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Adrenaline laces my blood. That tingling that starts at my fingertips and extends to my heart, and then to my head, the one that tells me I’m ready to start painting, has me marching into one of the guest bedrooms that Q told me I could use as my studio.
He had my paintings moved in there, along with my art supplies—and new ones he bought for me, which I notice now as I stand in front of the easel. I allow the painting to take shape on the canvas, let my thoughts turn to the man who’s at the forefront of my mind and guide my fingers.
I dip my brush into the paint and slash it across the canvas in one bold stroke. Where the hell is my husband? I load the brush again, and the trembling of my hand sends a spray of crimson across the black.
I step back and brush my hair out of my eyes to examine the effect. For some reason, I can hear Q's voice in my head, telling me to let go. I fling my arm out, and another spray of crimson splatters like blood. My bleeding heart would look like this canvas.
I dip my brush in purple and splash the purple over the crimson. And those are my desires, bubbling to the surface. Yellow for the need. Green for the yearning I feel for him. Pink for the tenderness I glimpse in him. Black for the darkness that connects us. Blue for his eyes. I set down my brush, then pick up my palette knife and begin to etch out an outline.
I paint into that night and the next day. I end up sleeping on the daybed in the room and break to eat when I’m hungry. I’m almost done with my first painting. That’s not bad, considering I haven’t painted in so long.
I look away and toward the window. It’s dark outside. Gosh, another day has passed, and I haven’t seen my husband yet. Where the hell is he? The need I bled out all over my canvas has me trembling. The idea of heading off alone to my cold, lonely bed brings tears to my eyes. No way. I'm not waiting another night.
I square my shoulders. No way, am I waiting another night, only to find I’ve missed him again. I throw down my brush and take off the apron I’ve been wearing over my clothes. I rush to our bedroom, jump in the shower, then pull on a dress that comes to mid-thigh. I throw a jacket over it, pair it with ballet pumps, then rush out of the house. The car and chauffeur he’s put at my disposal is parked outside.
It’s nearly nine p.m. by the time I arrive at his office.
I take the elevator to the penthouse and walk down the deserted corridor. I haven’t been here before, but my name was on the list and the security guard downstairs told me where to find my husband. I reach his door and push it open. The room is empty.
I walk in, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. The spicy scent of woodsmoke and pine, which is so very Q hangs in the air. It’s as if I’m surrounded by him. I walk toward the desk that takes up almost the entire back wall. The swivel chair behind it is empty. I glance around the room, then slip into the chair.
It’s so big, it overwhelms me. I sink into the plush leather. The seat is warm, which means he must have vacated this chair recently. I place my arms on the armrest and close my eyes. There’s so much of him in this space, I can almost pretend he’s right here in the room with me. My nipples tighten, and my pussy clenches.
Oh god, I miss my husband. I wish he were here with me.
If he were, would he squeeze my breast? I bring my hand to my breast and squeeze it. Would he touch me between my legs where it hurts?
I flip up my dress, thankful I decided to eschew my panties, then slide my hand under and cup my pussy. Sensations sizzle out from the contact. The hollowness in my core grows, and I squirm. I squeeze my thighs together, but that doesn’t help.
I could stuff my fingers inside my throbbing pussy, but the girth would be nowhere close to the size of his fingers or his dick. Perhaps, it’ll alleviate some of this emptiness inside, though? I brush my fingers against my entrance when I hear a groan.
Was that me?
No, it sounded too masculine.
It sounded like?—
I snap my eyes open. Wait… Wait… Another groan… This one deeper, more insistent than the first.
I whip my head in the direction of the sound and notice the door to the ensuite bathroom is ajar. Is he in there?
Is there… Someone with him?
I swallow, then slip off the chair. I head toward the bathroom, when another guttural noise reaches me. That sounded almost painful. I wince, reach the door, and push it further open.
The sound of wet flesh hitting flesh reaches me.
It’s so explicit, there’s no mistaking what it is. Heat flushes my skin. Is there someone with him, and are they doing what I think they are? Does she have her hands and her mouth on his cock?
I shove the door open all the way and barge in.
And come to a stop because there’s only one person in here, and it’s my husband. With his cock in his hand.
He’s pushed his other hand into the bathroom tile to balance himself. He’s standing in profile to me, which means... He’s in the shower stall, but the shower is not running. The door to the stall is open, indicating he was about to step out but stopped halfway. Judging by the wetness of his body, he’s also just finished. The shower, that is.
As for his other business, his shaft is long and thick and stands upright, and when he squeezes it from base to crown, liquid gleams on the head.
My cheeks flush. Oh, my God. He’s jerking off.
