Chapter 42
James
It’s been three weeks since we married. I can’t remember feeling this settled, this grounded. This constantly aroused.
I’m waiting for my wife to get dressed so we can leave for the reception Margot has insisted on throwing in honor of our marriage.
I’ve had to adjust my routine now that Harper’s living with me, but I acclimatized to her presence faster than expected.
She’s messy, but I like seeing evidence of her presence in my home. And she hasn’t changed things around in my home kitchen.
I walked into her room yesterday morning to find she was in the shower. Stepping into her room, feeling her scent wrap around me, seeing her things strewn about and Malice on her bed…made me feel contented.
My attempt to curb my obsession with her by having her under my roof may have backfired.
I thought she’d be a disruption. Instead, she’s become the missing piece to my equation.
Then, there’s the fact that she’s interested in breath play. I want to try it with her.
The limits I set on myself when it comes to our marriage seem in danger of falling apart.
I pour myself a whiskey and carry the tumbler to the floor-to-ceiling windows in my living room. The days are lengthening.
We’re in April, and while it’s still cold, the daylight hours have already begun to extend beyond five p.m. I take a sip of the Lagavulin 16 and swirl the liquid over my tongue, relishing the peaty taste.
There’s a shift in the air. I turn and my breath catches.
She’s poised on the landing of the staircase leading down to the mezzanine.
She’s wearing a green dress, cinched at the waist, with an A-line skirt that falls to just above her knees. When she steps onto the step below, the turn of her ankle sends a hot bolt of lust through my being. Instantly, I’m so hard, I feel dizzy. All the blood must have rushed to my balls. Fuck.
She begins to move down the steps.
Unable to take my gaze off her, I move to stand at the bottom of the staircase.
When she reaches the second to last step, she stops.
Even with the difference in height, she’s just about at eye level.
In the kitchen, she’s so competent. So nimble on her feet.
So focused on the dish she’s assembling that I often forget how tiny she is.
But her curves? I always notice them. Even in the middle of service, when a Michelin inspector could be sitting in the dining room, and my entire focus should be on the food.
"You look beautiful." I hold out my hand.
She blushes. "Thank you." She places her hand in mine. "And thank you for asking the personal shopper to call me." She gestures to her dress.
"Of course." I lead her down the steps. "We’re busy in the kitchen. And I knew we’d have a few of these 'official' events coming up. It only made sense to ensure you'd have everything you'd need to feel equipped for them."
"I wish you’d let me pay for it, too."
I take her hand and lead her toward the front door. "You wouldn’t be able to afford it."
She pauses. So do I. Okay, so I shouldn’t have said that. When I turn to her, sure enough, her forehead is crumpled. The expression in her eyes is both hurt and angry. Now, I feel like a heel.
I blow out a breath. "I’m sorry. Being an arsehole comes naturally to me."
"No kidding," she scoffs.
"But it’s the truth."
"And now, you’ve spoiled all the pleasure I got from accepting your gift. You really can be a wanker."
"It’s true." I’ve never shied away from admitting the truth.
She stares. "You seem to revel in it too."
"You wouldn’t be wrong."
Her frown deepens. Damn, now she’s really pissed with me for telling the truth. Perhaps, there’s a way to word it, so I don’t upset her?
"I’m sorry," I try again. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."
She purses her lips. There’s still an unhappy expression on her features. But at least, some of the hurt in her eyes recedes.
"You’re married to me. Part of our arrangement is that you pose as my wife. Which means you need to dress the part. It was logical that I spend my money to help you with that."
The wrinkles between her forehead appears again.
"And I have money. I barely noticed the bill from the personal shopper."
Her lips thin.
"I shouldn’t have said that, eh?"
She shakes her head.
Damn, this is a minefield. What do I say to calm her down? And why is it so important that I do so? Why do I feel this compulsion to keep her happy?
"You’re my wife. I wanted to buy you the dresses. Can you give me the pleasure of doing that?"
She pauses, then nods slowly. "Okay."
I blow out the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.
"Okay." Then, because I can’t stop myself, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s worn her hair loose. And while I love seeing the glorious locks framing her face, her messy bun with the hair tie is something I find far more endearing. I stop myself. Next, I’ll be saying I find her adorable.
I do find her adorable. I want to protect her. To take care of her. I want to…make love to her.
I have wanted to do so since I first saw her.
I must squeeze her hand a little too hard, for she winces.
I loosen my hold on her. "Shall we?"