I yawn, lower my hand and head for the en suite. I barely make it through the shower before I fall into bed.
My last thought is…I need to find a way to put him at ease. So the next time there’s a chance of breath play, he won’t hesitate.
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 turnto 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."
