I want her.
No, I want her gone.
But I can’t imagine my life without her.
And I can’t stand to actually be around her.
Jesus. I’ve totally lost it.
I take a quick shower, change into clean sweats, and peel out of the gym parking lot in my Bugatti. Even as I head home much later than necessary, I feel a mix of anticipation and angst knowing she’ll be home when I get there. It’s taken all my willpower not to touch her these last few weeks, or seduce her into being my muse while I touch myself.
My blood heats just thinking about it. She’s my favorite stimulation—naked, pliable, hungry for my cock, and willing to do whatever I ask. She’s every man’s walking wet dream. She’s mine, yet thanks to the fucked-up situation between us, I can’t bring myself to touch her. We should be falling into bed, on the table, over the couch, screwing like crazy. But we live like we’re roommates and communicate like strangers.
I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, but there’s no way I can forgive her. This is just the way it has to be.
By the time I pull into my private parking garage, I’m wound tight with frustration over every aspect of my life. There’s no one to blame but myself and my own stupid choices. I punch the elevator button too hard, and clench my jaw as I take the ride up to the top floor.
The scent of Brooklyn’s perfume assaults me, jacking my pulse the moment I walk through the door. It does nothing for the irritation I’m experiencing. The scent is fresh, as if she’s just in the next room. So much for avoiding her. I leave the entryway, round the corner, and come to a full stop when I spy Brooklyn by the kitchen island.
She’s fiddling with an earring and doesn’t notice me right away. Her long, lithe body is clad in a skin-tight black dress with a plunging neckline and snakeskin going down the sides. The hem barely covers the crotch of her sheer black nylons. Four-inch black heels with red soles make her long, shapely legs even more incredible. Her hair is stick straight and glimmering as if she flat-ironed hot oil right into it. Her makeup is neutral, with a bold, burgundy lip.
The frustration I’ve been struggling with turns to all-out anger. She’s dressed for the club, and as far as I know, we’re not invited anywhere tonight. But she knows full well that she’s not allowed to attend any social events without me.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I say.
She looks up with a frown while hooking a black feather earring in her right earlobe. “I still have a job to do, Luka.”
Job? Her hair and makeup are perfect. Any photoshoot would have an artist make her up on site. Besides, she doesn’t have any shoots on the books for today’s date. Though admittedly, I haven’t checked her schedule for a few days. Perhaps something came up that I’d missed.
“I manage your schedule, remember? You don’t have any shoots scheduled tonight.”
Even if she did, what kind of job would require her to look like this? She’s dressed to turn every male head for miles.
She collects a golden clutch from the kitchen counter and checks the contents, slowly rifling through while making me wait for an answer. I drop my duffle onto the floor and fold my arms. She catches my eyes, holding them while slowly adding another layer of lip gloss. Her plump lips glisten, and I feel a stir. God, how I’d love to see them wrapped around my cock.
“Well?” I prod.
Pressing her lips together, she tucks the gloss into her bag. “I have the breast cancer runway show tonight. Remember? DRM offered the event to models for a little exposure.”
I draw in an annoyed breath as it comes back to me. I’d forgotten about the show, for good reason. It’s for a great cause, yes, but the event itself is nothing worthy of Brooklyn’s time or talent. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten that my brother had made a big announcement about the event, encouraging models to sign up. With everything going on between Brooklyn and me, it had completely slipped my mind.
Running a hand through my hair, I go around the counter to the refrigerator and grab a bottled water. The basis of the entire show comes back to me and my gut clenches. It’s a charity event, but with an adult twist. No way is she going through with this. The tickets cost fifteen hundred a piece just to get into the show. The models won’t be modeling clothing, unless classic works of art replicated on their naked bodies with paint counts.
She’ll be completely nude, covered in paint, applied by some artsy asshole who will take way too much enjoyment out of his job tonight.
No. Fucking. Way.
“You’re going to cancel,” I tell her.
“What?” Brooklyn’s eyes widen in shock. “Absolutely not. This is a cause I care about. And besides, they’re expecting me.”
“Oh, I’m sure they are,” I say. “A woman like you will rake in the attendees, which is exactly why you’re cancelling.”
“No, I’m not.” She rolls her eyes with a defiant shake of her head.
This is a low-stakes event. The only crowd it will draw are perverted, wealthy men who didn’t bat an eye at paying an exorbitant ticket price to watch a bunch of gorgeous, naked models covered in body paint strut their stuff on a runway. These guys will be well lubricated with mid-level champagne and deli-style snacks, making them all too eager to reach out and touch. I imagine their fingers streaking paint all over her body as she’s groped by countless hands.
Not happening. “You’re staying home,” I grind out, blocking her way out.
“Sorry, dearest,” she says in a bored tone. “I’m already committed.”
“The fuck you are.”
The counter is still between us, or I might act on my desire to make her stay by any means possible. She won’t get far with my hand between her legs.
“Seriously, Luka, it’s a breast cancer charity,” she huffs. “What’s your problem?”
My problem is that I can’t stand the idea of a hundred other men looking at her perfect, naked body, paint or no paint. She’s my wife, and fuck if anyone else is going to enjoy what’s mine.
Her phone dings. She checks it and then slips it into her clutch. “My car’s waiting for me. I have to go.”
Without waiting for my reply, she darts around me and disappears into the entryway, her heels tapping on the floor. The door opens and shuts, and I’m left in silence. I don’t realize that I’m squeezing the water bottle until the plastic starts to give way beneath my palm.
I shouldn’t care that she goes. She’s working, like she’s supposed to be. Our contract states that DRM will keep her modeling, get her plenty of gigs and exposure. But this event…it just doesn’t fit with the wholesome image I had in mind.
I can’t let her do this without me.
As usual, I’m going to need to supervise her gig and make sure she’s not taken advantage of. That she’s staged in such a way as to accentuate her style and beauty, and not just her sex appeal. I realize my thoughts are laced with bullshit as I’m thinking them, but I don’t care.
Grabbing my cell, I call my assistant and tell him to look up the number for the contact person at the charity. “Tell them Danica Rose is sending two models instead of one.”
“Two?” he asks. “Who’s the other one?”