by Stella Gray
She’s not gone from the penthouse often, just a few quick trips every week so she can go to gigs, work out, and run errands. But we still have our public image to uphold, and I made it clear she wasn’t to engage in any social events without me.
It’s nothing but frustrating. On the one hand, it’s a huge relief when she’s gone, but on the other—I can’t stand it when she is. It’s a cliché case of can’t live with her, can’t live without her. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I think about her constantly, my mind straying to what she’s doing, or replaying all the most torturous details from all the times we’ve had sex.
I want her.
No, I want her gone.
But I can’t imagine my life without her.
And I can’t stand to actually be around her.
Jesus. I’ve totally lost it.
I take a quick shower, change into clean sweats, and peel out of the gym parking lot in my Bugatti. Even as I head home much later than necessary, I feel a mix of anticipation and angst knowing she’ll be home when I get there. It’s taken all my willpower not to touch her these last few weeks, or seduce her into being my muse while I touch myself.
My blood heats just thinking about it. She’s my favorite stimulation—naked, pliable, hungry for my cock, and willing to do whatever I ask. She’s every man’s walking wet dream. She’s mine, yet thanks to the fucked-up situation between us, I can’t bring myself to touch her. We should be falling into bed, on the table, over the couch, screwing like crazy. But we live like we’re roommates and communicate like strangers.
I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, but there’s no way I can forgive her. This is just the way it has to be.
By the time I pull into my private parking garage, I’m wound tight with frustration over every aspect of my life. There’s no one to blame but myself and my own stupid choices. I punch the elevator button too hard, and clench my jaw as I take the ride up to the top floor.
The scent of Brooklyn’s perfume assaults me, jacking my pulse the moment I walk through the door. It does nothing for the irritation I’m experiencing. The scent is fresh, as if she’s just in the next room. So much for avoiding her. I leave the entryway, round the corner, and come to a full stop when I spy Brooklyn by the kitchen island.
She’s fiddling with an earring and doesn’t notice me right away. Her long, lithe body is clad in a skin-tight black dress with a plunging neckline and snakeskin going down the sides. The hem barely covers the crotch of her sheer black nylons. Four-inch black heels with red soles make her long, shapely legs even more incredible. Her hair is stick straight and glimmering as if she flat-ironed hot oil right into it. Her makeup is neutral, with a bold, burgundy lip.
The frustration I’ve been struggling with turns to all-out anger. She’s dressed for the club, and as far as I know, we’re not invited anywhere tonight. But she knows full well that she’s not allowed to attend any social events without me.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I say.
She looks up with a frown while hooking a black feather earring in her right earlobe. “I still have a job to do, Luka.”
Job? Her hair and makeup are perfect. Any photoshoot would have an artist make her up on site. Besides, she doesn’t have any shoots on the books for today’s date. Though admittedly, I haven’t checked her schedule for a few days. Perhaps something came up that I’d missed.
“I manage your schedule, remember? You don’t have any shoots scheduled tonight.”
Even if she did, what kind of job would require her to look like this? She’s dressed to turn every male head for miles.
She collects a golden clutch from the kitchen counter and checks the contents, slowly rifling through while making me wait for an answer. I drop my duffle onto the floor and fold my arms. She catches my eyes, holding them while slowly adding another layer of lip gloss. Her plump lips glisten, and I feel a stir. God, how I’d love to see them wrapped around my cock.
“Well?” I prod.
Pressing her lips together, she tucks the gloss into her bag. “I have the breast cancer runway show tonight. Remember? DRM offered the event to models for a little exposure.”
I draw in an annoyed breath as it comes back to me. I’d forgotten about the show, for good reason. It’s for a great cause, yes, but the event itself is nothing worthy of Brooklyn’s time or talent. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten that my brother had made a big announcement about the event, encouraging models to sign up. With everything going on between Brooklyn and me, it had completely slipped my mind.
Running a hand through my hair, I go around the counter to the refrigerator and grab a bottled water. The basis of the entire show comes back to me and my gut clenches. It’s a charity event, but with an adult twist. No way is she going through with this. The tickets cost fifteen hundred a piece just to get into the show. The models won’t be modeling clothing, unless classic works of art replicated on their naked bodies with paint counts.
She’ll be completely nude, covered in paint, applied by some artsy asshole who will take way too much enjoyment out of his job tonight.
No. Fucking. Way.
“You’re going to cancel,” I tell her.
“What?” Brooklyn’s eyes widen in shock. “Absolutely not. This is a cause I care about. And besides, they’re expecting me.”
“Oh, I’m sure they are,” I say. “A woman like you will rake in the attendees, which is exactly why you’re cancelling.”
“No, I’m not.” She rolls her eyes with a defiant shake of her head.
This is a low-stakes event. The only crowd it will draw are perverted, wealthy men who didn’t bat an eye at paying an exorbitant ticket price to watch a bunch of gorgeous, naked models covered in body paint strut their stuff on a runway. These guys will be well lubricated with mid-level champagne and deli-style snacks, making them all too eager to reach out and touch. I imagine their fingers streaking paint all over her body as she’s groped by countless hands.
Not happening. “You’re staying home,” I grind out, blocking her way out.
“Sorry, dearest,” she says in a bored tone. “I’m already committed.”
“The fuck you are.”
The counter is still between us, or I might act on my desire to make her stay by any means possible. She won’t get far with my hand between her legs.
“Seriously, Luka, it’s a breast cancer charity,” she huffs. “What’s your problem?”
My problem is that I can’t stand the idea of a hundred other men looking at her perfect, naked body, paint or no paint. She’s my wife, and fuck if anyone else is going to enjoy what’s mine.
Her phone dings. She checks it and then slips it into her clutch. “My car’s waiting for me. I have to go.”
Without waiting for my reply, she darts around me and disappears into the entryway, her heels tapping on the floor. The door opens and shuts, and I’m left in silence. I don’t realize that I’m squeezing the water bottle until the plastic starts to give way beneath my palm.
I shouldn’t care that she goes. She’s working, like she’s supposed to be. Our contract states that DRM will keep her modeling, get her plenty of gigs and exposure. But this event…it just doesn’t fit with the wholesome image I had in mind.
I can’t let her do this without me.
As usual, I’m going to need to supervise her gig and make sure she’s not taken advantage of. That she’s staged in such a way as to accentuate her style and beauty, and not just her sex appeal. I realize my thoughts are laced with bullshit as I’m thinking them, but I don’t care.
Grabbing my cell, I call my assistant and tell him to look up the number for the contact person at the charity. “Tell them Danica Rose is sending two models instead of one.”
“Two?” he asks. “Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”
Brooklyn
Chapter 8
Where you at, girl? Mateo texts.
With a grin, I type b
ack, Almost there. Get those paintbrushes ready.
Despite Luka’s attitude about it, I’m excited to participate in the charity event tonight. My husband can turn up his nose all he wants—I’m going to have a good time doing my part.
Initially, I wasn’t totally sure I was looking forward to the body-painting aspect of things. Not that I’ve ever had a problem with nudity, but spending hours standing still while getting painted with images from classical art seemed like it would be incredibly tedious. And what if I had to use the bathroom, or suddenly got an itch I couldn’t scratch? My main reason for saying yes was that I love charity events, and because fighting breast cancer has had a special place in my heart ever since my nana passed away from it when I was in high school.
In the weeks leading up to the event, though, I started to get more and more nervous. Just knowing I’d have to spend my night mingling with the kind of rich men who think their money buys them the right to ogle and paw at you—ugh. Been there, done that. Part of me was even considering backing out. But then the event organizer sent an email to let the models know who their painters were going to be, and I found out that they’d matched me up with none other than Mateo. I’d actually yelled “Yes!!” in the middle of a local farmer’s market as I read it.
I called my bff right away, a heavy tote full of pears, apples, green beans, and carrots tucked under my arm. Mateo had answered on the first ring. “Is this my future canvas calling?” he’d teased. “Just saw the email Sharon sent out to everyone.”
“You didn’t tell me you were signing up!” I’d squealed. “It’s lucky I got you.”
“I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” he’d said. “And besides, I only volunteered on the condition that I got to work with the Brooklyn Zoric, so luck had nothing to do with it.”
We’d talked for a few more minutes, and all my anxiety had melted away. Trading in a lonely Saturday night dealing with Luka’s mercurial moods for one hanging out with my best friend sounded like the best plan ever. I’d been having a really rough time at home since returning from Paris, and my shame over betraying Luka kept me from confiding in any of my friends, Mateo included. Even invites from my new sisters-in-law to get brunch or shop or see a movie got rejected one after the other, with me blaming jet lag and then my work schedule. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to put on a happy face for Tori and Emzee. Or for anyone.
But now, finally, I won’t have to. I’m looking forward to spending these precious hours with my bestie. And even though I’ve been trying to keep my marital problems under wraps, I know Mateo’s going to figure out what’s up. He’s like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out personal drama. Maybe it’s finally time for a little sympathy—or even some advice.
On top of that, I can’t wait to see what he whips up for my body mural.
Considering all the stress I’ve been under at home with Luka, I don’t even care how long it takes to get painted, as long as Mateo and I can laugh and have fun. I need it. My husband and I aren’t making a single bit of progress, and I don’t know how much longer it’ll be until I break.
He’s been coming home extra late from work, and though I hate myself for it, I keep my door cracked open until I hear him walk in the door. It drains me to constantly wonder where he is, who he’s with. What he’s doing. My mind inevitably strays to Paris and the lipstick on his collar, that flight attendant on the way home. I hate knowing that I’ve turned into that wife, the one always pining for her husband because keeping tabs on him is priority one in her life.
Mateo greets me at the door with a huge smile as I walk into the venue. We embrace tightly and do our little hug-dance and it feels so good to be wrapped up in the arms of someone who genuinely cares about me. My body might yearn for the sweet sexual delight of being dominated by Luka’s body, but at this point I’m also craving basic human touch. I live with the sexiest man alive, yet I don’t even get a simple hand on my shoulder, or kiss on my cheek. It feels like forever since someone has touched me.
“God, do I have plans for you!” Mateo hugs me tighter before we break apart. “And p.s., you look fantastic.”
“At least someone noticed,” I say, trying to soften my bitter tone with a smile. It feels so good to be complimented. Have I been that deprived? Maybe my ego is just needy.
Mateo fingers my dress with a sassy click of his tongue. “Looks like you’re ready to hit the club and pick yourself up a man…or five. Trouble in paradise?”
Bingo. I knew there was no point in trying to hide anything from him. Butterflies flit in my stomach. Now is definitely not the time to get into the ugly details. “Let’s not talk about it.”
Pursing his lips, Mateo says, “You know you always have a place to go if you need to get out of there, right?”
“I know, and it’s not that. It’s just…stuff.” I shake my head. “Please, can we drop it?”
He cocks his head as if he wants to argue, but thankfully, he doesn’t press.
We hook arms and he leads me to a conference room in the back of the convention center that’s been converted into a makeshift art studio. There are an impressive number of people inside. White sheets are spread out on the floor near each painting station, along with a small table holding art supplies. There’s a manila folder there, too, with the word DESIGN written on it. I’m excited to see which classic painting Mateo chose for me. He leads me to his station in the corner with a ta-dahh spread of his arms. We’re kind of tucked back from everyone else, but I don’t mind. It gives a semblance of privacy. We can laugh and gossip without bothering anyone, which is probably good considering how loud we can get. I bet we’ll be laughing even more over all the silliness that comes out when a bunch of wealthy people try to impress each other.
“Wow, this paint is non-toxic, mineral based, and vegan,” Mateo says, nodding.
“Does that mean I can eat it?” I joke.
“You probably could… You know, I’m surprised Mr. Jealous-pants let you volunteer for this,” Mateo says casually as he starts arranging his paints.
I roll my eyes hard. “Luka’s not the boss of me,” I say.
Now that I think about it, I’ll bet that’s what had Luka so worked up earlier. He knows men like to touch—he is one himself, after all—and despite his recent efforts to act like he doesn’t want me anymore, he’s always been the jealous type. Too bad he won’t be here to see this. I wouldn’t mind getting him back for the way he behaved in Paris.
I set my clutch on Mateo’s table just as two volunteers come over and start putting together another artist’s station next to us. They’re still setting it up when Sharon, the event coordinator, pops her head into the room.
“Thank you all so much for volunteering your time and energy!” she calls out. “Artists, you have two hours to get your models painted. I look forward to seeing the results!”
With a wink, she’s gone, and a quiet frenzy ignites as the models waste no time getting naked. Mateo and I share a glance as the clothes start flying off. He’s still mixing the colors.
“These people are fierce,” he says anxiously. “I feel like we’re on a reality show bake-off or something.”
“I guess we’d better get started?” I say.
He laughs. “Strip, girl, strip. And go slow so I can enjoy it.”
I smack him playfully on the arm. “Jesus, Mat. Horndog much?”
“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before and you know it.” He shrugs. “A body is a body.”
I hear someone forcefully clearing their throat beside us. We both turn to look and my stomach drops as I take in the sight of Luka at the freshly arranged workstation next to ours, whipping off his shirt to reveal his perfectly sculpted torso.
Mateo is smiling like this is the best thing to happen to him all week.
“Well well well, Mr. Zoric,” he says, shooting me a smirk. “Fancy seeing you here…”
“Great to see you too, man,” Luka says to Mateo. But his tone doesn’t match h
is words.
As for me, I’m…I’m speechless. My husband lifts a brow as he continues undressing, holding my gaze the whole time. Shock turns to lust as I watch him unzip his pants and let them drop. He’s completely naked within seconds.
Crossing his arms, he says, “Surprised to see me?”
“You could say that,” I murmur.
“I thought we’d enjoy some husband and wife bonding time,” he says, as if it’s completely expected for him to be here right now. I don’t know what to say in reply, so I look at Mateo, but he’s still busy ogling my nude husband. To be honest, I’m wondering how everyone else in the room can focus on anything but Luka’s body, that face, his patented devilish grin.
He gestures at my clothing. “You heard Mateo—time to strip. You’re the only model here that isn’t ready for paint. Time’s a-wasting.”
Pulling myself together, I kick off my heels and shimmy out of my pantyhose. Both Luka and Mateo watch as I pull my dress over my head and step out of my underwear, leaving me naked. I shiver, but my body heats instantly as I take in my husband again. His form is so perfect, so unbelievably sculpted, that he puts this entire room full of professional models to shame. I want to be angry that he’s crashed my night out with Mateo, but the truth is: I’m not.
I still can’t figure out why he showed up. He wasn’t on the model list—in fact, he hadn’t signed up to have any involvement at all. Was it pure jealousy that drove him here tonight? If so, I can’t help feeling satisfied that my speculation was correct. He doesn’t want the men in the audience to appreciate my nakedness, and he sure as hell doesn’t want them touching me.
That would imply that Luka still cares about me. And there’s hope in that.
I catch him running his eyes over my body greedily, as if drinking me in after a long, parching heat. I enjoy his gaze, but then his artist has him turn to the right, and Luka looks away.
