Chapter 40

Quentin

I slide off the stool and busy myself making her and myself omelets, each with toast and hash browns.

I grab the cutlery, set our places on the island, then slide a loaded plate in front of her before placing one in my place.

I also grab a bottle of olive oil from the kitchen counter and place it on the island between the plates.

"What's that for?" she asks.

I stifle a chuckle and say with a straight face, "You'll find out soon enough."

Her gaze narrows, but then I move to the fridge and bring out a small but perfectly created cake and hear her gasp in delight. I place the cake on the island, then return to my seat on the stool opposite her.

"Cake for breakfast?" She claps her hands in delight.

The excited note in her voice makes me smile again as I approach her.

"It's our wedding cake," I murmur.

"Wow, it looks—" She clears her throat. "It looks exquisite."

"Eat first." I take my seat.

She butters her toast and scarfs down half the omelet before she raises her head to find me watching. "What?"

"I forgot what it"s like to be young enough to have an appetite like that."

"I don't know, your appetite seems fine to me."

"Is that a compliment?" I smirk.

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "By the way, what are you listening to?" She points her fork at the device on the far end of the island, which is streaming the radio channel in the background.

"BBC Radio 6."

"You listen to the BBC?"

"This channel plays eclectic music."

"I thought only the ‘older generation' listened to the BBC." Her lips twitch, and I know she said that purposes to rile me about our age gap, but I'm not falling for it.

"Of course, you're not listening to it on a radio?—"

"It is a radio station." I frown.

"I mean, you're not listening to it on one of those antique, broadcast-player thingies."

Now I'm an antique, am I?Still, I stop myself from getting pissed off about it and lean my elbow on the table. "You're referring to a transistor radio, I take it?"

She nods vigorously. "That's it."

Of course, she doesn't know what a transistor radio is. And I"m sure she"s never used a rotary dial phone, or a dial-up internet connection, or a dot matrix printer. Never have I felt our age gap more than now. "Have you seen one of those devices?" I ask in a normal tone.

"My dad listens to the BBC on an old school one." Her smile is guileless but, no doubt, she noticed my discomfort at her earlier comment and is pressing home the point. The brat! Mentioning me in the same breath as her father hits a little too close to home. This time, I can't stop my wince.

"I mean, it's okay. To each their own," she continues with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Not that I'm comparing you to my father. I mean, that would be too easy and would suggest, right away, that I have daddy issues." This time, it's she who winces. "What I mean is, I know you're?—"

"Closer in age to your father than you." I roll my shoulders in a bid to disperse the ache that's settled between them.

"But I've never thought of you as in the same age range as him, even if, chronologically, you are. You"re very different from him. You don't feel that much older than me, most times, especially when?—"

"I fuck you?" I use the F-word, knowing it will distract her from the reminder of one of the biggest insecurities I have when it comes to our relationship.

I also want to make her blush. I feel victorious when her cheeks blaze.

She shakes her head and seems to get control of herself. "That's a diversion, but I'll accept it." She points her fork at me.

Why that little—!"You shouldn't point your fork at me, young lady." As soon as the words are out, I squeeze my eyes shut and groan aloud. "I walked into that one."

"You did." She nods, satisfaction dripping from her voice.

When I open my eyes again, she's watching me with a small smile. "For the record, I never did think I had daddy issues. But I like that you take care of me. I feel secure with you, know what I mean?" She pops a shoulder.

"I'm so glad you do." My heart swells with happiness. I'd fucking do anything to protect her. I'd burn the world down to keep her safe. And even when we're not together I'll... I'll look out for her. The happiness I feel threatens to fracture, and I force my thoughts back to the present.

"For the record, I have no fatherly feelings toward you, either. If anything, I feel fucking young here"—I slap my chest and wave my hand down my body— "and everywhere else it counts."

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." She widens her gaze at me, that sassy expression back on her face, the one which makes me want to throw her over my lap and spank her. My dick thinks it's a very good idea, and when she bats her eyelashes at me, my heart flutters. Fuck, I'm such a goner.

We look at each other for a few seconds. The silence stretches. And seated here, over the remnants of our breakfast—which I cooked for my wife with the low hum of the radio in the background and the sun pouring in through the windows, bathing everything in a golden glow—I feel closer to contentment than I've ever felt before. Something I"m sure I'll never feel with anyone else.

A heavy sensation coils in my chest. My pulse rate spikes, and I swear, I can feel my palms begin to sweat. I shake my head to clear this strange sensation which grips me. Love—it's love. I'm in fucking love with her. I bat the emotion aside, then clear my throat.

"I listened to pirate radio stations when I was at university. Got hooked onto them. Then worked, briefly, at one," I offer. I've never spoken about this part of my life, but it feels right to share this with her, and for once, I don't hold back.

She blinks her eyelids as if coming out of a trance. "Weren't they outlawed?"

"You're right, but some of them went underground. To this day, they operate without licenses in inner city areas or from ships in international waters." Some of that old excitement I felt when I worked with one of them bubbles to the surface. I forgot how good it felt to be part of something bigger than me, something Ih had a cause and purpose. It's a feeling I had when I was part of the Marines. "It's a very effective platform to promote independent voices, especially serving niche cultural or social needs not supported by mainstream platforms."

I break off when I notice her staring at me with a strange look on her face.

"What?" I snap.

"Umm, nothing." She looks away, smothering a laugh.

I find myself flushing. Jesus Christ. When was the last time I felt at such a loss for words? "Raven," I say in a warning tone, "out with your thoughts."

She rolls her eyes. "Just thinking there's a nerd inside you after all. No wonder I'm attracted to you."

"Nerd, hmm?" Somehow, I'm pleased by the compliment. And I know her enough to realize this was a compliment.

She nods. "I hadn't realized that you were a rebel when you were younger, and more idealistic than you are now. I'd give anything to have met you then."

"Hmm." I scowl at her, trying to figure out if she's joking or is merely trying to pander to my ego when she dips her chin. "Also, you're hot when you get all stern and formal."

"You think I'm hot?" I smirk.

"I'm here, am I not?" She tosses her head. "And you know you are, so stop wanting to hear it from me."

"I'll never get bored of hearing it from you," I say softly.

This time, it's she who blushes. She looks down at her plate and digs into her breakfast. So do I. For a few seconds, there's only the clinking of our cutlery against the plates. Then she asks, "Then what happened?"

"What do you mean?" I finish off my omelet and use the remaining toast to mop up the remaining bits on the plate.

"What happened after the pirate ship escapades?"

I place my knife and fork in my plate. "I realized, I loved the sea more than the illicit thrill of broadcasting illegally. So, I joined the Marines."

Her features take on a shrewd expression. "Why not join the Navy?"

I hesitate.

"There"s something else, isn"t there??"

I incline my head. I've gotten so good at fooling people with the lack of expression on my face, it's a shock to realize someone can look past the mask I normally wear.

She holds my gaze, and it's as if she's seeing into my soul.

I crack my neck. "The pirate radio station I worked at? I also owned it."

"You did?"

"I bought a ship with the money I made off the stock market and set up a FM transmitter on it. My closest friend, Danny, joined me on the ship moored off the shore of the UK in international waters. We spent our days working out, drinking, and talking about what we wanted to do with our lives—in between broadcasting punk and grime rock from obscure bands. He wanted to be a Marine. As for me, I knew my path was set. This was my last attempt at rebelling before I joined my father's company."

I swallow, knowing I'm coming to the difficult part.

"Go on," she urges me in a soft voice, which almost undoes me. No one has ever looked at me with such empathy.

For that matter, I've never shared this story with anyone else, but her lack of judgement invites me to confide in her, and I can't stop myself. I look away to gather my thoughts.

"One night, we were horsing around, as we normally did, and drinking. We drank our way through most of the alcohol on the ship that day. Danny was in great form. He'd enlisted and was leaving to join basic training in a few days. I knew I was going to miss him. But I was also envious about how confident he felt that this was his path. It was, maybe, three a.m. in the morning. The wind had picked up considerably that night, and we were both very drunk."

"He decided he had to piss off the bow of the ship. It took him a few tries before he made it there. He was weaving on his feet, barely able to stay upright. I thought it was funny. I kept laughing, until tears filled my eyes. When I blinked them away, he'd disappeared."

She gasps.

"I was too drunk to move. So drunk that when I tried to get to my feet to search for him, I kept falling. It took me three tries before I made it to where I'd last seen him. I looked overboard but couldn't see him. The waters were too dark. I managed to call the coastguard for help, then jumped off the ship to search for him."

"Did you... Did you find him?" she whispers.

I shake my head. That familiar heaviness knocks at the backs of my eyes. I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "They never found him. I was arrested for running a pirate radio station. Arthur had to come bail me out. He also paid enough money to make it all go away. He refused to let me attend Danny"s funeral, and I'll never forgive him for that. And when I told him I was joining the Marines in Danny's memory, he never forgave me. He wanted me to join the Davenport Group and learn the ropes. He had dreams of making me the CEO, since my older brothers weren't interested."

"So that's why there's bad blood between the two of you?"

"Well… It didn"t help that my nephews followed my example, and all of them, except one, joined the Marines. Of course, you wouldn't know that when you hear Arthur boast about how there"s a tradition of serving in the military among the Davenports. He spun it as a PR story to boost the company's reputation."

She shakes her head. "He's a canny old man."

"He is." I half smile. "If it weren't for the fact I was searching for a purpose when I returned from the Marines, and I realized I did want to leave some kind of legacy for my son, I never would have agreed to join him. I also realized that by helping to grow the business and claiming my inheritance, I could use the money to further the cause of military vets. It's what Danny would have wanted." My heart feels heavy, my guts churning with that familiar guilt I"ve carried with me since he died.

"So, that's why you like listening to the radio?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"It makes you feel close to Danny."

I stare at her, my thoughts in a whirl. I never made that connection, but she's right. It's a connection I have with Danny that nothing can sever. When I listen to the radio, it feels like he's speaking to me from the beyond. It never occurred to me. It took my wife to connect the dots and point something so obvious out to me.

"Q, you okay?" she asks in a hesitant voice.

I nod slowly.

"You miss him." She swallows, her gaze filling with compassion "I am so sorry for your loss."

"It was a long time ago." I glance away, not wanting her to see how her words disturb me, yet are so healing. How can she see me so clearly? How can she read what my subconscious has been trying to signal to me for years, when it never occurred to me? How can she know me so well in such a short time?

Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. She lays her fork and knife on the island, then slips off the stool and walks around to stand between my legs. "I'm sorry."

Her sweet voice is like a steady rain that wears down the barriers I've placed around my heart. How could I have let her get this close to me? Why is it I"m unable to walk away from her, knowing I'm setting myself up for a fall? I can't...

I can't bear to think of a time when she leaves me. And she will. One day, she'll wake up and realize she could do much better than me. She'll leave me, and I won't be able to go on. It's bad enough that I'm in love with her. I can't let this passion for her turn into an obsession. I cannot allow her to get any closer. I cannot get more invested in this relationship. That would hurt her, and me, more.

When she cups my cheek, my entire body seems to leap to attention. My fingertips tingle, but I resist the urge to reach out and touch her. Instead, bastard that I am, I lock up my emotions once more in that deep, dark place inside. And in an attempt to deflect her from showing more compassion for me—which would be my downfall—I twist my lips.

"Aren't you going to kiss me and make it better?"

She rises on tiptoe and presses her mouth to mine. It's sweet and honeyed and tentative. And it's so right... And so wrong.

I don't want her love and sympathy and tenderness right now. What I want is lust and avarice and the need to feel her skin on mine. I want to treat her like the submissive she is. I want to bury myself inside her tight holes, so it drowns out all other thoughts in my head.

My muscles tighten, and when she licks my lips, it's like a signal to my body. I grab her hips and spring to my feet. She gasps, begins to pull back, but I hitch her up. She instantly wraps her thick legs around my waist. Her bare pussy pushes into my crotch. I can feel the heat of her center through my sweatpants, and all of the blood drains to my groin. I lean into her and cover her mouth with mine.

I want her so distracted she forgets to feel sorry for me. I want her so filled with endorphins from the orgasms I'm going to wring from her that she'll forget to look at me with sympathy. I don't want her concern, or her warmth, or her gentleness. I don't want her to learn any more of my secrets. I don"t want her understanding. I want to reduce our connection to that of a Dom and sub. I want her to see me as someone who awakened her body to the pleasures of BDSM, and nothing more. I want to distill our relationship to purely the physical, so when I leave her, while she'll be upset, but she'll be able to move on.

A tightness grips my chest at the thought.

I'll awaken her desires, and she'll, no doubt, seek another Dominant. Another lover who'll take advantage of her lush body and her giving nature. The thought sends a ripple of anger up my spine. It's going to be difficult to let her go, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

For now, I'll focus on her mouth, her body, the curve of her hips, the way she melts into me. For now, I'll focus on her pain and her pleasure.