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At weekends, the offering usually resulted in his morning fuck, especially if Joshua didn’t require attention. During the week, Jason preferred to spend his limited time with Joshua. It pleased Gemma that he chose Joshua and not her. It meant she could crawl back into bed until Clara turned up, usually when Jason headed out the front door.
The nature of their sexual interactions changed when Joshua moved out of the bedroom. She’d felt uncomfortable with the idea of her son hearing them having kinky sex, imagining in years to come the child recounting the trauma of listening. For those early months, the kink had remained out of Joshua’s sight and sound, even if he was a small baby. Instead, Jason had used her in other rooms. Stretched across the table in the kitchen or on all fours before the lifeless TV screen, he fucked or played with her. Wherever they went, so did the baby monitor, linking them back to his crib. With his relocation to his nursery came a sense of guilty liberation.
Jason didn’t ramp up the kink with Joshua’s absence. She tried not to sulk. Fear of interruption challenged their playtime and Jason, as a consequence, kept the scenes simple. No elaborate bondage, which disappointed her—she adored being bound from head to toe—and he always ensured she could be rapidly released.
Her lactating breasts remained out of bounds, and he never did anything more than caress the tender flesh. His gentle touches confused her brain. Not exactly sexually stimulating, it sometimes triggered a release of milk from her nipple. Watching her breastfeed in the evenings, he leaned over and whispered in his son’s ears. “I’ll have these back soon.”
He conquered her inability to leave the house by indulging her. While Clara babysat, Jason grabbed any opportunities to take her out for meals, the theatre, or to a concert. Those adult moments became as important as sex to Gemma. Jason spoilt her taste buds, ordering her favourite dishes, especially desserts. To repay him, she dressed in her most stunning frocks and behaved impeccably. With a beaming smile spread across his face, he took her upon his arm like a magnificent jewel. If the odd photojournalist snapped a shot of them out and about, he didn’t seem to care. She wondered if fatherhood had mellowed his hostile attitude towards unwanted attention.
He took her to see a West End musical and, during the journey home, in the back of the car, he asked about her art-gallery plans. She’d decided to resurrect them from the sidelines. His questions drained her, emptying the lingering melodies out of her head, and, instead of snuggling up against him, she slumped into his shoulder. Her initial attempts to kick-start her project had floundered, but she didn’t want him to know. It had to be her baby.
“I’ve started to search for a suitable property.” Jason’s company had extensive connections with London’s real-estate businesses. They had provided her with numerous options. Too many, she realised. Her criteria had been too broad.
“Good.” He patted her thigh. “I’m glad.” He lounged, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. He didn’t see her nibble on her lower lip.
The next evening, Gemma sat cross-legged on the sitting room rug at the White House, surrounded by property descriptions of commercial buildings in central London. She grasped at her hair and cursed. Her head spun. She’d no idea where she should situate the gallery. With a furious attack of frustration, she gathered up the pile of glossy documents and tossed them high into the air. They drifted down in a random fashion, scattering across the carpet. She knelt in their midst, full of self-inflicted despondency. She’d told Jason she had everything clear in her head. She’d been wrong. Her grand scheme crawled forward at a snail’s pace.
She heard the door handle squeak and glanced over her shoulder. His evening conference call to the States had finished early.
“What’s going on?” Jason leant on the doorframe, crossed his ankles, and scratched his temple with a finger. Dressed in jeans and shirt, he appeared quite unlike an executive—very sexy, relaxed, and tranquil. She listed his qualities with annoyance. Why couldn’t she chill out?
“My new filing system.” She frowned at the mess of papers.
He snorted. “Not very effective.”
“Rather like me.” She flicked a pen across the floor. It disappeared under a chair. A mistake.
He came closer, standing over her. “Take your clothes off.” He spoke with sharpness she couldn’t ignore.
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. Why now? Couldn’t he leave her alone? Her hesitation bordered on defiance. She expected him to make a pointed remark, but he gave her a modicum of tim
e to accept his command. She stripped, dragging her clothes off her rigid limbs, as if to make a statement about her reticence. She laid the garments on a nearby chair and returned to kneel near his feet. Her heart pounded. As much as she hated the humiliation, she found his demeanour increasingly calming. She needed to empty her thoughts, focus on him.
“Clean up this mess.” He stepped over the papers, strode over to the drinks’ cabinet, and poured a whisky. It probably had been his original intention to fetch a drink before stumbling upon her childish tantrum.
She crawled about the floor, picking up the sheets: specifications, floor plans, and marketing briefs. She piled them on a coffee table and returned to kneel in the middle of the room. She stared at the rug beneath her, her lips squeezed together.
He sat in his favoured armchair, placing the tumbler on a nearby table. “Present yourself to me, Gemma.”
She wanted to cry. Weary. Confused. Her body ached with the desire to please him, yet, she wallowed in her own misery. With a concerted effort, she adjusted her posture, straightened her back, parted her legs, and placed her hands on her thighs. She viewed his feet. She’d conducted her movements without poise or grace. It had been a long time since she had accomplished elegance in her slave-like positions.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, try to relax. Take deep breaths. Shut your eyes.”
She filled her lungs and fought to empty her mind of anxieties. She imagined undressing her handsome husband; revealing his splendid features caused a smile to spread across her face.
“Better. Paint a picture in your head. Don’t think of those properties you’ve been viewing. Think of what you have always imagined your art gallery to look like.” She heard the creak of leather as he settled back into his seat. Time was not the issue now. He waited.
She saw before her a building. A single storey building, perhaps with a mezzanine floor. Panels of artwork arranged in symmetry. Daylight through a wide window at the front, a darker, artificially lit area at the back. White floors. White walls. A couple of comfortable settees. Office area at the back. Deliveries to the rear through a kitchenette. Modern feel. Her basic design. Parts of it varied according to what pictures she visualised on the walls. Traditional paintings, landscapes, and portraits. Upstairs would be for special collections, commissioned from the students she would sponsor. Too much, surely, for one building to accommodate.
Her eyelids fluttered. She opened her mouth to speak, but Jason interjected. “Buildings are just empty spaces. You can put what you like in them. Decide on how much space you need. Don’t look at their interiors now. Anything that isn’t structural can be removed.”
Don’t worry about space. Where did she want to put her gallery?
“Location. I....”
“Sssh. Locations are about clientele. Find where your customers are now. Where they go. You want to be there. Create a mission statement. Be different from the competition.”
She’d driven past two places she admired. Up-market areas with good shops, boutiques, and galleries selling everything from ceramics to textiles. Her shoulders sagged because she knew nothing in the pile on the coffee table came close to those places.
