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Besides, there’s only one thing I really want. Or, need, rather.
Smith watches my eyes skirt toward the only closed door in the large, round room. “Especially that,” he growls, low. “Anything you need for your nest, you buy it. End of story.”
I try to ignore the stab of disappointment that hits me. We’re supposed to furnish our nest together, but he doesn’t know that. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.
That would make sense. I can’t get him to come home for dinner; what are the odds he’s going to want to take a whole day to shop with me?
I’m guessing not great.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes, Sir.”
The hand resting in my hair flexes. I hear his sharp intake of breath, his scent spiking. Rich warmth fills the air, and my shoulders unwind, content to have one of their scents in my space.
His hand slowly slides off of me, bringing my attention to the pop of color tucked into his neutral suit’s breast pocket. Like his tie, it’s blush. But unlike the solid piece knotted at his throat, the pocket square looks like the one I noticed on him yesterday.
Patterned. Gingham, actually. Delicate white and pink checks, silky fabric. Much more cheerful than his typical, masculine accessories.
The fold is off, too. Instead of a simple square with crisp creases, this pocket square?—
—isn’t a pocket square.
Because it’s my missing panties.
And he’s wearing them as an accessory. Tucked into the front of his suit jacket where everyone will see them. Showing me off to the world, even though no one else will ever know what they are.
But I know.
And when I chance a glance up at him? I know that he knows that I know.
But what does it mean?
Smith gives nothing away. His eyes swirl, two whirlpools of dark heat. “Have a nice day, little petal,” he clips, walking toward the door. “Thanks for the pocket square.”
chapter
thirty-nine
Remi is perfect.
It’s a nightmare.
She floats around our kitchen like she was born to be there—an angel flitting between clouds, pulling heavenly baked goods out of thin air. So far, this week, she’s made bread, brownies, scones, and cupcakes. They all look and smell incredible; although, nothing smells quite as delicious as her.
It isn’t just her kitchen prowess. It’s the way she moves. The sway of her perfectly pleated skirts, a ladylike turn of her heel. She’s polished and pretty.
Perfection.
And I can’t touch her.
There’s one exception. Every morning, I bring her a latte in bed, and she lets me brush her hair back. I ask her what she’s planning to do that day and tell her to behave. She says, “Yes, Sir.” And I walk out of there with a throbbing knot and her pilfered panties in my pocket.
Because—yes, this omega is so perfect, she now leaves me her panties.
Without making a fuss or saying a single word to embarrass me, she simply began leaving a different pair of folded, silk panties out with my dinner note each night.
She must know what I do with them. She saw me do it. Yet, every day, I find a new offering.
I’ve been trying to make my own in return. Starting with making more of an effort to work from home when I can. Now, the kitchen table is covered in a layer of paperwork while I sit in one of the newly-acquired chairs, watching her.
