“You were over the top with my friends. Giving them a suite is unnecessary. They have money.” She turns to look up at me as we step into the private elevator, heading for my office. The elevator doors silently slip shut, leaving us encapsulated in the lush black velvet walls and low seductive symphony of Vivaldi, drifting down from the speaker above our heads.
“It takes more than money here to garner a suite Willow. Everyone here has money. I will be sure they receive the VIP treatment. I wanted to do it. It would be rude to take you away from your friends without leaving them with some consolation prize.”
“Well, like I said, just a few minutes. That’s all. Then I want to get back to my friends.” Her lips pull together as she shifts her eyes from me to the black granite under her canvas shoes.
Her earthy style does nothing to hinder the seductive sway of her hips. Her ass is calling for my mark, and forgotten dreams of all the ways I’ve ever imagined putting it there flare up in my mind.
She is an absolutely stunning mess as usual. Much to her mother’s disappointment, Willow’s own style was clean and fresh. Unassuming. Not made up and glamorized.. Her fascination with fashion was somewhat of an irony because she cared little as to how she looked. But her artistic clothing designs are a far cry from how she chooses to present herself.
Tonight Willow is make-up free, her warm brown hair in waves looking windblown and perfect around her shoulders.
“How was Paris?” I don’t want her protests to continue, so I change the subject.
Her hazel eyes light up as they meet mine for a split second. Her hair is an inch or so shorter than the last pictures my private detective sent to me before she left for Europe.
She’s been in the sun as well. Her nose is dotted with a few additional freckles and the highlights in her warm brown hair frame her face in gold.
“It’s Paris. I hated it.” Her sarcastic reply hides what I think is pleasure regarding my interest. The music in the elevator spins around and seems to gathers her perfume sending my senses into overdrive.
If she only knew. In the years between when her mother and I dissolved our partnership and she left for Paris, I’ve kept track of her every day outside of the first two months I was gone. I tried to stay away at first, of course, but I failed.
I have files on my computer of all the information the men and women I hired to follow her reported to me. It wasn’t until she left for Paris that I stopped. My obsession consumed me and I knew it couldn’t go on. I sat in my limo at the airport after I followed her that morning, watching as she disappeared into the terminal.
And again, I tried to let her just go. Hoping beyond hope that she would find her own happiness across the ocean, far away from me.
The doors to the elevator open into my office. The walls are white, contrasting with the black of the rest of the club. Thick, cream colored rugs overlap on the wide planks of the wood floor.
This is my sanctum. An original Picasso hangs behind my desk. The bright primary colors pull Willow’s eyes as I key in the lock code on the elevator before turning to the open door of my office. It shuts down any possibility of someone else with the clearance to come to my office. Lights up the red ‘do-not-disturb’ light outside my door. The one I’ve only ever used once before.
The day I returned from the airport, after she left. I sat in my office for two days, unable to leave. Unable to come to terms that she was really gone. It took Sir James on the third day to talk me out of my stupor. From then on, I’ve lived but not well. Not with any emotion. Until today.
“What would you like?” I step behind my desk, my fingers on the keyboard of my computer, pulling up my email.
Her eyes widen and I realize the broad spectrum of my question.
“To eat.” I add as I type into the IM program on my screen, ready to order her anything and everything my chef can produce.
“I’m not hungry.”
“When and what have you eaten today?” I clear my throat.
I think of eating her. Feasting on the world’s most delicious treasure. The countless times I’ve dreamt of slipping my tongue slowly between her folds swim back into mind, and my cock loses control. I hold back the catch in my throat as the tightness gathering in my balls threatens to make me grunt with need.
She’s being difficult on purpose, but that only drives my aching need to have her. Images of unwrapping her, of tasting her pink nipples, fly around in my brain. But it’s more. I need to know she’s cared for. And the flood of my obsession returns a thousand fold.
“I haven’t seen you in...how many years? This is stupid. I’m going back to my friends.” She tosses her head back and forth then settles her angry h
azel eyes on me. “Why do you care what I’ve eaten today, Pike?”
She says the words but doesn’t make a move to turn toward the elevator. Her mixed signals mimic my own distress about how much I’ve wanted my own stepdaughter for too long.
“Is that your question, Willow? What do you really want to ask?”
I quickly type in a request for a buffet of food to be delivered, as quickly as the staff will prepare it, then look back to see her settle on one hip. Her hands are gripping the strap of the purse she’s carrying. It’s not just a purse, it’s in the shape of a book.
Not just any book, it’s ‘Jane Eyre’ and it’s all I need to know that tonight is not coincidence. It’s destiny. A destiny put into motion the first time I saw her sweet face.
She lets go of the strap and one hand comes up to rub the corner of her left eye. She’s tired. I want to put her to bed. Tuck her in and let her sleep next to me until I know all her dreams, then only wake her when I can make them all come true.