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I call after her, "See you at the exhibition."
"You haven’t seen Quentin, have you?" I lock my fingers together, cursing myself for asking the question which has been buzzing in my mind all day. It’s been five days since he first left me the cappuccino in an insulated tumbler. He’s taken to leaving it for me on my bed stand so it’s the first thing I see when I wake up. Every night, he sleeps with his big body curled around me. But no matter how late I stay up, I haven’t managed to catch him. I’ve been sleeping in, thanks to the relief of getting all my paintings out the door.
I woke up today, determined to talk to him. But it was already two p.m. by the time my eyes opened. Damn, I missed him again. I’ve missed hearing his voice, missed his chuckle, his devilish smirk, that spicy male scent of his, and that tenderness in his eyes. I miss how he anticipates my every need. More than anything, I want to kiss him and be held by him when I'm awake—instead of only when I'm asleep. So, I'm disappointed that I slept in so late. On the plus side, I feel like a new person. By the time I make it down to grab something to eat, it’s three p.m.
Mrs. Harmon looks up from the casserole she’s been putting together in the kitchen and shakes her head when I asked if she’s heard from Q. "Afraid not. Are you sure he hasn’t messaged you?"
I begin to shake my head, then realize I haven’t checked my phone in the past few days. I often get that way when I’m painting. I forget about the world. I head to my studio and, after scrounging around, find the device under an unused canvas. I bring it to our bedroom and plug it in. As soon as the battery is charged enough, I switch it on. A stream of messages pops up.
Ten missed calls and twenty messages from Zoey. Two missed calls and a few messages from Summer. A couple from Lizzie, letting me know she’ll be stopping by. Then, six from Q.
Husband: This made me think of you.
There’s a picture of a pink rose in full bloom attached to the message. My heart flutters. A warmth steals over my cheeks. Oh my God, was Q walking in a garden somewhere? The picture seems to imply that, for the rose is part of a bush. It’s not in a vase. My big tough husband took time out to go to a park? OMG, he’s changed so much.
Husband: And her unmatched loveliness of looks. And the rare splendor of her locks, were mine.
I can hear his dark voice reading out Poe’s words in my head. I shiver.
Husband: I dreamed of you last night. I wish I were there with you right now.
Oh my God, I press my hand into my chest. I can’t get over how open he’s with his feelings.
Husband: I miss you, baby
A giddy sensation takes ahold of me. It feels so good to know he missed me too.
Husband: Miss you
Little sparks of happiness flare in my chest.
Husband: Have I told you lately how much I miss you, wife?
Those sparks of happiness grow into bubbles of fire that float through my blood stream.
The last message pops up.
Husband: Get dressed, I’m taking you shopping. Be at the front door by 5 p.m.
Ooh, shopping? He’s never taken me shopping before. To be honest, I’ve never been shopping with friends, because... Until I met Q, I never had the money to spend on myself. And even if I had, I didn’t have friends to go out with. And when I took Lizzie to the mall, I preferred spending money on her. To have my husband taking me shopping... It’s a dream come true. It’s something I never thought could happen to me. I glance at the time on the screen of the phone and squeak. I have under two hours to get dressed. Just enough to primp myself, and slough off the fuzz on my legs and underarms. Not my pussy though. Since Q had told me he adores it unshaved, I haven’t touched it.
By the time I finish shaving, then take a long soak in the tub, followed by slathering lotion on my limbs and blow-drying my hair, I have half an hour to go. I run into the closet and, of course, can’t decide what to wear. With ten minutes to spare—which is how long I dawdled—I pull on a skirt and blouse, then slip my feet into a pair of low-heeled boots. A brush of mascara and lipstick, then I grab my coat and bag and rush to the front door.
When I pull it open, it’s to find a car idling at the bottom of the steps. It’s the Cadillac Eldorado, and Q is standing next to the passenger door. He tracks my progress, and the intensity of his gaze liquefies my knees and turns my pussy into a mushy, soggy mess. I manage to make it to the bottom of the steps without tripping. When I reach him, he draws his gaze down my face, to my body, and all the way to my feet. By the time he reaches my face again, I feel like I’m about to dissolve into a hot puddle of need at his feet. His eyes gleam in appreciation. "Hello, beautiful," he says. Then he holds the front passenger door open. "Get in," he commands.
Instantly, my already erect nipples turn into bullet points of lust. Ugh! That dominant tone of his never fails to strike a chord with that slut inside of me who wants him to have his wicked way with me.
I slide into the seat and fasten my seatbelt, without revealing how horny I am. When he enters his side of the car, I turn to him. "Where are we going?"
"If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He flashes me a wicked grin that spikes my pulse rate further. Then, he steps on the accelerator and roars down the driveway. On the short ride into the city, he plays music—classic rock, which I happen to love. I pull topics out of the air to avoid the one topic I don't have an answer for yet. I can see the question in his eyes, but when I deflect by talking about the weather, he accepts my lead with a knowing glint in his eyes.
We discuss the last soccer match, which Arsenal won—a team we both support. He tells me about a new pub that’s opened in Primrose Hill, and which he wants to take me to. By the time we come to the news headlines, we’re pulling up in front of Selfridges.
It’s a department store in the city I used to want to go to, but never could afford. Oddly enough, I can afford it now, but it hasn’t crossed my mind to go. He slides out of the car, comes around, and opens my door. He helps me out and tosses his key to a waiting valet. When we walk in, there are no shoppers around.
"Where is everyone?" I wonder aloud as he guides me to an elevator and presses the button for the top floor.
"I had my team book the space so we could shop in privacy.”
