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“They live in Marbella,” I tell her, delving deep to find the strength required to speak of my past, even if the information is relatively inconsequential. It’s a start. A step in the right direction. “My sister’s there too. I’ve not spoken to them for years.” I still don’t understand why Amalie continues trying to reach me. Why bother? Why does she still want to know me? “They didn’t approve when Carmichael left me The Manor and all of his estate.” Hated him was more apt and, subsequently, hated me for accepting and embracing it. For falling into the lifestyle. For not listening to them.
Her surprise is warranted. “He left it all to you?”
“He did.” I never expected it. Had no idea he’d put me in his will as sole heir. “We were close.” A stab of guilt grabs me. “And my parents didn’t talk to him. They didn’t approve.”
“They didn’t approve of your relationship?”
I look up at her, bullying my mouth into speaking the words. “No, they didn’t.” I hate the curiosity emblazoned across her face. She has no idea. No idea of the demons I harbor. Of the sins I’ve committed. Or the losses I’ve faced.
“What was not to approve of?”
Everything. But, ironically, they would approve of Ava. She’s not what my lifestyle represents historically, not what I’ve sought, which begs the question why the fuck I’m so attached to her. It’s unexplainable. And yet I am, and here she is asking questions I desperately want to give her the answers to. Except, it’s ugly. All of it is hideous, and the possibility of having it snatched away—by Ava herself, or by an outside force—is a risk I’m not yet prepared to take. “As soon as I left college,” I begin, stretching the truth somewhat—there was no college—and scraping the barrel of strength while restraining my pain, “I spent all of my time with Carmichael. Mum, Dad, and Amalie moved to Spain, and I refused to go. I was eighteen and having the time of my life.”With a baby on the way.How did it all go so horribly wrong?Because you’re a fuck-up. And you’ll fuck this up too.
I gulp back my self-loathing. “I stayed with Carmichael when they left. They weren’t happy about it. Three years later, Carmichael died”—entirely my fault—“and I was left to run The Manor.” And left to spiral into my own form of hell. Which I rightly deserved. After all, everyone I cared about back then was dead.Because of fucking me.I stare at the wine on the table. There’s peace in that bottle. Escape. I grab my water and gulp it down. “The relationship was strained after that. They demanded I sell The Manor, but I couldn’t.” Wouldn’t.I should have sold the fucking Manor.“It was Carmichael’s baby.”And I’d already let him down enough.
Her eyes are wide, a little glazed, and I shift in my chair uncomfortably, praying she doesn’t push for more. I’m drained. Does she sense my increasing despondency? My grief?
“What do you do for fun?” she asks. It’s all I can do not to spit out my water in surprise. Fun? There’s been nothing fun about my life. Not until she breezed into it. But even amid the fun element of our relationship, which is basically me bending her to my will in the bedroom, there’s stress and mood swings and a whole pile of other unexpected feelings. But there’s also a heartbeat inside of me. There’s a purpose. I would question if it’s too soon to share that with her.
If I hadn’t heard her drunkenly confess her love.
Has she thought more about it? Has she concluded shedoeslove me, and more importantly, while she’s sober?
I consider the glass of wine in her hold. What do I do for fun? I peek up, finding her waiting patiently for a reply.It seems, Miss O’Shea, that for fun, I stalk my interior designer and bend her to my will.“Fuck you.”
She can’t contain her shock. “You like power in the bedroom.”
Not at all. I like power over you. It’ll keep the insanity you spike in check. “I do.”
“Are you a dominant?” She rushes over her words, and I cough with a mouthful of water, having to grab the napkin and wipe my chin. A dominant? What does she know of dominants? Where the fuck did that come from? I’ve no clue, but surely it’s a lead into something that needs addressing.
Like the fact I have a mammoth building full of dominants. I’m not one of them. Truthfully, I’m always too under the influence to play like that. It requires control and trust, and it would be too much to expect a woman to trust me when I’m ten sheets to the wind. Fuck, how do I approach this?
“Ava, I don’t need that sort of arrangement to get a woman to do what I want her to do in the bedroom.” I’m full of shit. Because, ironically, I need that kind of arrangement with Ava to get her to doanything. One touch, and she’s mine to bend, whether it’s her body or her mind.
“You’re very controlling,” she says coolly, but her eyes betray her, and she glances away.
“Look at me,” I order, and she does. Immediately. I need to be crystal clear with her. I want her to know this kind of behavior from me is unheard of. She’s special. Unique. The only thing in this world who seems to be able to controlme, and she is blissfully unaware of that. “Only with you.”
Is that a pleased glint in her eye? “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, wondering how I could ever explain. “You make me crazy,” I add, putting that out there too, though she’d have to be deaf and blind not to have noticed that. I look past her, seeing Luigi dancing through the tables with plates balanced on his arms. Thank God. “Here’s your pasta.”
“Lovely people,” he sings, sliding his dishes before us proudly. “Buon appetito!”
“Thank you, Luigi,” I say, also quietly thanking him for his perfect timing as Ava picks and pokes at the dish, lost in thought. I don’t think I can take any more questions, and I definitely can’t handle more halfhearted confessions. She deserves more than the scraps of information I’m giving. More than the twisted answers. I’ve got to somehow find it in myself to do the right thing by her.Even if it means the wrong thing by me?And who’s to say it’s the right thing by her? Ignorance is bliss. Does she even need to know?
Fucking hell.The weight of it all is too much. This could be a new start for me. A fresh one. No past, no sins. No chance of her leaving me so I have to face life alone again.
I think I could literally talk myself in circles over this.
“Good?” I ask when she finally takes a bite.
She swallows. “When did you buy the penthouse?”
My fork falters on its way to my mouth. She’s not done. “March.”
“You never told me why you requested me personally to work on the extension of The Manor.” She drops her fork and pushes the plate away, and I stare at the barely touched pasta.
