by Jaye Peaches
“You’re selling this?” He pointed at the Gondolier painting I had done based on our holiday in Venice.
“It’s popular. It should sell. I need to sell stuff.”
Small furrows appeared on Jason’s forehead and he shook his head, frowning. I wriggled my hand out from his, perturbed by his attitude. Was he going to dictate which of my own paintings I could sell?
“You don’t agree?” I snorted and crossed my arms.
He rested his hands on his hips—never a good sign. “I’m not going to tell you what you should put in this gallery, but, when it comes to your stuff, I might enact a veto,” he murmured.
I huffed, almost growling in the back of my throat. Did he intend to remove the painting from display, right now? I had a solution, something he didn’t know about. “I painted two similar ones. Slightly different shading, but otherwise identical.”
His response was to move behind me and pinch my waist. He breathed on the back of my neck—a warm bloom of air sending mini shockwaves through my sexual core. Damn it! How did he manage to breakdown my resolve so quickly?
“I see. However, in the future, please let me know in advance if you plan to sell any of your pictures, won’t you?” He squeezed my waist hard, and I winced, snatching a breath.
“Of course, Sir,” I whispered back. I accepted the decision as long as he didn’t veto everything I created. I wanted the accolade of selling my stuff, not just exhibiting it.
My small team had gathered for a coffee break, and I led Jason to meet them.
“Hello, Mina.” Jason nodded and smiled warmly.
“Jason, nice to see you.” Mina always called him by his first name. A rarity for Jason, since he preferred formality with casual acquaintances. Mina had the attitude of many working class people: we are all equal. Jason didn’t appear to mind, because she maintained respect through her words and mannerisms.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No, thank you.”
I introduced the other two men. “Nicholas and Malcolm.”
On paper, Jason already knew them well. He’d seen their life stories based on the details the private investigators had dug up.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Lucas.” Nicholas shook my husband’s hand for perhaps too long. The young man did everything with unabated relish. I envied him his youthful exuberance.
Dressed in grubby overalls, Malcolm had been battling with yet another leak in the toilet. Having functioning toilet facilities was somewhat critical to the opening. I’d been amazed how much extra stress plumbing could create when other worries weighed me down.
“Done well, your missus, with all this.” Malcolm spoke with a strong East London accent.
“Yes, she has,” said Jason in a neutral tone, his accent pure, untainted by any known dialect.
“I’ve got a good team,” I added.
I suppressed a smirk, imagining how Jason saw my motley crew. The colourful gallery manager with her stunningly braided hair, the dapper graduate with a freckled face that still showed signs of acne and a handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket, and, finally, the balding handyman in his stained boiler suit.
With the exception of Mina, they probably didn’t know my husband was incredibly wealthy. Yes, I had money, the kind of stash enabling me to open a gallery without the aid of banks or investors, but my few millions paled in comparison to Jason’s billion.
Malcolm chomped on his biscuit, watching the two bodyguards—one Jason’s driver, the other assigned to protect me—stroll about, peering at the artwork and pointing at the price tags.
“First customers?” Malcolm gestured towards the two protection officers.
“I’m paying them too much if they are.” Jason broke into a brief grin.
“Your friends then,” concluded Malcolm, before swigging a mouthful of tea.
“They go where I go, so to speak.” Jason caught my eye and transmitted a barely perceivable glare of annoyance. “You haven’t introduced them to Gibson? How remiss of you, Gemma. Allow me.”
I gritted my teeth. He was making a point—I should take my protection seriously and ensure those about me knew why I was watched. Jason’s proxy eyes following me about at all times.
Jason called Gibson over. “Gibson, you should meet Mrs Lucas’s staff.”
“Hello,” said Gibson, standing on the fringe of the gathering with slightly pink cheeks.
She knew my colleagues by appearance, and Mina she’d driven a few times, but she’d observed them from outside the gallery. Sometimes, when the weather was nice, she sat upon a bench, other times the driver’s seat of the car. I glanced away from her smiling face and felt ashamed at my treatment of her. I’d always considered bodyguard duties tedious and uneventful, but I hadn’t exactly made it easier for her.
Nicholas and Malcolm waited for an explanation—friend or what?
I cleared my throat, unclenching my tense jaw. “Gibson is my protection officer,” I announced, attempting to temper the spreading blush on my cheeks.
“Bodyguard.” Malcolm’s eyes seemed to pop out of his face, and he turned to Gibson. “Wow. Do you run alongside cars like for the president?”
Gibson took his naïve question in stride. “In London? Walking pace would do for the most part, don’t you think?” said Gibson, referring to the notorious traffic jams we frequently got stuck in. “No. I just drive.”
“You’ll be seeing plenty of Gibson,” I explained, “or her alternatives. She likes strong black coffee and jaffa cakes. So, Mina, please keep them in stock.”
Gibson’s face brightened into a beaming smile. My beleaguered bodyguard wouldn’t be sitting on a bench any longer. Instead, she would have a comfortable chair by the doorway, where she could watch people come and go while I was in residence. She stepped away.
“Good,” said Jason, staring at the wall behind me. Then his mobile rang. “Excuse me.” He stepped away and answered the caller in German. Going by the sharpness of his tone and the rising volume, someone received an ear bashing.
“Your man’s not happy,” remarked Malcolm, dunking another biscuit into his tea—he’d eaten half the packet.
“So it seems. Best not to get on the wrong side of him.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I hid a grin behind my hand. I couldn’t imagine Jason running into Malcolm on a regular basis. Malcolm had no need to remember anything.
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Nicholas, jolting out of his own little world. He dropped his voice and blabbered. “Jason Lucas. Your husband. My God, I didn’t...I mean....”
“Is the name familiar?” I raised an eyebrow, wondering what eureka moment had caused Nicholas to recognise my husband.
“My father, he’s an editor of a financial journal, and he’s been trying to get an interview with your husband for years. Well, I never.” Nicholas, with his eyes widening into black moons, glanced over towards Jason, who paced the floor with his mobile glued to his ears. “Wow,” Nicholas repeated several times, perhaps too loudly.
“I hate to say this, but you won’t get an interview through me. He doesn’t do them. Period. I should keep quiet, or else he will avoid you like the plague.” I didn’t want Jason being hassled by my employees.
“So who’s this Jason Lucas, other than being your hubby?” asked Malcolm, attacking yet another biscuit. Did his wife not feed him?
“I suggest you get back to the toilet, Malcolm.” It was time to end the break and the awkward questions. I’d no doubt Nicholas would fill him in when my back was turned. Mina, bless her, had stayed mute throughout the exchange, and only a twinkle in her eye displayed her amusement.
The call over, Jason called me over. “I have to get back. It’s looking good, babe. Tomorrow will go like clockwork.”
“I really hope so, or else my head will explode.” I’d needed his ongoing reassurances insatiably, as if I’d developed a bottomless pit for his company.
He’d kept me distracted every night that week w
ith some ploy or other. Last night had been backgammon—one spank for every one of my counters he’d knocked off. I hadn’t played well and had received a number of hard smacks. However, I wasn’t planning on going to Blythewood that weekend, and I pined for the country, the atelier, and lair.
“I want payback for all the distracting therapy I’ve given you this week, my insatiable one.” He rocked against me, trailing a finger down my face. “Tonight included.”
“I know. I’m grateful, Sir,” I whispered, keeping my back to the others.
“You will show your gratitude soon, tomorrow night.”
“I have to be here on Sunday,” I reminded him. “Just for this weekend.”
“Next week, you should start painting again, Gemma. Concentrate on that—fodder for new exhibitions. You’ve a good team; let them see your trust in them.”
I nodded, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. “I know.”
He tenderly nudged my lips with his own, leaving a momentary kiss. “I’m proud of you, babe. Remember that.”
What more could I ask for than the approval of my Dom.
I stood by the door and watched him climb into the car then turned, took a deep breath, and went back to work.
***
I’d hunkered down on the floor of his study in the White House—not our usual house on a Friday—propped up on a pile of cushions with a fleecy blanket swathing my nudity, and ran through my scrawled checklists, repeating the order of events as if learning a mantra or ceremony. Do this, then that, make sure of this, tell somebody that. On and on, I mentally chanted my list of to-dos.
Eventually, Jason moved over from his desk to the Chesterfield couch to read a document, and I crawled over to lie at his feet. He took advantage of my prone body to prop his legs on my butt. I didn’t mind. Quite the contrary, I put my list down and revelled in the pressure of his feet. He burrowed his toes under the blanket, seeking out my flesh.
“Cold feet!”
“Warm them up for me then.” He didn’t shift his eyes from his reading. I shuffled around until I could touch his toes with my lips. I licked his big toe, slowly drawing my mouth around it then sucked. What once had been a challenge—foot worship—came naturally. Delicious, well-kept feet with trimmed nails and soft skin.
Licking my lips during a pause, I raised my head, hoping to catch a smile from him. “Warmer?”
He wriggled his other foot. “Only the big toe. The others are jealous.”
While his eyes never left the document, mine rolled upwards, and I stifled a giggle—more diversionary therapy. I sucked each toe in turn, ten little soldiers. When I’d finished, he rested his feet once more on my bottom, and I dismissed my lists, pushing the papers away. I had a familiar buzz swarming about my body, an expectation of more to come. Whatever distraction he had planned, I was ready for it. Lists be damned.
Taking me to bed, he reclined next to me and circled my nipples.
He lowered his lips and kissed one of my pert pebbles. “Come when you like, and you may touch me as you wish.”
I snatched a breath as a multitude of shivers erupted all over my skin.
The statement was his code for equality in lovemaking. I traversed his chest with my moist lips, travelling down to his groin and straight to one of my favourite kissing locations—those strong adductor muscles lying like rods next to his lower belly. Then I licked his inner thighs and testicles, and he rewarded me with a groan of delight. While my mouth partook of his divine flavour, my hands wandered about his manly terrain, stroking his pubic hairs, caressing his abdominal muscles or wherever they chose to visit.
Between my legs, I leaked a trail over the sheet, signalling my readiness. I lowered my sopping pussy onto his strapping erection. Astride his hips, I leaned over him, placing my hands on either side of his face, feeling his firm jaw beneath my fingertips.
“My handsome husband,” I purred. “I don’t deserve you.”
I rode him gently, rocking back and forth, skewering myself on his cock. Building to my climax, I increased the pace and urgency, pressing down on his chest and levering myself up and down while my breasts bounced right before his parted lips. Throughout my energetic bucking, he remained hands off. Every time I opened my eyes, I spied his impassive look of nothingness.
When I first bedded him, Jason’s ability to remain inexpressive had disconcerted me, as if he gained no pleasure from my efforts. Now, I understood my Dom and recognised he held himself in check. Once he was ready, he would pounce and demonstrate the power and control he held over my sensual being, which would prove intense and worth the wait.
I arched my back, digging my fingers into his firm pectorals, and he gasped. “Oh God!” I cried. “I’m coming!”
An explosion of nerve endings erupted around my convulsing pussy. My arms gave way, and my head flopped by his shoulder. Exhilarating waves of spasms echoed about my trembling body. Jason sighed and encased me in a bear hug, as my orgasm rippled on.
“I think you enjoyed that.” He stroked my back, sweeping his hand from my neck down to my rump. I kept my head nestled in the pillow by his shoulder, muffling my pants, and tucked my arms underneath my tummy, sandwiching them between our bellies while, below, his rock-hard cock remained interred in my tensing pussy. I felt like a cocoon about to give birth to a butterfly that would fly high into the sky
“Yes,” I mumbled. “I love being on top.”
“So do I!”
He flipped over, taking me with him, and I rolled onto my belly. His cock slipped out as we twisted into a new position. He lay on top of me, flattening his body against mine with a weight I struggled to tolerate, as he pinned me down. I sank my face down into the mattress, and once again, my heartbeats raced with excitement.
“Good girl,” he growled and entered me, gliding into my wet interior. He bucked his hips, slapping against my bottom, and the brisk smacks echoed about the room. A strangely idyllic sensation passed over me, even though he used me with force.
He took his time, too, altering his rhythm and pace, occasionally teasing with the smooth tip of his cock before ramming back into me, confusing my impending orgasm, keeping it at bay. I relished his control.
“Your lists,” he grunted. “Where are they now?”
I’d forgotten all about checklists and my gallery. “Nowhere.”
His pace increased, causing him to pant hot breaths across my back, growling his exertions into my ear. His battering excited my tender clitoris, and I alternated between thumping the bed and clawing at my pillow. I lifted my pelvis, letting him go deeper, and the wonderful chafing sensation of his cock against my G-spot drove me to an inevitable conclusion.
“I am coming, Sir,” I bawled.
He joined me, and we both shuddered before going rigid with cries of completion.
Disengaged from my saturated vagina, he pulled the coverings over us and spooned around my foetal position.
“Sleep. No thoughts,” he murmured.
Using his practised lovemaking skills—hovering his style between considerate lover and demanding Dominant—he’d induced a stupor in me. Sleep would be easy after such a splendid fuck, and I was desperate for a good night.
“Thank you, Jason,” I managed to say as I dozed off.
Chapter 27. The Opening
My gallery opening had much in common with a wedding day: the caterers, guests, photographers, and the obligatory speech, and I woke up early, nervous and excited.
Jason inflicted a sadistic surprise upon me as I stirred in bed: bites, one on each buttock cheek, which, based on previous experience would leave noticeable teeth marks. I screamed into my pillow as he did them.
“I love this arse.” He slapped each buttock. “Tonight, this arse is going to make me rock hard. Turning it stripy is going to be heavenly.” Something for him to look forward to, as I rubbed my bum vigorously for a few seconds and quickly swung my legs out of bed in my haste to escape his teeth and pinching hands. He laughed as I dashed into
the bathroom.
“You didn’t have to do that!” I sniped behind the safety of the locked door. “My alarm clock was about to go off.”
“I consider my job today is to spur you into action, keep you energised.”
I leaned against the door and breathed deeply. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived—my own gallery on public display. More deep breaths. A bitten bottom was the least of my worries.
I arrived for my hair appointment, and a sharp exhale escaped my mouth as I sat on one of the plush chairs. I gave clear instructions to my regular hairdresser, based on Jason’s request.
“Pin it up, please—a twirling bun.”
Jason might prefer the style, but I fretted whether it would stay in place all day. What if Joshua’s sticky fingers came near me? Thankfully, Clara was his carer for most of the day and evening.
The final hours prior to the opening zipped along. I became embroiled in last-minute preparations, including a panic phone call to the caterers whose arrival had been delayed. Once they appeared, I deadheaded the floral displays, twisting off the limp petals with trembling fingers.
I briefly returned home to change into a new designer dress—emerald green with a straight skirt and long slit to expose my elegant leg. Jason gave his approval by sliding his hand up the slit and twanging the waistline of my panties. He’d chosen to wear a white tuxedo, and I hankered for the man behind the smart attire. Patience—he’d promised me that tonight.
I returned to the gallery, stood in the entranceway, and admired the view. The layout was just as I’d imagined it all those months ago with the lighting, brilliant-white walls, soft music in the background, and original exhibits.
Jason crept up behind me and coiled his arms around me. “Okay, babe? Everything as you wanted?” He nuzzled my neck, sniffing my fragrance.
“Yes. It’s all here, Jason.” Tears welled, and I brushed them aside with the back of my hand.
