Page 53 of When Sinners Hate
I slump down onto the bed, pulling my legs up onto the lush fabric and let my eyes rest.
~
I wake up and look over to my right to see my husband still sleeping.
Last night was the first time we’ve spent the night in the same bed since we met. It was the first time sex didn’t feel forced and the first time I felt myself with him. He’d been teasing it all day, and it was clear he wanted it. Sex with Abel will never be dull, and almost always pleasurable; it just depends on which Abel I have in front of me.
The one last night can stay.
The tension had been building all day with his game of ‘let Lexi choose’. It was like walking a tightrope with him scrutinising each step and deciding if he’d wobble the wire and make me fall or help me across safely. He wanted to see me, understand me, and let me choose, but he’s still the one in control.
I look him over as he sleeps, taking my own time to scrutinise him. Beautiful really. Savagely so, perhaps, but that hard edge he holds runs all the way through him. No pretence about it. I used to believe I was a control freak. Mainly from the positions I’ve been put in before. Control for me equals power, and I don’t want to give mine up, but he’ll never allow me any real power over him. It’s clear in everything he does. He’s possessive when he wants, insistent when he wants, and generous … when he wants. It all causes my frustrations to spill over, and then he chastises me and shuts down any line of questioning I have at will. Annoying isn't a good enough word.
I pull back the sheet and head through the suite to make a coffee. Of course, it's the best suite. In the best hotel. With the most perfect position and decor this city has to offer. Yet another annoying thing considering part of me wants to find fault. Perhaps so I can regain some amount of control around here, but for now, I choose not to look too hard.
He has a meeting with my father today. The last forty-eight hours have turned my world on its head, and I’m not sure how I'll feel seeing him again. I was pretty pissed at him over our last conversation. And as well as being sharp to deal with my father, I don’t know what Abel’s trying to do with this little getaway. Is this making up for the disappointment that I’m still not worthy of a place in his home? Or a show of strength towards my father? Something else?
Stirring the coffee, I stare out at the view. I’ve not asked Abel about the meeting. This could be important to ensure Ortega gets what we want from this union – something I believe my father has been slow to secure. We’ll have to wait and see how it plays out, but my gut tells me that Abel will out-negotiate my father and leave him thinking he got the best out of the deal. Nicolas was better at business strategy, but Miguel Ortega isn’t somebody who responds well to criticism of any kind, so that little snip of information wasn’t widely shared. Of course, men talk. And they like to brag. Especially when they think they’re getting something unavailable to others.
“I don’t want you wearing anything you’d usually wear today,” Abel says, as he walks by. “What have you got that’s more understated?”
“Morning, husband. How nice it is to wake up to see you,” I mock, turning around to face him.
He cocks a brow at me and heads for the espresso machine. “I see you’ve already had coffee. Shall we order breakfast?”
“What time are we meeting my father?”
“Not until midday.”
“Great. We have time to go out for breakfast then. And, if I’m not meant to dress like me, we’ll have to go shopping again.”
~
We head back downtown, but instead of where we shopped for the tux and my dress for the theatre, I take him to a couple of boutique stores. They are me, but that doesn’t mean I can't find something a little less seductive to wear. Understated can be classic and sophisticated.
I browse the little store, run my hand over a figure-hugging cream dress, and then move on to a respectable and boring pantsuit. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just boring, and I realise that I like a little fun in my fashion. I’ve not been keeping up with the usual workouts, but I might have more freedom when we return. I can think about my options – the side I want to take – and how I move forward to carve out a life for myself, and, most importantly, if I can believe Abel.
“Abel, conservative isn’t me. If I get something like these, I’ll need a pair of heels to compensate.”
He pulls his phone away from his ear and ends a call. “I don’t want you to dress like you normally would when we meet your father.”
“Why?” My hands shoot to my hips, pissed that he’s dictating.
“Call it strategy. And, I’d like to see you in something more befitting the wife you are.”
“You wanted honest yesterday. You wanted to know me, and today you don’t. I’ve warned you about giving me whiplash before.”
I trail my hands along the rack of boring pants. Fitted, alluring and traffic-stopping outfits have been what I’ve enjoyed wearing for years. They give me a confidence that nothing else can. An ego-boost and advantage all at once. And when men are too busy looking at what they want, they get sloppy in other areas. Something that has paid me well in the past. Abel’s been one of the only men seemingly immune, much to my annoyance.
“The cream dress is fine. Just not for the meeting.”
I turn and roll my eyes, grabbing a silk shirt that has a fabulous tone, the horrid pants, the cream dress, and, as I head to the changing area at the back, I swipe the highest heels.
Everything fits, and everything does look great, so I dump the garments on the cashier’s desk and wait for my husband to pick up the tab.
“Happy?” I check.
“Marginally. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”