion on my limbs and blow-drying my hair, I have half an hour to go.
I run into the closet and, of course, can’t decide what to wear.
With ten minutes to spare—which is how long I dawdled—I pull on a skirt and blouse, then slip my feet into a pair of low-heeled boots.
A brush of mascara and lipstick, then I grab my coat and bag and rush to the front door.
When I pull it open, it’s to find a car idling at the bottom of the steps.
It’s the Cadillac Eldorado, and Q is standing next to the passenger door.
He tracks my progress, and the intensity of his gaze liquefies my knees and turns my pussy into a mushy, soggy mess.
I manage to make it to the bottom of the steps without tripping.
When I reach him, he draws his gaze down my face, to my body, and all the way to my feet.
By the time he reaches my face again, I feel like I’m about to dissolve into a hot puddle of need at his feet.
His eyes gleam in appreciation. "Hello, beautiful," he says.
Then he holds the front passenger door open. "Get in," he commands.
Instantly, my already erect nipples turn into bullet points of lust. Ugh! That dominant tone of his never fails to strike a chord with that slut inside of me who wants him to have his wicked way with me.
I slide into the seat and fasten my seatbelt, without revealing how horny I am. When he enters his side of the car, I turn to him. "Where are we going?"
"If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.
” He flashes me a wicked grin that spikes my pulse rate further.
Then, he steps on the accelerator and roars down the driveway.
On the short ride into the city, he plays music—classic rock, which I happen to love.
I pull topics out of the air to avoid the one topic I don't have an answer for yet.
I can see the question in his eyes, but when I deflect by talking about the weather, he accepts my lead with a knowing glint in his eyes.
We discuss the last soccer match, which Arsenal won—a team we both support. He tells me about a new pub that’s opened in Primrose Hill, and which he wants to take me to. By the time we come to the news headlines, we’re pulling up in front of Selfridges.
It’s a department store in the city I used to want to go to, but never could afford.
Oddly enough, I can afford it now, but it hasn’t crossed my mind to go.
He slides out of the car, comes around, and opens my door.
He helps me out and tosses his key to a waiting valet.
When we walk in, there are no shoppers around.
"Where is everyone?" I wonder aloud as he guides me to an elevator and presses the button for the top floor.
"I had my team book the space so we could shop in privacy.”
"Oh—" I swallow my surprise as the doors close. In the silence that follows, my heartbeat is so loud, it drowns out all other thoughts.
He must notice the confusion on my face, for he links his fingers with mine. "You okay?"
"Yes… No…" I shake my head. "I don’t know. It’s just… I feel a little befuddled."
"Why is that?"
The doors slide open, and he guides me down the carpeted hallway to where a woman in a pencil skirt and jacket is waiting for us.
"Mr. and Mrs. Davenport? This way please.
" She shows us to a circular dressing room which might have been transported straight out of the set of Pretty Woman.
There are mirrors taking up one corner of the room, and next to them a platform, meant for whoever's getting dressed. Next to it, is a rack of dresses. There’s a couch near us, which Quentin drops into.
He pulls me down next to him, and I go without resistance.
"Please give us a few minutes." He gestures to the hostess, who fades away.
This world is one I'm not used to. I may have the money, but not the sophistication or the confidence to use it for myself. It’s never mattered to me before, but sitting next to him in this gorgeous room, I’ve never been more aware of the differences between us.
"What’s on your mind?" He takes both of my hands in his. "Tell me."
"It’s just"—I wave my hand in the air—"I’m not used to having an entire department store shut down for me so I can shop.”
The gesture is typical Q. Since he promised he’d show me through his actions how much he loves me, he’s been so attentive. I’m relishing every minute of it. But this? Holy hell, this is huge.
It’s not something I ever imagined anyone would do for me.
Does he know I’m self-conscious about trying on clothes?
I have to try on a few sizes before I find the one that fits my curvy figure.
And it’s not something I relish doing in a crowded row of changing rooms. To be able to do so without feeling self-conscious is incredible.
It reinforces what I sensed earlier: my husband anticipates my every need and wish with unerring accuracy. It shows how tuned into me he is. To be at the receiving end of all that attention is hugely satisfying, and I admit, arousing...but also, unnerving.
His gaze flits across my features, then he sighs. "You’re not used to me doing normal things with you."
"This"—I look around the space again—"is not normal."
He half smiles. "I mean, I never took the time to know you better, to take you on dates, or to take you shopping."
"Is that what you’re doing now, getting to know me better?"
"I’m trying to give you everything you might have missed out on when you were taking care of your family."
My pulse rate spikes further. A thousand hummingbirds seem to be flapping their wings in my belly. "No one has ever—" I choke up, unable to finish my sentence.
"That’s because none of them were me." He brings my fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. "Let me do this for you. Let me spoil you. Let me give you permission to spend your own money."
I frown. "You mean—"
He nods. "You’re a millionaire. You can buy your own dress for your showing. All I’m doing is opening the doors for you to fulfill your potential."
I stare at him, unable to comprehend, at first, what he’s saying.
Then it sinks in. He’s helping me help myself.
He’s showing me it's okay to take care of my needs. For so long, I’ve put everyone else before me.
I’ve forgotten that, sometimes, I need to turn that attention on myself.
He could buy me the dress. Hell, he could buy out the department store, if he wanted.
Instead, he’s making it clear I have the power to make myself happy.
He’s showing me I’m not dependent on him anymore; at least, not materially. This is akin to opening the door of a cage and giving the bird a chance to fly away, but the bird doesn't know how and has to be coaxed out. I try to comprehend all of this as I gaze into his eyes.
His smile disappears and he releases my hands, only to curl his fingers around the nape of my neck.
He brings me close and presses his forehead to mine.
"I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything you desire. The success you so deserve for your talents. I want you… To fulfill your potential.”
My heart swells in my chest until it feels too big for my body.
A jolt of what I can only describe as happiness thrums through my veins.
This man... He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a soulmate.
Everything I hoped to find in a partner I'd want to spend my life with. That he’s so supportive of my art is so special and so affirming.
He looks into my eyes, and I know this is one of those pivotal moments when our relationship levels up further.
“I appreciate you telling me this… So much,” I whisper.
That’s when the hostess returns. "Are we ready?"