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The things he did to my body, the things he made me feel even when I didn’t want to, were incredible. The way he touched me, kissed me. He was brutish, but I liked it. His touch matched his overbearing personality. At least, I thought it did.
It had matched how we had been together before, but now he was being sweet, considerate, and gentle. Did he have this other side in bed, too?
Was this man capable of being a gentle, caring lover?
He had always made me come, which if the maids were to be believed, was rare in a man, but he didn’t give me pleasure. No, he took my pleasure for himself. He made me come because he liked it. Could he give me pleasure for the sake of making me feel good?
Would I even want that?
So far, having him bend me to his will and take me in a moment of raw passion and need felt… incredible.
Did liking that make me a bad feminist? I guessed it was just good that I was sketching a Manet and not a Frida Kahlo or Georgia O’Keeffe.
I was lost in thought when my hand stilled the eighteen karat gold nib still touching the paper, causing a glob of ink to ooze onto the sheet. It ruined the already graceless lines I had been attempting to mimic.
Frustrated, I tore the paper from the pad, along with the three under it into which ink had seeped.
I set them to the side and studied the pen.
It was a stunning testament to Montblanc refinement and beauty, but far too large for my dainty hands. Something better had to be in his briefcase. A ballpoint pen or a pencil would be ideal. It might not improve my lines, but it would at least not make a mess.
I opened the brass buckles and was rifling through the pen loops and compartments in the top looking for a pen when a folder with my name clearly printed on the manila tab caught my eye. It was sticking out of a leather portfolio in which a few more folders were tucked away.
The staff in the room weren’t looking at me. Even if they were, they wouldn’t stop me. I was pretty sure they worked for the museum or the restaurant, all except the large man, who was clearly private security. As such, he wasn’t concerned with what I was doing, but who was around me.
I pulled out the manila folder and opened it.
There was an entirely invasive report on me.
The things I liked, didn’t like, where I had attended school, where I ate and with whom and where I liked to shop. It even had a list of my measurements.
I dropped the pad of paper and pen to the floor as I looked through the contents of the folder, my hand pressed to my lips, nausea rolling through my stomach.
I was such a fucking idiot.
He wasn’t paying attention at all.
He just wanted me to think he was.
This entire thing had been about making me complacent.
The file was filled with notes and surveillance from the past several weeks before he ruined my engagement with Dubois. He’d had me followed and studied.
The part that brought tears to my eyes wasn’t even the surveillance photos. I hated that he’d had me followed, but not as much as I hated seeing the note attached to the front of the file.
Mr. Manwarring, this is just the preliminary report on your bride. I will have a more detailed account sent to you by the end of the day.
Henry
Mr. Manchild hadn’t been paying attention.
He had paid someone else to do it.
He had delegated our relationship to his assistant.
Was this Henry the one I needed to thank for this afternoon? Had this all been his idea?
Hot angry tears gathered in the corners of my eyes.
