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“But I can’t show you anything yet. They’re not ready, and I’m a perfectionist.”
I laugh at the choice of words. Based on his house alone I tell him, “Perfectionist sums you up.” But then I wonder how I, this messed up girl with a messed up brain, fit into the life of a sweetly controlling man. I am the opposite of that. There is nothing perfect about me. I am loose and contradictory, uncertain and fearful. What does that mean for our fledgling relationship?
Leading me back to the master bedroom, he sits me on a velvet ottoman. It’s at the foot of the monstrously sized sleigh bed which Ilove.
“So, this has also been occupying me since Monday.”
He crosses to a chest of drawers covered with lush plants and colourful flowers and slides open a drawer. With his back to me I can’t see what it is, but I don’t think he’s knitted me something. Not unless it’s very small . . .
He turns, holding a small orange box. A ring box? My heart skitters, my eyes flying back up to his which are avidly watching me. And then I look back at the box, frowning, because it looks kind of familiar, not that I’ve ever seen one in the flesh, or held one. God no—I should be so lucky. But I realise that the box is one used by the luxury brand De Vries. A Dutch company using colours of the royal family, of their former king William of Orange.
I thought his name wasdefreece, to rhyme with fleece. I was spectacularly wrong.
“Oh, my God,” I rush out, appalled at how dim I’ve been. I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at him when I’ve been so utterly ignorant. “I’m a dickhead.”
Max’s laugh is smooth and soft. “I can’t work out if I’m offended or pleased.” He takes a seat next to me. “To be honest, I love the fact that you didn’t work it out because it can get in the way. And this, us, this feels genuine and real. I love that about us, Ava, and I’m falling really fucking hard for you.”
My blood sings at his declaration.
“It’s early on in our relationship to be declaring strong feelings, but I’m just being clear. I don’t want you to ever think I don’t want you,” he says endearingly, thumbing my cheek.
“Max,” I murmur, trying to find breath. Trying to assimilate some words into my mouth. “I don’t know what to say other than I feel caught up in something really special. And I had no idea you werethatMax de Vries,” I say embarrassed. I grasp at words, hopeless at trying to show emotion when I’ve been stripped back to bare wood. “I meant what I said to you at the cabin; you feel safe. You feel like home. Just be careful with me.”
He leans in to kiss me, his lips making a slow, delicious discovery of mine. It’s impossible to think as he steadily devours me, his soft lips turning me weak.
It reminds me that this weekend we’re going to have sex, that he’s going to fuck the life out of me—because he will. I know he will, this man who seems so invested in us. And I will enjoy it. How can I not when he makes me feel so good with just his mouth? With his talented fingers?
Max presses me against the curved baseboard, his body a heavy weight against my smaller frame. He rubs himself against my upper thigh, his erection a steel rod that promises pleasure and possibly pain.
I don’t remember the pain, though there must have been considerable pain. Tearing and bruising and evidence of bleeding don’t point to consent.
I end the kiss, needing air and twisting my head away. Dipping his mouth to my throat, Max groans into my skin before sucking hard.
“Are you giving me a love bite?”
“Just a small one.”
“You’re very territorial,” I say, remembering this about him. About the way he liked his semen inside my belly.
“I’ve been distracted by you, once again,” he huffs good-naturedly, pulling me back up. “I made something for you—a gift. One I want you to wear all the time on your right ring finger. It should fit.”
He snaps open the box. Inside the cream material sits a huge yellow stone set in a platinum band.
“It’s pear-shaped!”
“You smell of pears. It seemed apt.”
“I love citrine. It’s such a pretty colour.”
The box snaps closed with an abrupt, audibleclap. It’s accompanied by an incredulous look. “Let’s try that again. It’s not citrine.”
He reopens the box and I’m still lost as to what it is. What other yellow stones are there?
“Hold out your hand.”
I offer my right hand, and he slides it on so that the point of the pear faces my nail. “This is a canary yellow diamond. It’s seven carats; flawless. It’s the most perfect yellow diamond money can buy.”
Under the many spotlights of the bedroom ceiling it sparkles so much I’m blinded. Gently, I twist my finger, the stone creating a flare of yellow light that cascades against my skin. “It feels heavy.”
