by Shayne Ford
I can’t read his eyes, and then, in one split second, he charges at me, taking me by surprise. I almost fall into his arms as he grabs me by the neck.
I gasp, clawing at his chest.
He looks down at me, overpowering me with his stature and the sheer hate pouring from his eyes.
“You know nothing about me, Jacqueline. Same way, my father knew nothing about me. You chose the wrong man to play with. There’s a reason why he did what he did, without telling me. In death, he is safe. But you, on the other hand...”
He pauses for a moment feeding on the horror growing on my face.
I fight his grip, and he finally de-tense his fingers so that I can breathe a little.
“You, on the other hand... You think that you are safe, surrounded by all your power.”
He slowly shakes his head.
“You have nothing. There is no power. It’s only an illusion that will do nothing for you when I come for you.”
I make a strenuous effort to gather my thoughts and utter the next words.
“You can’t do anything.”
He slightly tips his head to the side and gives me a sneering grin.
“Is that so?”
His direct threat puts a knife in my chest.
“If anything happens to me, my lawyer alerts the police. You’ll rot in jail for the rest of your life. You won’t be able to get away with it.”
Silent, he moves his thumb up on the front of my neck, and then my jaw before he crushes my lips beneath his touch. I feel my lipstick spreading under his fingertip.
He comes even closer and tilts his head down, slowly running the tip of his tongue on my neck. His teeth graze my skin, his touch wrecking havoc in me.
After all this time, he holds that ultimate power over me. Despite the fight, the hate and the standoff we are caught in, he is for me the ultimate male. The one I cannot have.
Despite being my husband.
I sense my arousal trickling down, soaking my panties.
His thumb presses hard into my flesh collapsing the blood vessel underneath. Dizziness swirls over me, prompting me to grab his arms.
A mix of sickness and arousal take over me. I part my lips to speak but only gasp for air.
“Please,” I beg with a strained voice.
“That’s more likely,” he says and drops me for the second time.
His hands slide off me. He straightens his back and rounds his desk.
I fill my lungs with air and run my hand over my dress, absently smoothing the fabric.
Looking down, I start to mutter.
“I told you things could be different between us,” I say with a shaky voice, feeling the sting of my tears in my eyes.
I lift my gaze.
He simply ignores me, his chin tipped down, his body sunk into his chair as he checks something on his phone.
Swiftly, I push my tears back and square my shoulders, regaining my composure in a second.
“The party starts at nine,” I toss at him.
He shots me a brief glance, his chin still tilted down.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why?”
“I changed my mind.”
“You can’t do that.”
A smile rolls on his lips, satisfaction beaming on his face.
“Our business partners will be there with their wives,” I add.
He tosses his phone on the desk, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s business, Sebastien,” I say, irritated. “At least we can pretend that we are a normal couple.”
My comment is met with silence.
By the time, I finish talking he pushes out of his chair and starts walking toward me. Without a glance in my direction, he heads straight to the exit door.
I catch up with him in the master bedroom.
“So what are you planning on doing?” I ask as he runs his fingers down his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly.
“Stuff that doesn’t involve you,” he says, dark humor oozing in his voice.
He removes his diamond cufflinks and tosses them on a table. With one smooth motion, he untucks his shirt, slides it open, and let it glide off his shoulders.
His skin glistens in the firelight, smooth like silk. My eyes sweep his broad shoulders, and strong arms, carved chest and washboard abs, his leans muscles sculpted in prolonged, strenuous workout sessions.
He erases the space between us and stops in front of me. He is so close, I can smell the cologne lifting from his skin, and get caught in the heat of his body.
His gaze feels heavy on my face.
“You go. Have fun,” he says, the mockery in his voice making me cringe inside.
He tips his head back and throws me a wicked smile before he spins around showing off his well cut back. My gaze drifts down his spine. The muscular ropes shift beneath his skin as he works his pants open.
Initially, he slides them down a little, slightly revealing the swell of his butt, and then he lets them fall completely.
I push back words, but I have a hard time to repress the physical reaction that’s barreling through me right now.
I get tense, my temperature spiking, the hard tips of my breasts pushing against my dress.
It feels like a crime to pull my gaze away from him, my eyes and mind absorbing every inch of him, so I keep staring. It’s the least that I can do.
It’s rare he lets me see him naked.
“Um... Are you sure that’s what you want? Me going there alone,” I say, distracted.
He turns around giving me a full view of his bare body.
My eyes dip to his groin. Semi-hard, he runs his hand up his length, casually as if he runs his fingers through his hair.
“I’ve never been more sure, darling,” he says maliciously, releasing his shaft from his grip.
His cock bounces, full and hard.
Somehow, I’m perfectly aware that his full erection doesn’t have anything to do with me as much as it has to do with the fact that he draws pleasure from fucking with me.
“Send my best to Stephan... and Carmen,” he says, flashing that twisted grin again.
He takes one step toward me and halts in front of me again. Before I have the chance to retreat, he wraps his hand around my neck, this time gentler, by his standards anyway, and places a soft kiss on my cheek.
Not only the kiss makes me shudder, but also his erection pressed against my body.
Tingles swirl between my legs. The thought that I could feel him pressed against my body, one more time, even with all the hate he has for me, almost makes me beg for him. My pleasure is short-lived as he pulls away from me, leaving me hanging.
My heels stay glued to the floors as he swaggers away, the tension inside me only growing.
He’s long gone, the water running in the shower, when I finally collect myself and turn around, grab my purse and my phone, and dash out of our home.
I dial the number on my way out.
“Hi. Yes. I’m on my way.”
4
TESS
The first bouquet arrives Monday morning at 11 AM, ten minutes after I enter my office and take the first sip of coffee.
The messenger waits for me to sign for it in the doorway and gives me a warm smile as he pulls away.
Hugging my cable knit sweater closer, I crane my neck out and peer up the street.
The sidewalks are gray, no people in sight.
I step back, close the door and walk into my office where I start to work.
After that Monday, I receive flowers every day until camellias fill my home. The same man delivers them, and not once they come with a message or a card.
I keep the flowers, but I try to forget about the story and the man at the center of it, yet the more I carve him out of my memory, the more the flowers fill that void.
And now–– days later, I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s Friday
evening when the phone rings.
It’s Allan telling me that all flights got canceled because of the winter storm sweeping Northeast. He spends the night, and possibly the weekend, in a hotel in Chicago.
Snow falls heavily on my street as well, the wind swirling glittery ghosts, but it doesn’t stop me from leaving home.
Around six, I put on some warm clothes, shrug on my coat and slip into my boots. I’m one of the few people outside. Even less are on foot like me, walking to downtown.
My initial plan to hang out with my sister failed. A last-minute call changed her plans, and now she’s clubbing with her friends.
Anna and Danny are out of town while Maggie spends some time with her best friend. It’s too early for dinner, so I cruise the boutiques for a while before I stop in front of the art gallery.
It’s been several few weeks since I’ve seen Jeraldine Monroe’s nudes for the first time.
I wonder how many people know that the billionaire heiress is the woman captured in the paintings.
I push the thought to the side and walk into the gallery.
The place is warm and cozy. I slide off my coat and check it with the girl at the entrance before I turn around and take a few steps inside.
The few visitors scattered in the venue speak quietly while studying the artwork. New artists have been added to the exhibition, many of them unfamiliar to me.
I turn right and head to the last chamber, looking for the nudes. I find them in the same place, in a cone of a soft light coming from the wall appliances.
I spend a few good moments studying the woman.
Why would she pose for Stephan Leon?
“You seem to like them.”
The man’s voice reverberates behind my back. A smooth tone with a slight rasp.
I glance over my shoulder. Stephan Leon stops next to me.
He folds his arms over his chest, and lifts a hand to his face, his fingers slowly stroking his jawline. His eyes glue to the brunette.
My question practically falls from my lips.
“Do you know her well?”
“She’s a good friend of mine,” he says, tossing me a side glance.
A faint, mysterious smile curves his lips.
I sense him struggling, torn as if he’d like to reveal much more.
“She is beautiful. Why didn’t you paint her face as well?”
He shifts his gaze to me again.
“She wanted to remain anonymous.”
His wolfish grin makes me feel uncomfortable.
I move my gaze away from him, and analyze the painting––the woman’s submissive position, her face tipped up, and lips parted in seduction and anticipation. The man’s hand on her face, and then his flank, muscular thigh and sculpted body.
The image is reminiscent of that clip.
A thought shoots through my mouth again.
“Is that him?”
He freezes, or perhaps it’s me turning to stone, paralyzed by my own boldness.
The silence falling between us only fuels my turmoil.
He sure is, I muse.
He must be.
“Him?” he asks, throwing me an intrigued look.
The man looks like he’s waiting for my answer, and no matter how much I keep my eyes on his cashmere top, I can’t avoid an explanation.
“Her lover,” I say, not using the word I’d like to use.
His eyes spend a moment longer on my face before he pulls them away and sets his gaze on the painting.
“I painted the man out of my imagination,” he says.
I immediately want to throw at him that he is a lousy liar, that we both know who that man is, but I bite my words back and suppress my swirling emotions, making an effort to keep my mouth shut.
I shift my eyes as well, but the more I watch that woman, the angrier I become.
I have no right to be jealous of her and yet, I’m drowning in that unescapable feeling. The scene captured in his painting is similar to the one recorded in that video, the thought that he may be familiar with it, making me sick.
“Beautiful work,” I say, the quiver in my voice barely detectable.
I’m still grappling with resentment. And still washed with anger.
“I’m afraid I have to go,” I say with a different voice, struggling to conceal my feelings. It was nice meeting you again,” I mutter before we say our goodbyes.
A moment later, I spin around and dash out of the gallery.
A cold wind sweeps my cheeks as I button up my coat.
I tip my chin down to shield my face and hug my coat closer. A couple of blocks later, I stop at the corner of a building and catch my breath.
A faint light rolls over the snow, making it look like shimmering silver. I pivot to fight another gust of wind, trying to avoid the brunt of it. My eyes move to the right when I notice an alley sprawling behind that building.
I still for a moment and take it in.
Not far away from me, a small light dangles in the wind, flickering from time to time. The door below looks so familiar.
What is it about this street?
I take a couple of steps in that direction, creating some distance between the main road and me.
Strings of lights adorn the trees standing tall across from the alley. Barren branches shake in the wind, dusting the ground with snow.
Laughter travels through that door. The voices of a man and a woman become distinguishable, and then what sounds like the chatter of another couple.
I hastily retreat as the door swings open, and they walk out. My back hits the wall and I completely get engulfed in the shadow before they leisurely pass by.
The light of a memory flickers faintly in my head.
Something about this place feels like deja vu, and yet I can’t grasp the essence of that fuzzy memory.
What makes me feel that way?
What is it about this place?
I swing my eyes at the people who vanish around the corner, noticing the arm of the man looping around the woman’s shoulders.
A couple.
“Is this about a couple?” I mutter to myself, staring blankly at that door.
There is nothing to remember, and yet something screams inside me.
Deep in my thoughts, I push off the wall and leave that place behind. Once I set foot on the main road, I make the trip back, going straight home.
Minutes later, I walk into my house. It’s dark and cold and silent like a graveyard.
“The place where memories die,” I quietly voice a thought as I find my way around the house.
I turn the lights on, shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots before I tear the muffler away from my neck and head to the kitchen.
I turn the heat on and scour the contents of a drawer looking for some candles. I light them and take them into my office. The room fills with warm, soft light.
The place looks better now.
I snatch the laptop off the table and sink into the couch when one soft beep alerts me to a message.
A few words read on my screen, inviting me to click on the link that takes me to that password-protected website.
I dwell for a moment, my curiosity so much stronger than my hesitation.
A new clip is ready to be played.
I click it open and let it run. Raw footage fills my screen, not showing much. The image is too dark, the closeup jeopardizing the quality.
I turn the sound on. Heavy breathes and moans and groan, ripple through the air. A bad feeling courses through me, making my skin cover in goosebumps.
My mouth pulls open, and my ears perk up as I wait to see a bit more.
I expect the worst.
The next frame offers more perspective, showing what looks like a hotel room with a large bed, a TV set, a desk, and an armchair next to the window.
The camera captures a man and a woman from neck down. Standing behind her, he runs his hands up the woman’s body, his cufflinks glimmering in the darkness, the white shirt sl
eeve peering from beneath his tailored suit jacket.
Something about him looks or rather feels familiar, hitting me straight in my chest.
His hand goes up on her thigh, snagging her skintight dress, revealing his tempting body. She arches her spine, her backside grinding into his bumpy groin.
I know where this is going if nothing else for the fact that I’m crumbling inside.
I let the clip run while I open a different window and log in to a different website.
Once I enter the forum, I type a message.
Me: Stop sending these clips. I don’t want to see you fucking her. It makes me sick. I don’t want to see it. Do you understand?”
I slam the laptop closed, slide it to my coffee table, and slump into the couch, my head tipping back, my gaze pointed to the ceiling.
When has my life started to make absolutely no sense?
5
TESS
The first bouquet of camellias I send back gets delivered the following Monday.
I just drove Allan to the airport–– he has business dealings in Miami this week, and I pull the car in front of our house when I see the messenger.
The man looks at me surprised when I ask him to take the flowers back. It breaks my heart to do it over and over again for the next few days, but rejecting them finally puts a stop to the deliveries.
Come Friday morning, I pick up Luna from my mom’s place and we restart our daily routine that includes meeting George and his pouch in the park for our afternoon walk.
The weather clears nicely by the end of the week, the bright sunlight melting the snow. The birds start chirping, and kids play in the park, and it almost feels like spring, even though the Christmas is only days away.
The sightings stop as well. No more limousines, sports cars, him watching me from across the street or me running into him.
The website goes dead, and when I check the forum, it looks like the Random Thoughts account has been deactivated.
The only thing that gets worse is the TV coverage of his life. Party after party, and event after event show a different side of Sebastien Rockford. No longer recluse, he seems to be everywhere. A televised speech gives me a glimpse inside his business empire.
