Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2)(7)
Author: Jen Frederick

“Sure,” I say, but it’s my job to protect her from everything, even herself. I keep that sentiment to myself. She wouldn’t appreciate it.

With a half-smile, she turns to give me a slight squeeze and then kisses me lightly. “I’m done torturing you. Let’s get you dressed.”

After kissing her back, I reach around her for a pair of boxer briefs and start to dress, pulling on the slacks and then searching for a shirt. “You’re probably right. Louis is turning into a shrew at work since I’ve started coming in later and leaving earlier.”

Tiny hesitates in the act of handing me a dark blue dress shirt with white stripes and a burgundy tie speckled with tiny triangles of white. “Am I keeping you from something important? Are you losing money because of me?”

Shoving my arms into the shirt, I root around for a brown belt. “No. I’ve been exactly where I wanted to be since I met you. I think we both know I’ve got enough money to see us through two lifetimes of winters.”

Money will never be a problem for either of us.

Accepting my reassurances, she nods. “You don’t have to change your life for me.”

“Why not? I expect you to change for me. I want you to live with me, accept my gifts, allow me to provide for you. It’s reasonable for you to expect me to change as well. I want our lives to be different. That’s the point of being together. You are now my life, and I want to see evidence of you here.” I wave at the empty shelves and drawers.

“I love how your romantic gestures are all declarations. Accept my gifts, dammit,” she mocks. Gesturing for me to stand upright, she starts putting me together, which, unfortunately for the tight fit of my pants, is just as erotic as having her unclothe me.

“Some things can’t be changed,” I admit. “And me being a dictatorial, overbearing, possessive bastard is one of them. I’d say I was sorry but it wouldn’t be sincere.” When her hands bump up against my c**k as she’s threading the belt through the loops, I tell her, “Just ignore it.” I shove my c**k down so that it tents out the left side of my pants.

“I guess I love you in spite of your Emperor Napoleon ways.” With her tongue pushed again her cheek, presumably so she doesn’t start laughing, she finishes buttoning my shirt, leaving the collar upright so that I can fix my tie. It’s the one thing she doesn’t know how to do, but maybe some night I’ll teach her the intricacies of tie knots and how useful they can be.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, you should stop or you’ll never be able to tuck in your shirt,” she observes.

“Can’t stop.” I lean down to kiss her. “Don’t want to stop.”

Shrugging, she picks out a pocket square and tucks it into the suit coat. “I think the story about how you met Frank is the most you’ve ever revealed about yourself. Other than what happened with your mom and dad.”

“What is it that you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. There will be no secrets between us.” I tuck in my shirt and adjust myself. I’ll deflate…eventually. For now, I’ll live with my erection. There are worse things. She hands me a pair of burgundy and blue striped socks and my hand-stitched Italian wingtips, and I sit on the bench to pull them on.

“I want to know everything. I want to know which food is your favorite, what your guilty pleasures are, what movies you like the best.”

“Steak, I don’t believe in guilty pleasures just pleasure, and the Godfather trilogy.” I tie my shoes and stride to the full-length mirror at the end of the dressing room. “My turn. For every piece of information you get from me, I want one in return.”

“That’s fair.” She peers over my shoulder as I maneuver the silk length of my tie into a Pratt knot.

“Since I shared with you about Frank, I think it is time for you to tell me why you haven’t moved all your things into my home.”

She grimaces. “Precisely because it is your home.”

Her emphasis on the pronoun is not lost on me. “I have no problem selling this place and buying one together with you.”

I didn’t think her dismay could deepen, but I was wrong. “No, I don’t want that. I just…” She looks around and then meets my gaze in the mirror. “It doesn’t feel like home.”

The warehouse once served as home base for my import-export business—which really consisted of facilitating the trade of goods that weren’t sanctioned by the government, including things as innocuous as non-FDA approved cheese to art with curious provenance.

Once I was completely legit, I hired an architect who converted the warehouse into plush, three-level, sun-soaked living quarters for one. Built in the European style, the ground level houses the vehicles and the floor up one flight of stairs houses the kitchen, exercise equipment, and big screen television. A bedroom and office on the second floor loft completes the space.

I’m asked regularly if I want to sell it. The architect, Adam Markham, is now big time, designing skyscrapers in Dubai and Hong Kong, and the converted warehouse is one of the few residential pieces he’s ever done. I’d never had the urge to sell it before, but it’d be gone in a heartbeat if Tiny didn’t like it.

I make a mental note to check with my realtor for a more family-friendly residence in the city. Maybe along Central Park. A townhome. I bought property in Connecticut for us where we can spend long weekends and most of the summer, but living outside the city on a regular basis wouldn’t suit either of us.

Tiny and I love the city, from the green parks to the gray concrete. But I want her happy and content and if a new residence will accomplish that, it’s a small sacrifice to say goodbye to this home.

She hands me my jacket, but I toss it aside. Picking her up, I carry her to the island of mahogany in the middle of the room and set her down. She’s inches taller than me, but I can look her in the eye better.

“If you don’t want to move, then make this place your home. Let’s buy new furniture. Hell, let’s get an architect in here and we’ll remake it from the ground up. We’ll dig out the basement and put in a pool. We’ll plant a palm tree on the roof. I don’t care what we do so long as when we’re done, you can walk in here and say ‘I’m glad to be home.’ And if you can’t see yourself ever saying that about this place, then we’ll sell it.” I squeeze her hips for emphasis. “And don’t say a word about the cost because I don’t give a shit about the cost. You could refurnish the entire meatpacking district and I’d—” I pause to correct myself “—we’d still be rich as hell.”