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I don’t bother to knock. This is my house. My woman. The door opens silently. Her back is to me. Purple amethyst against the dark umber of her skin is stunning. The material of the couture fashion by Summer Love hugs her curves like a lover. The back dips in a wide V stopping at the rise of an ass so plump you’d think she’d paid for it. The strategic cut almost but not quite hides the plump little roll of a love handle I can’t wait to play with.
“Turn around, Taylor.” My voice is rife with lust as I stand at the threshold of the door where I’ve come to lean. When she does, I see the trepidation in her eyes. She’s wearing the earrings I bought, pink diamonds with a purple amethyst in the center.
They catch the light and her messy but elegant updo makes her look regal, if not a bit subdued. The front of the dress has a tuxedo heart-shaped outline over her beautiful breasts. Her plump, lovely form is even more lovely from the front. I want to kneel in front of this woman after worshiping her from the crown of her head to her lovely little purple polished pink toes.
There is a teasing side split reaching just to her thigh. The way her skin glistens is as though she’s bathed in an iridescent body butter but that is just the way she takes care of her skin. She’s the loveliest little thing. I almost regret having to break her. But break her I shall. The choice is no longer mine. She made it for us both all those years ago. The taste of retribution too sweet.
“Fuck her. Fuck her. Kill now. Fuck her. Kill her. Keep her.”
I watch the way her eyes take me in. Her chest rises and falls. The effect seeing me dressed like this has the same reaction in her as me seeing her is having on my traitorous body. Fearingif I step farther into the room we’d never leave, I jerk my head turning into the hallway. “Let’s go.”
She clasps her hands together approaching me, my diamond sparkling on her ring finger. I wonder why she’s never taken it off or put it away. I shove any hope of why away. She knew I lived. She knew where to find me. My face hardens just thinking about her perfidy.
Big brown eyes beg me for things that she dare never ask. “I don’t have shoes,” she mumbles to me as she approaches.
“I’m keeping you barefoot for the present,” I tell her, stepping back allowing her to precede me out of the room.
“Not pregnant?” she quips.
“Never,” I say with all seriousness. Her head dips but not before I glimpse the hurt clouding her features. She can’t possibly know why that can never be. I don’t bother to tell her why even if we were like we were before. She doesn’t deserve my story, definitely hasn’t earned one fucking thing beyond what I decide to give her. The brownish red tinge on her high cheekbones has nothing to do with the light blush she’s wearing. I’ve hurt her.
“Taylor—”
“I’m being punished. I know that.” She looks at the beautiful gown wondering what the catch is.
“Well, we better get started then.” I smirk, tucking her hand in mine leading her out to my Maybach ignoring the feel of her eyes on me and the odd pang in my chest. Fuck this.
“Why are we here?”she asks hours later when the driver pulls up to the Gershwin Theater. She didn’t question when we boarded my private jet and had dinner served in flight. She ate everything I fed her and fed me in return. It took everything in me not to have her during the flight, but I knew we werealready pressed for time this evening being made possible by an unexpected opening in my schedule.
“It’s opening night.” Quirking a brow, I get out of the open door on my side, holding my hand out to her. As soon as she emerges, lights flash and theater paparazzi start hurling questions one after another at the long-lost darling of the New York theater scene.
In the last several years Taylor has become one of the most successful theater writer directors in the world. Her groundbreaking plays have solidified her as one of the most gifted of her time. Her depictions of the human spirit rising through adversity through love and community highlighting the need for introspection and grace have catapulted her into a stratosphere all her own. In the last few years, she’s been rumored to suffer from writer’s block and has come under scrutiny because of it. The pressure for new work is evident even tonight as we navigate the throng of the press, several celebrities, and theater influencers.
“Taylor are you back to stay?”
“Who’s your date?”
“Taylor is that an engagement ring?”
“Taylor are you working on another play?”
I can feel her tremble as I tuck her small hand inside my arm. “Don’t give them the satisfaction,” I say for her ears only smiling down at her with the smitten indulgence I’ve practiced for such events.
She looks beautiful. She’s mine. So, there’s not much effort I have to expend for the pretense. The obsessive possessiveness she elicits in me is coupled with a warmth I’ve never been able to effectively eradicate where she is concerned. Distance. Time. Self-harm — nothing has been able to exorcise Taylor Takeda from my soul. I intend to make her atone for that particular agony.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was my everything. But your everything doesn’t leave you in your darkest moment. Your everything doesn’t eviscerate your forever. Your everything doesn’t leave you flayed, tortured, and alone — a mere shadow of what you used to be. I should thank her and I will for fully revealing her true self to me; fickle, selfish, craven. There is no place in the Takeda line for one whose loyalty is so feeble. I must gird myself as I work to rid my being of my troublesome addiction. The delicate strength as she faces this throng makes my dick hard and my heart twinge. I may find myself in her thrall once again if I’m too lax in my treatment of her.
“You’re right.” Saying that on the heel of my toxic thoughts is almost like a confirmation until I look down and see the soft hope in her eyes. “I’m not going to let them get in my head.” Those damn dimples are almost my undoing. Inwardly, I groan, forcing myself to look away.
“Hai,” I say, leading her into the theater.
Sensing she’d rather not mingle with those attending the VIP, I lead us directly to my box.
“I didn’t know you had a box here,” she whispers when I show her into my private seats.
I give her a vague little smile. “Takedas love the theater.” Giving her nothing more than the gentle reminder of when she met my family the second time, I don’t dare mentally touch the aftermath.
I can almost taste the curiosity she’s bubbling with. I could use this time to toy with her more but then she reluctantly drags her attention to the main house of the theater and the boxes filling with her theater colleagues. More than one has taken notice of me, recognizing if not me then the family I represent. I see several heads dunk looking at their phones in google searches. On cue people start leaning and chattering in the boxes around us as speculation mounts. My brother and Icould be twins and no one outside of the small enclave of Shelby-Love knows about his dalliance with the little chef. I’m sure the first reports will be wrong. Yet soon the news will be out because I have given the Creative Chaos team permission to reveal our marriage if inquiries are made. There will be no more hiding for Taylor. I will make my claim on her in every way possible starting tonight. She is mine. Soon there will be no doubt.
