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I’d spent most of the day sulking about an earlier exchange of texts.
It had been a lovely Wednesday morning, clear blue sky and unusually warm air for spring. I had wanted to take Joshua to Brighton for a day trip with Clara, to see the sea, buy an ice cream, and let him feel the sand between his fingers and toes.
: Can I take Josh and Clara to Brighton to see the seaside? Please, Sir.
: You may not.
: MAY I take Josh to the beach please, SIR.
: No
: WHY?
: Don’t shout your texts. The matter is closed. Take him to a park. I haven’t the time for this.
I had ignored the obvious warning in this missive and thrown at him a lengthy whining text ending with…
: Parks are boring. I want him to see real open spaces, not a patch of grass in a middle of a busy city.
: Take him to Blythewood for the day. As long as you’re back by his teatime.
I retired from the text battle. My persuasive techniques had no impact on Jason. Blythewood was a reasonable alternative. Mrs Harris, the housekeeper, enjoyed seeing Joshua. She and Clara got on like a house of fire. They took him out in the garden for a run around while I printed off emails from my property agent and solicitor.
I’d identified my chosen property a few weeks earlier. Empty and ideally situated, it was to be the site of my art gallery. A dream I had harboured since before Joshua was born. Perhaps it had always been in the back of my mind as an ambition, which, prior to meeting my millionaire husband, would have been impossible to fulfil. I hadn’t the capital, nor drive, and always doubted my own abilities as an artist. My artistic skills had been appreciated at an amateur level by friends and family, but I’d never put them to the test in the professional market.
Jason gave me the encouragement to bring my dreams to reality. First he’d let me display my pictures at private parties then supported me in the conversion of an old stable block at Blythewood into my own atelier and, when I decided not to continue working as an asset analyst, Jason had inspired me to find a suitable location for my own gallery.
Progress dragged and, reviewing the situation on Wednesday morning, I’d hit an impasse. Hindrance came in the form of tedious small print, legal arguments and quibbles on what seemed like insignificant details by the leaseholder. I wasn’t cut out for business wrangles, and the delays didn’t help my mood. I was having a seriously bad day.
Things didn’t improve when, back at the White House, Joshua refused to eat his tea and tipped the contents of a whole plate onto the floor. His snotty nose dribbled continuously, and he arched his back as he tried to climb out of the high chair. The day maintained its downhill descent into the realms of dismal failure.
By the time Jason arrived home from his City headquarters, I had asked Mr Brooks, the resident butler, to come down from his attic flat and cook a meal for us because Joshua had taken so long to settle down to sleep. Brooks made his appearances in the morning after Jason had left to work. He would check with me what provisions were needed to stock the kitchen shelves and enquire whether he needed to cook for us. Sometimes I liked to do it myself.
Jason said very little to me as Brooks served up the bowls of spaghetti bolognese then, with a warm good night, headed back up to his own flat.
After a very mute meal, I washed up, and Jason disappeared to work in his study. I assumed it was the end of the evening for both of us and resigned myself to having another go at viewing boring documents while sitting in the kitchen.
My supposition proved wrong. Fifteen minutes later, Jason returned and stood behind me, leaning over to look at the documents. My stiff shoulders illustrated the tension I battled to contain. Jason said nothing for the few minutes, massaging the tautness, pressing his fingertips into my shoulder blades while reading the closest letter. I made appreciative noises as his strong fingers dug into my sinews, easing the muscles. I shut my eyes, blocking out the annoying sheets of paper.
“I want you,” he announced, pulling back the chair.
I scrambled to tidy the papers into a neat pile. His wanting me was the best distraction I’d had all day. I stood up, and he drew me into an embrace. Immediately, I went up a notch on my orgasm scale. He trailed kisses over my exposed neckline, nibbled my earlobes, and delved under my T-shirt, heading straight for my bra.
“You’ve been sulking all day, haven’t you?” he whispered into my ear. Two of his fingers found his target, and he pinched a nipple. It stiffened, responding with a sharp twinge, as he twisted it back and forth like an erotic switch.
I took a deep inhalation of breath. I had to tell him what was bothering me before I lost all control of my senses.
“Brighton. I wanted a day out,” I muttered as Jason peppered me with his kisses, continuing to harass my poor nipple. “Felt trapped.” I winced, grabbing at the back of the chair to steady myself.
“You went to Blythewood instead, though, so why the glum features?” He tipped my head up, and his stern blue eyes dazzled from on high.
“Just fancied a change.” I shrugged, instantly regretting the gesture. Another stab of discomfort shot across my assaulted nipple. “What’s wrong with that?” I whined.
He ceased screwing my beleaguered nipple and cupped my breast instead, bouncing it up and down. “Did it ever cross your mind I might like to take Joshua to the seaside, watch him take his first sniff of salt air, wriggle his toes in the sand? Well?”
It hadn’t, and I closed my eyes while I digested his words. I wasn’t behaving submissively, and he’d every right to call me sulky.
