Chapter 50

Vivian

Husband: I love you!

My heart flutters. I'll never tire of him telling me this.

I haven"t seen him since that mind-blowing, panty-melting kiss in the elevator, a week ago. He's been sending short messages like this one at least twice a day, and OMG, each time I read them my entire body lights up.

Husband: You are so talented, baby!

He promised to show me how much he loved me, and clearly, this is his way of honoring my need for a little space.

Husband: You are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

He surprised me again. I miss him, of course, but I'm equally happy to have this time to focus on my craft.

Also, he uses punctuation in his message. OMG, how cute is that?

Husband: Not a moment goes by when I don't think about you. I can't wait to see you again!

Gosh, I had no idea the man could be so romantic. I am swooning.

His housekeeper continues to cook for me. Only now, she insists on knocking on my door to get my attention. As I get deeper into the flow, as I feel my muse take over, I begin to ignore the knocks. There"ve been times when I"ve skipped meals until hunger forces me to open the door and retrieve one of the trays. Painting day and night without any disturbance is a luxury I've never had before.

And he gave me that.

He gave me the mind-space to create. And ensured I have all the materials I need for it. He ensured I could use this room as a studio. I don't have to worry about my sister or my father. I check in with both most days, but the last time I called, my sister told me she was going on another European tour with her troupe. Q had arranged to have my father, and his carer—who was now also his girlfriend—flown to Johns Hopkins for the medical trials he got on. When I called him, he sounded happy and excited. He'd responded better than expected to the medication and said he felt so much better already.

It means I can continue to focus on my craft. I have Quentin to thank for that. I am grateful to him. But a part of me is uncomfortable with it. That, with his money, he can change my life in the space of a month, is something I'm still coming to terms with.

And then, that kiss in the elevator. It was different from the way he kissed me before. The way he looked at me when he said his actions are going to show me how much he loves me—it was that look in his eyes that made me realize how serious he is about us.

And his texts are proving it. Is that why I miss him?

He no longer sleeps here; I know that because the pillow next to me remains undented every night. So, he"s sleeping in his office, or he"s moved into a hotel.

After a few days, I started sleeping on the couch in my studio. It"s big enough to double as a bed, and it means I don't have to waste time walking up the corridor to our bedroom. It also means, I'm not distracted by thoughts of Q and his scent, which surrounds me in the bed we shared. Now, I have less than a week to go, and the tension within me is building.

I can feel it in the way I've been painting nonstop for the last god-knows-how-many hours. In the way the colors leap from my brush and take a life of their own on my canvas.

There's a knock on the door; I ignore it. It's probably the housekeeper.

A few minutes... Or is it hours later? There's another knock.

"Go away," I yell. My head spins, and my fingers cramp with fatigue. I shake them out, roll my shoulders, and push through the exhaustion. I'm on a roll, and nothing can stop me. I must keep going until I finish.

I dip my brush into the paint and continue to splash the colors on the canvas. Keep going. Don't stop. This is the last canvas, and my most important one. I have to complete this in time for the showing. My phone buzzes from somewhere in the room. I ignore it. It stops, then starts again.

I growl, then march to where I've left it face down on the couch and shove it aside. It hits the floor, then bounces once before sliding away.

I head back to my canvas and continue painting.

There's another knock on the door. I don't answer it. One more knock. I block out all noises, focus on my painting. My stomach growls; I ignore the hunger pangs. My throat is parched, and my head hurts. My eyelids flutter down; I shake myself awake. Dip the brush in the paint, press it down on the canvas. And again. And again. A few more strokes, just a few more.

The door bursts open. The brush slips from my fingers, and my knees give way. I don't have the strength to turn my head. The floor comes up to meet me. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, which never comes. Instead, something hard and ungiving bands around me. I'm lifted up, and when I open my eyes, I see him.

"Q"—I swallow—"what are you doing here?"

He says something, but the words fade away, then darkness overwhelms me.

When I come to, I'm in my room, in my bed, under the covers. I try to sit up, but a firm grip on my shoulder stops me.

"Rest," a hard voice rumbles from above me.

I look up into those piercing blue eyes of his. Anger smolders in them. I flinch, and a shutter lowers over them.

"You need to eat." The lines around his mouth seem deeper. His jaw is tight. He seems upset with me. The tendons of his throat stand out in relief. He's barely keeping a grip on his temper, I realize.

"Why are you angry?" I sniffle, hating myself for the weak tears that overflow my eyes.

His features take on an agonized expression. He wipes away my tears with his thumb. "Not angry at you, baby; angry at myself for not being around to take care of you."

"I missed you." The words are out before I can stop myself. It's my turn to flinch. I must be feeling weaker than I realized to let those words slip out.

His features soften. "I missed you, too, Raven."

"Oh." I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "I didn't realize I"d miss you so much when I asked you to stay away. I didn't realize you'd actually honor my request, either."

He seems taken aback, then barks out a laugh. "That was the hardest thing I've ever done. The number of times I called Mrs. Harmon to ask about you, the number of times I asked her if you'd eaten—" he shakes his head. "It"s a wonder she hasn't quit yet."

"I knew you were keeping tabs on me through her. It should have made me angry but, if I'm being honest, it also made me feel cherished."

"And I do cherish you, baby. More than anything else in my life." He cups my cheek. "When you asked for space to focus on your painting, I knew you were also asking for time and a little space to work things out in your head. This showing is so important to you, and I thought it best to allow you to focus on it. Now, I wonder if I made the wrong decision. Now, I wonder if I shouldn't have insisted on taking care of you while you painted." He drags his gaze down my body, then back to my face. "You've lost weight. You haven't been eating or sleeping—some of which, I know, is because you're in creative flow, but if you don't keep up your strength, you'll never be able to do your craft justice."

His words send a thrill of warmth coursing through my veins. There's no mistaking the worry in his features, or the caring nature of his words, or the anger which smolders in his eyes. Before I can say anything else, the door to the bedroom opens. His housekeeper walks in and hands him a tray.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harmon." He nods at her. "You may leave now."

She turns to me. "I hope you feel better soon, Mrs. Davenport."

I blink. Eh? She's referring to me? I"m Mrs. Davenport… Of course, I am. I did marry Quentin. But no one's called me that before. "Thanks," I mumble. She leaves the room and the door snicks shut. Then, there's a spoonful of food in front of my face.

"Open," he murmurs in a husky voice.

I part my lips, and he slides a spoonful of liquid into my mouth. The aromatic taste of spices, mixed with the heavier composition of the broth and the creamy addition of yogurt, fills my senses. "Mmm." I chew on the pieces of vegetable and meat, and swallow. "This is delicious."

"Mulligatawny soup. It's my mother's recipe."

"Mulliga-what?" I stumble over the word.

"It's an old Anglo-Indian recipe. My mother's father was from the sub-continent. He was a soldier in the British Army."

That's the first time he's willingly shared something of his past. I stay silent as he feeds me another spoonful, and am rewarded when he continues, "She took after her mother in her looks, with fair skin and blue eyes. She was self-conscious about her heritage, probably because she was bullied about it in school. She preferred not to have anything to do with that side of her family. But whenever we boys didn"t feel well, she'd make us Mulligatawny soup."

I swallow another mouthful. "It's very tasty."

"This one has chicken broth and vegetables, a dash of yoghurt and is flavored with curry powder. That's a blend of spices like cumin, coriander, turmeric, fenugreek and pepper," he adds.

I stare at him. "You're very knowledgeable about Indian food."

He hesitates. "I went through a phase in my teens when I researched Anglo-Indian history, including the food. I was curious about my heritage, especially because my mother refused to talk about it. Then I joined the Marines, and that became my life."

"You Davenport men take after your maternal grandfather in your tradition of serving the country, it seems."

His gaze widens. He looks at me in surprise. "I never thought of that before." He continues to stare at me, and my cheeks heat.

"What?" I murmur.

"You're beautiful," he says with absolute seriousness. It"s not patronizing; he means it.

I lower my eyelashes. "Thank you. Also, I'm hungry."

He smiles, then continues to feed me the rest of the soup, stopping only to break off the bread and butter it before popping it into my mouth. By the time I'm done eating, sleep tugs at my eyelids. When I refuse more food, he places the tray aside, then pulls the covers up around my shoulders.

"Please don't ask me to stay away from you. I can't. Not anymore." He kisses my forehead. "I promise, I won't interfere with your process, but I'll rest easier knowing I'm here to look after you."

I don't think I can keep my distance from him, either. I don't want to spend another day without seeing him. I want him. I draw in a breath. "Okay." I yawn.

"Okay." The tension exits his big body.

I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but I'm very aware of him moving around the room. He switches off the lights, then the bed dips. The covers rustle, and I realize he's slipped onto the bed with me. He must stay on his side of the bed though, for he doesn't touch me.

I try to will myself to sleep, but it eludes me. I turn on my side away from him, close my eyes, but the heat from his body is too alluring. I can sense his presence, the solidness of his bulk, but he doesn't touch me. I sigh. Then turn on my other side, facing him, and flinch.

His blue eyes gleam in the semi-dark, a predatory glint in them. He's on top of the covers, in his pants and shirt, but no jacket. He's sprawled against the pillows with his left arm folded behind his neck. His biceps stretch the sleeve of his shirt, which he's folded up to reveal his veiny forearms. His burly shoulders dwarf the pillow, and the darkness of his hair is stark against the white bedclothes.

"Couldn't sleep?" His low, hard voice reaches out to lasso around me.

I shake my head.

"Want to suckle my cock until you fall asleep?"

Oh god! Saliva pools in my mouth. That... Why does that sound so filthy and so naughty, and so hot? Why does that sound so appealing? And why am I not more horrified by the suggestion? I squeeze my thighs together and nod.

"Is that a yes, baby?" he asks softly.

"Yes, please," I choke out, trying not to sound too eager, and failing.

He reaches down and releases his zipper. The harsh sound pumps a burst of liquid heat through my veins. My nipples hurt. My toes curl. I lower my gaze to his crotch just as he pulls out his cock. Long, thick, and veiny, with precum glistening at the crown, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. When he pats his thigh, I scramble over, then slide down until my head is cushioned there.

"Open," he commands.

I do, and he slips his fat shaft between my lips until it throbs against my tongue. He holds my head in place, so I'm able to suckle his dick without much effort. He strokes his fingers down the length of my hair, and when they snag on a knot, he gently undoes it. The caress of his fingers through my tresses soothes me. And the feel of his cock, throbbing in my mouth, is reassuring in a way I can't explain. Why does this make me feel so cherished? Why does this make me feel so secure that my muscles relax, and my mind stops going around in circles? Why does this... My eyelids drift down, and this time, sleep takes me under.

When I wake up, I'm on my side of the bed, tucked under the covers. Also, I'm alone. And naked. Guess he took off my paint-splattered clothes? I stretch, feeling more refreshed than I've felt in a long time. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and head to the ensuite bathroom. I brush my teeth, then shower and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans. Allowing my damp hair to dry naturally around my shoulders, I pull on a thick pair of socks and head down to the kitchen. The smell of coffee and the scent of frying bacon has me salivating by the time I reach the island. He's wearing a fresh suit and jacket, seated at one of the stools. BBC Channel 4 plays in the background. He has a cup and a plate with the remnants of his breakfast in front of him. He's also reading the Financial Times—"Uh, you're reading the paper?"

He looks up at me and surveys my features. "Good morning to you, too."

"Good morning." Heat flushes my cheeks as I remember how I suckled his cock until I fell asleep. Another kink unlocked. I'm going to be thoroughly corrupted in no time, and you know what? I am not complaining at all. The gleam in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking. My blush deepens. "The newspaper." I point at the broadsheet in a bid to change the topic. "You're holding it."

"That's what you normally do when you read it." Whew! He accepted the diversionary tactic. Also, there's a thread of sarcasm running through his words, which is so very Q.

I resist the urge to smile. "You have a real paper—in your hands."

"As opposed to?" He inclines his head.

"I mean, you're the first person I know who prefers to read a hardcopy of the newspaper."

"O-k-a-y?" The quizzical expression in his eyes makes my lips twitch.

He sets his newspaper aside and heads to the espresso machine.

"Everyone I know gets their news from social media. Or else, they consume their news online." I seat myself on the other stool.

"Of course, they do." He works the espresso machine; a few minutes later, he returns with my cappuccino. He sets it in front of me.

A warm glow envelops me. I feel so cared for when he's around. "Thank you." I find myself blushing again, then duck my head and sip the hot beverage.

He chuckles and takes his seat, then slides some of the bacon onto the plate in front of me, along with some hash-browns. He pours me a glass of orange juice, then surveys my features as I drink it. "Feeling better?"

I nod, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, and place the now empty glass down. "I'm sorry I fainted."

"Not surprising when you haven't eaten in days."

"I'm not normally like that. But sometimes, when I'm in flow, I forget to eat. But I'm done with the paintings, so it's all good."

"Hmm." He continues to study me as I fork some bacon into my mouth.

"How come you were home yesterday?"

"Zoey called me. She's been trying to reach you the past three days. When you didn't answer your phone, she got worried and called me. Followed closely by Mrs. Harmon, who told me you hadn't collected your food trays for over twenty-four hours."

My cheeks heat. "I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Your health is the most important thing in the world to me, Raven."

A weird embarrassment steals through me. Probably because I'm remembering how I hadn't been able to fall asleep until I suckled his cock.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he rumbles. Damn, is he reading my thoughts now? I continue to eat without meeting his gaze. He cups my cheek with his big hand, and I have no choice but to meet his eyes. There's a softness to his features. The tenderness in his touch turns my pulse into a vibrating top. This...this fondness in his voice, this affection in the way his skin clings to mine, this devotion in his eyes, this... This is everything. This is better than how I anticipated it could be between us.

This... Is this true love? Is this how it feels to be with your soulmate? This meeting of the minds, of feeling in tune with him, of knowing I don't have to speak for him to read my thoughts. Of being confident that he knows what I need before I do. Of owning me without saying a word. Is this...

Is this true dominance—when he anticipates my needs and makes sure I have what I need without my realizing I ever required it? If this is it, then it feels all-consuming, overpowering, all-desiring. It feels dizzying and exhilarating. I want to jump into his arms and kiss him and have him kiss me back. My head spins, and yet, he continues to gaze into my eyes like I'm the only woman in the world for him.

This... is what I was missing. This is what I was looking for, and now that I have it... I realize it's even better than what the poets wrote about. I yearned for it. I have it. I need time to get used to it.

So, instead of throwing my arms around him, I look away. "Quentin"—I swallow—"I… I need to get my paintings shipped for the showing."

His forehead furrows, then a knowing glint comes into his eyes. "I know a diversion when I see one, baby," he says in a gentle voice.

I flush again. "It's not—" I begin to speak then stop myself. If we want to make this relationship work, I need to be honest. "You're right. It is a diversion. I... You can be overwhelming, Q, and I'm processing everything that's happened between us, while also trying to get my paintings done in time." I set down my fork. "I just... am trying to figure things out in my head, you know?"

His features soften. The lines radiating out from his eyes deepen and his lips curve slightly. He reaches over and takes my hand, "Take all the time you need, I'm not going anywhere."