Clutching the hanger of the Dormeuil off-blue vicuña suit, I step into his home office. A glance from his desk shifts to the suit as I point to it eagerly. Rising from his chair, he lets me slip the vest over his silk pajama shirt. The suit jacket follows, draped over his shoulders, before he steps into the pants, tucking in the shirt with a practiced ease.
The fit is impeccable, drawing a wide grin to my face. "Perfect." The admiration spilling into my voice. "It's like it was made for you, my love. So handsome!"
With a slight adjustment of his sleeves to align the silk shirt, he looks at me, a flicker of pride softening his expression, as I soak in the sight.
"The salesperson said there are only two of these suits made. It's made from the world's most expensive fabric, vicuña. You don't mind sharing this style with another man, do you love?"
His gaze sharpens as he pulls me into his arms, the playful moment shifting into something heavier. "The suit's fine. Nothing else." The warning in his tone rumbles low, making my pulse skip at their implication.
I avert my gaze and reach for the suit jacket, my voice quieter. "Let me send in to clean them for you."
Before I can move, he spins me in his arms, the jacket slipping from my hands. His breath trails through my hair, down my neck, his nose investigating every inch as if memorizing me. One arm wraps firmly around my waist, his touch searing through the fabric as his hand slides upward, tracing the curve of my side. His fingers brush the edge of my ribs, pausing for a heartbeat before claiming the swell of my breast. On the opposite side, his other hand moves lower, fingers tracing the bare skin as they slip under the crisscross strings of my tight red mini skirt.
His fingers spread, caging and sinking around my breast over the black lace corset. "I told you I don't like—"
The thundering tone, the growing roughness, and the hardness pressed against my back all demand to be managed. He's jealous. "I was helping Anat try on perfumes, my love."
Biting into the side of my neck, he hisses, "How many men approached you?"
"I didn't wear this to the mall. We're sampling the functionality of Beth's new designs, my love. I wouldn't even wear this to the club, let alone the mall."
His teeth ease into gentle circles with his tongue, while his fingers relax into a nice massage. "Go shower." His whispered order barely conceals the shimmering anger, evident in the haste with which he unzips the corset and unties the strings holding my skirt together.
Naked, I gather the clothes scattered on the floor before leaving him exactly as I found him—back behind his desk, reading. A part of me feels a flicker of disappointment that he doesn't bend me over and vent his emotions through raw release. Another part, though, feels accomplished, satisfied that I've understood his emotions well enough to avoid the kind of misunderstanding we had the last time I was at Akira Lounge.
The question runs through my mind again under the steaming shower: am I aroused by his emotions, his touches, or both? Why do I still get so fucking turned on when he's angry like that?
###
The expensive jewelry he keeps giving me is becoming a security concern. I've already designed and built a biometric display case for his collection, but now I need one for my growing pile of gift boxes stuffed in the corner of my closet. The current case I made for his jewelry is pretty secure—if the house alarm triggers, it drops into a hidden floor compartment that needs two extra layers of authentication to access. I should create something similar for all these gifts he's given me.
Now there's the question of what to give him in return. What do you get for someone who can have anything he wants? Looking over at his side of the closet, my eyes land on that black square bottle of his cologne, and an idea starts forming.
The peppermint scent of his embrace anchors me to the present. I slide my arms around his waist, tilt my head to meet his gaze. "My love, you've brought me too many gifts. You should stop."
"No," he breathes against my waiting lips.
Lately, even his "no" sounds like an invitation, not a rejection.
When he releases me, I notice he's wearing the gym clothes I bought him. I catch his left arm. "My love, don't be too long."
"Why?"
"I'll miss you," I murmur, finding myself drawn back into his arms.
"How do you miss me?" His voice softens as his lips brush my cheek, fingers threading through my hair.
I didn't know peppermint could be this intoxicating. "Every way possible."
"Like this?" He captures my upper lip, presses gently on the lower.
"Mmmm... I can be your gym."
His arms tighten. "Don't miss me."
"What?"
"You can't miss me. Not like that."
"What do—"
"You can have me. Like this." He claims my lower lip again, but more possessive this time. "But you can't miss me like that."
He leaves. What does he mean by that?
Something has been bothering me since our talk about taking a job. He made no attempt to steer me in either direction—instead telling me to do what I wanted. His control and possessiveness target specific aspects of our relationship. I'm not sure what stirs me more: that his need for control stays contained to certain areas of my life, or that it zeros in on something particular. Something I need to decode soon.
Shaking my head to clear the fog, I get to work. The more I draw, the worse the drawing becomes. I know that practice helps improve many things, but drawing may be forever lost to me. The more I practice, the more unrecognizable his cologne bottle design becomes. And I'm the one drawing it. Giving up, I tell Pi to roughly sketch my designs. Now, I'll just have to obtain his sweat, which will be a pleasurable experience.