15. Harper

I tapmy fingertips against the arm of the chair while Clive looks over my proposal.

"Can we make it work?" The figures are sound. I've already gone over them with my financial adviser. It's the legality of my plan I need to be sure of.

Clive rests his elbows on his desk and thatches his fingers. I call it his evil mastermind pose. It's a sure sign he will shoot my idea down in flames or lecture me. Or both.

"You want to put that much money into this project?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I think the question is self-explanatory. Since when has Harper Carr been on a crusade to get homeless people off the streets of London?"

"Since volunteering with Bailey a month ago." I've helped at the shelter twice more. Each time has been truly eye-opening.

Clive leans back in his chair, picks up his pen, and plays with it. "You want to do this for your husband?"

"No. I want to do it because I can afford to. I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes. I can use some of it to make a real difference in people's lives."

"But you wouldn't have dreamt up this idea if not for Bailey."

"What difference does that make?"

Clive shrugs. "Is this a good time to remind you your marriage is a sham? That in"—he checks something on his computer—"eight months you'll be sitting in this office, signing divorce papers. You don't need to make grand gestures to make him happy."

I grit my teeth and look away. "This isn't about making Bailey happy. He doesn't even know about it."

"Yet."

"I wanted to be sure I could make it happen before I said anything."

"Because you don't want to get his hopes up only to disappoint him. This is for him." A note of triumph hangs in Clive's voice.

"Maybe. A little. Why is that bad?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were falling in love with your husband." He raises his eyebrows. "I do know better, don't I?"

"Can we make it happen?" I snap.

"Yes. It will take a little while to set up the charity. You won't be able to buy the property until you have. Charities have to operate under total transparency, so you won't be able to hide your initial donation. You'll need a solid plan for how the charity is going to raise money in the future so that it can stay afloat and keep providing the help you've envisioned. It will need a name and a brand identity. Who will design the logo?"

I smile. "I know someone." Fingers crossed.

"And you need three unrelated people to form the board of trustees. I assume you'll be on it, which means Bailey can't be. Not until you're divorced anyway. Even then, it would be iffy."

Why does Clive have to keep using the D word? Every time he does, my heart flinches. It's an odd sensation, one I don't like.

"Last but not least, you must register with the Charities Commission."

"Between you, me, and my financial adviser, we can get through that list."

Clive nods.

"Neither Bailey nor I will be trustees."

"Oh?"

"I want him to run the charity. As for me—the money I'm giving to the charity would be a conflict of interest. I can't give it and decide how it gets spent. But I'd like you to be on the board. A lawyer looking out for the charity's best interests would be helpful."

"Harper—"

I put my hand up. "Say yes or no, Clive. Don't give me a lecture."

He laughs. "I wasn't going to give you a lecture. Seeing you fired up about something is nice, but that doesn't stop me from worrying about why you're so invested in this idea. Plus, no offence, but you're impulsive and flighty. What happens when you divorce Bailey and get bored of this pet project of yours?"

I scowl. "It's not a pet project. It's something I believe in. Something I want to do."

Clive checks my proposal. "And you're pledging further annual donations for a minimum of five years." He taps his pen on the desk. "This isn't like you, Harper."

"So I'm not allowed to be generous now?"

He rolls his eyes. "Stop being dramatic."

I stand and flounce around the room, throwing my arms wide. "Why does there have to be an ulterior motive? Can't I be philanthropic without you worrying about me?"

Clive drops the pen and spreads his fingers on the desk. "I'm saying you would never have done something like this pre-Bailey."

I throw my hands up. "Why is that a bad thing?"

"It's not. Sit."

I flop into the chair with an over-the-top sigh and hook my right knee over my left. "What?"

"Are you one hundred per cent sure you want to give this much money away?"

I stare him dead in the eyes and press my hand over my heart. "Yes. Maybe if you spent a night volunteering with Bailey, you'd understand why."

"Are you still sleeping with him?"

Yes, in both senses of the word. We sleep in my bed unless he's out volunteering, in which case he goes to his room so as not to wake me. It's sweet and thoughtful and one of the many things I adore about Bailey.

"What's that got to do with anything?" I ask.

Clive pushes his lower lip out. "Nothing."

"Then why bring it up?"

"I want you to think ahead eight months."

I fold my arms like a petulant child. I don't want to.

"And then a year," Clive says.

I glower.

"And then two, when Bailey has been out of your life for longer than he was in it."

My chest aches.

"Are you still going to want to give so much money to this charity?"

"Yes."

Clive sighs. "All right. I'll help you get it set up."

I grin and clap my hands. "And you'll be on the board of trustees?"

"That depends."

"On—?"

"Who else is going to be on the board?"

"It won't be up to me." I lean forward onto my knees. "What are the chances of having the charity set up before Mother's charity dinner?"

Clive gapes. "That's in two months."

"Yes."

"Slim to none."

I stand and put my hands on his desk. "Make it happen, Clive."

"Just like that?"

I snap my fingers. "Yes."

He wipes his hands over his face. "Why do I keep you as a client?"

I lean over the desk and pat him on the head. "Because I'm your best friend." I wink, swirl around, and march to the door.

"About Bailey."

His words pull me up short. I stare at the closed door as I wait for him to continue.

"I know better, don't I? You're not falling for your husband. Are you?"

My heart patters. "Of course not. Don't be so ridiculous, Clive. And you say I'm the dramatic one." I leave the office before he can say another word. Would it be such a bad thing if I did have feelings for Bailey that went beyond friendship and sex?

* * *

When I get home, Bailey is in the art studio, standing in front of a blank canvas, unmoving. My heart aches for him, but anger also boils within me. How dare his parents treat him the way they did? How dare they throw him out and destroy his creativity? And for what? Because he is gay. I clench my fists. Aren't parents meant to love their children unconditionally?

I never realised how lucky I was until I met Bailey. Yes, I was aware of how wealthy I and my family are in comparison to virtually everyone else, but I didn't understand how fortunate I was to have parents who will support me no matter what. Who hugged me and told me they loved me when I came out to them. Who would never, ever cast me out simply because of who I am.

I force my fingers to uncurl and walk across the garden to the art studio. I put my hands on Bailey's hips and kiss his neck.

"Hey, husband."

I can no longer claim that these soft touches are for show. I kiss him because I want to. Touch him because I desire him. Calling him husband isn't a joke anymore. Each time I utter the word, it resonates in my soul.

"Hi." He turns and loops his arms around my shoulders. "Good day?"

"Yes." I'm dying to tell him about my plan, but I hold my tongue. I want to be sure it's going to become a reality first. "Clive says hi."

Clive also says I'm falling for you. He's probably right. "How's the painting going?"

"Not. I was about to go inside. Do you want me to cook?"

A hired chef has become a thing of the past. Between us, we cook most nights and get takeout or go out for dinner if neither of us can be bothered.

"I'm not hungry yet. Do you know what you need?"

Bailey's eyes dance with light. "No. What?"

"A model." I break away from him, grab a chair, and position it in front and to the side of the easel. I put one foot on the seat, place my hands on my hips, and lift my chin in a grand pose.

"What are you doing?"

"Being your inspiration, darling." I turn my head long enough to wink at him.

He clutches his stomach as he laughs.

I wave my hand toward the easel. "Draw, sketch, paint, whatever it is you do. I can't stand here all evening. You have to capture my stunning form while you have the chance."

Bailey straightens and takes a breath. "You are stunning."

I give him a flourishing bow and assume my pose again. "Why thank you, good sir."

"And crazy."

"So you keep telling me. I think you like crazy."

"I do."

My heart flutters.

He picks up a pencil and holds it poised above the canvas. I try not to move, which is harder than I thought it would be, especially when all I want to do is hug him. The seconds tick by, but he doesn't put the pencil to the canvas.

He shakes his head. "I can't. Let's go inside."

"No. I understand. Your model isn't sexy enough."

He chuckles. "You are sexy, Harper."

"Exactly. I am. I am a sex god, which is why I'm not inspiring you right now. I have too many clothes on." I remove my clothes and toss them in every direction. I'm especially proud of myself when my underpants land on his head. Naked, I assume my pose once more. "Better?"

Bailey makes a strangled noise.

"Hm, your model isn't perfect yet." I stroke my cock until it's hard and curving upwards. "Better?"

"Perfect."

I grin. "Anything for my talented husband."

"You don't know?—"

I raise my hand. "Yes, I do."

"But—"

I make a zipping motion across my lips. "Paint me. Prove me wrong."

Bailey sighs and slumps his shoulders. "You are a gorgeous model, but I can't." He waves at his temple. "I have this block I can't get past."

"Then I'll paint you."

He blinks. "What?"

"I'll paint you. Clothes off. I only paint nudes."

"Um, your mum said you can't paint."

"You're bringing my mother up while I'm naked?"

He sniggers. "Fair point."

"Clothes off, and then you'll see just how fabulous a painter I am."

"All right."

I manage to school my features before my jaw drops. I wasn't expecting him to give in so easily. We swap places. I grab a brush and mix a flesh-coloured paint while Bailey strips.

"I'd like my gorgeous model sitting," I say.

Bailey obeys.

"Relax. Splay your legs." I shiver as he does so. Damn, my husband is stunning. "Stroke your cock."

He stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes as he makes himself hard. Then he sits, lips parted, chin raised ever so slightly, and one hand curled on his slender thigh. He drapes his other arm over the chair, fingers relaxed.

"Fucking gorgeous."

I want to get on my knees, suck his cock, and make him come undone. Will an orgasm relax him enough to get past the demons in his head so he can paint? The demons his parents put there when they cast him aside like an unwanted pet. But I promised I'd paint him, so I will.

I make a show of it. Huge flourishing brush strokes. I use my fingers as a frame and squint to get a better look at him. He presses his lips together, his chest shaking as he laughs silently.

I tut. "You're not being a very good model, husband."

"Sorry." His chest and shoulders shake more violently.

"Sit still, husband. I'm creating a masterpiece. I'm going to call it ‘ode to my beautiful husband'."

"Isn't an ode a poem?"

"Hush."

He zips his lips shut.

"You're moving."

"Sorry."

I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically. "I bet Leonardo DaVinci didn't have this much trouble with Mona Lisa."

"I don't think he was naked when he painted her."

"Oh, so I'm distracting you?" I press my hand against my forehead, splattering myself with paint. "It's all my fault you won't sit still. Would you rather I got dressed?"

"No. No. Carry on. I'll be still."

"Good, husband." I stroke my cock to make it hard again and carry on painting.

A masterpiece it is not. It's worse than an average five-year-old could paint, but that's not the point. I'm doing this to make Bailey laugh. To help him relax and get out of his head. Maybe then he'll be able to put a pencil or brush on the canvas and create something beautiful.

I sign the canvas in the same over-the-top way I've been painting. "And I'm done."

"Do I get to see now?"

"Yes. Prepare to be astounded by my artistic brilliance. Husband, I guarantee you've never seen something so stunning. So elegantly put together. It helped that I had the most glorious subject matter imaginable."

"You did?"

"Yes. You." I blow him a kiss and then beckon. "Come hither, husband. See thine portrait."

Laughing, he comes to stand behind me.

"Well? What do you think?"

"Um… it's… interesting."

"I think you mean glorious. A modern masterpiece. This painting will hang in the Tate Modern for years, and everyone who stops and stares at it will be in awe."

Bailey wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles against the curve of my neck. "It's wonderful. Thank you. An amazing example of surrealism."

I snort-laugh. "I'll take that." I turn in his arms and swipe the brush across his chest. "Hm, now that's a work of art."

"Hey!"

I twirl the brush around his belly button. "Beautiful."

He skitters away. "What are you doing?"

"Painting my husband."

He grabs a brush, dabs it in blue paint, and strokes the brush over my cheek. He's painting. Maybe not on a canvas. Maybe not in any serious way. But he's painting.

We dance around the studio, trying to swipe paint over each other while avoiding being painted. Well, Bailey tries to avoid it. I pretend I am. Before long, different colours of paint crisscross our bodies. Paint is splattered everywhere. I drop my brush, catch him by the hips, and pull him to the floor onto the sheet he'd put beneath the easel. As he collapses on top of me, his shoulder knocks against the easel, sending it and the canvas clattering to the floor. He winces, but I drag him to me and kiss him fiercely.

"You're amazing," he whispers, then nips my bottom lip and kisses me just as hard. "Thank you for making me laugh."

I grab a tube of paint, squeeze a dollop onto my palm, and rub it over his chest. "Red suits you."

He gets some green paint and does the same to me. Only he carries on down my body, covering my stomach and thighs. "Green suits you."

We paint each other until the colours are mixed in a cacophonous mess. Then we embrace and touch each other, our hands slipping over wet skin. Our needy bodies slide together as we kiss and frot until we're gasping and rock hard.

"Need you." Bailey manages to find a paint-free spot on my neck to kiss, then claims my lips.

"I need you too."

It's a shame we have no lube. I wipe my fingers clean on the sheet and use our mixed pre-cum to make them as slick as possible. It's not ideal, but Bailey doesn't complain as I squeeze a finger into his tight arse.

He shivers and gasps. "Fuck, Harper."

"That's what I intend to do. Fuck my beautiful husband senseless."

"Hm, yes, please."

He humps against me as I warm up his arse as best I can without proper lube.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No." He dips his tongue into my mouth. "I need you inside me, Harper." He pulls away, gets on his hands and knees with his arse facing me, and looks over his shoulder. "Please?"

"How can I resist an invitation like that?"

He barks out a laugh. "Please don't resist. Fuck me, Harper."

"With pleasure, husband." I make my cock slick with pre-cum, kneel behind him, and hold his hips.

I don't slide into him as easily as I'd like. He whines and pants as I push inside him.

I stop, my cock half inside him. "Maybe we should go inside and get lube."

He shakes his head. "Need you now. I'm okay."

"Bay—"

"Please." His voice is desperate.

I shiver.

"Please."

I hold him tighter and push deeper until my heavy balls are nestled against his arse. I thrust gently. My knees threaten to slip in the paint, and it's all I can do to keep us both upright as I make love to him. He rocks on my cock, drawing me into his hot, tight arse. The way he arches his back and tips his head back is stunning. His paint-covered body glistens in the light from the daylight bulbs. His hair is messier than usual, some of it clumping thanks to the streaks of paint in his hair. He's a work of art, and he's mine. I falter. Only for a few more months. Get a grip, Harper. It's what you wanted. A temporary husband to prove a point. Only I'm failing at the one thing I thought would be easy to achieve. Being a bad husband.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes heavy. "Harper?"

I shake myself. "I'm okay."

"Sure?"

I swallow the lump in my throat away. "Just marvelling at my gorgeous husband." My voice isn't as light as I'd like it to be. "Does he want me to pound his arse into oblivion?"

He licks his lips. "Please."

I grip his hips tighter and thrust into him like there's no tomorrow. Skin slaps against skin. Paint squishes between us. I slam into him fast and furiously, and he takes it with the prettiest whines and moans I've ever heard. He reaches between his legs and beats himself off at the same frenetic pace I'm fucking him. As he comes, his body shakes. His thighs quiver. I wrap an arm around his waist, holding him upright for the few seconds it takes me to careen over the edge and empty my load into his welcoming arse. We collapse in a tangle of limbs and a mess of paint. Our chests heave. His arse clenches and relaxes around my cock in time with our rasping breaths.

I kiss his temple, not caring I'm getting paint on my lips and tongue. He strokes my trembling side.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for being amazing."

"I know I'm amazing in bed."

He chuckles. "That's not exactly what I meant, but you are." He releases a happy sigh.

I rest my head on his shoulders and let my eyes drift shut, content to lie in a debauched mess with my beautiful husband.

* * *

When I wake, it's dark outside. I'm curled on my side, covered in the sheet we were lying on. Bailey, still naked, is standing at the easel, painting. The canvas I painted is propped against the wall.

He pauses and smiles. "Hey."

"Hi, husband. What are you doing?"

"Painting you."

My heart skips a beat. "Can I see?"

He nods.

I push the sheet aside and stand behind him. I can't breathe. He's made me look like the most beautiful person alive. Tears prickle the backs of my eyes. My chest tightens.

"It's not finished," he whispers.

"It's—" I shake my head, unable to find the words. Instead, I grasp his face and turn it so I can give him a long, needy kiss. Tears trickle down my cheeks. "Oh, Bay, you're more talented than I thought you would be. I've never seen anything more stunning in my life." I chuckle. "Except you."

He rests his forehead against mine. "Thank you for helping me paint again."

"Will you finish it?"

He nods.

"Tonight?"

"If you want me to."

"I want. And then we'll go inside, shower, and I'll take you to bed and show you how much I adore my talented husband."

Bailey strokes my cheek and stares into my eyes. "That's a wonderful plan. I'd only change one thing."

"Oh? What?"

"I want to show my husband how grateful I am to him for inspiring me."

I hum deep in my throat. "Hm. I like your plan better."