Chapter 10
Strip That Down
Gemma
WHO? WHAT? WHERE? Why? How? When?
The questions are still swirling in my head when I arrive at the condominium complex next to mine.
I park my car where I sometimes do, and then slip back behind my building, knowing I have to clear my mind so I can concentrate on re-entry.
I’ve been shuffling my car this way for almost a year, and I’ve never gotten caught. I don’t want today to be the day I do.
Still, if I park next door, and if Enrique ever notices, I’ll just say someone parked in front of my garage. It’s an excuse I can only use once, I know, but I’ll worry about what comes next when I have to.
The problem with today is, I wasn’t supposed to leave the premises, so if I get caught, either way, I’m screwed.
The fire escape stairs feel like a million flights, still I take them as quickly as I can.
Thank god the window lifts without much effort.
Once inside, I strip out of my clothes and discard them into the hamper before finding the soothing comfort of the still-running water. The room is filled with steam, but the hot water is long gone. I like it that way—it keeps me on my toes, reminds me things that appear comforting aren’t always so.
With my towel wrapped around my body, I unlock the bathroom door and swing it open.
I’m looking down at my legs, hoping I’m not bruised too badly that I can’t cover them up with makeup when I walk into something.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
The scream escapes my throat before I can even drag my head up and terror rivets every part of my body. Even after I realize who it is, running footsteps echo in my mind. By the time my eyes lift to see Enrique leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his six-man security team is already in the hallway with their guns pointed in our direction.
“Lower your weapons,” Enrique orders.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. We heard a scream,” the one next to Smith answers.
“I startled Miss Hart. Nothing to worry about,” Enrique tells them, with his own peaked curiosity shining through his words.
“Just taking precautions, Mr. Cruz,” Smith responds.
Other than Smith, I haven’t bothered to learn any of the other five’s names. They don’t stay long enough. Enrique fires them at the bat of an eyelash and the next day a new one, who has already been groomed, shows up.
I don’t look their way as I stand draped in my towel with wet hair, but I can hear them turn and leave.
“Smith,” Enrique calls, circling his hand in the air, that ring flashing as he does.
“Yes, sir,” he answers promptly.
“Has Miss Hart’s security arrived?”
“No sir, not yet, but I expect him within fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, leave us alone and wait outside until he arrives. When he does, send him up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hear the door close and Enrique moves forward. My heart is a caged bird in my ribcage and wants nothing more than to escape.
He takes a step closer and touches my face. Softly, he caresses his thumb across my cheek. I lean into his touch, surprised it actually brings me comfort. “You’re early,” I whisper.
“Gemma!” The coldness in his tone startles me.
My gaze jerks up, worried he knows I snuck out, that I was attacked, knows about everything. “Yes?”
“Why did you lock the bathroom door?”
I stifle every nerve twitching inside my body and place my hands on his chest, lowering my gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you to come early. I’ve been a little nervous ever since you told me you’ve been receiving threats, and taking silly precautions, I guess.”
He tilts my chin to meet his eyes. “And why was the alarm disarmed?”
“I watched the sunrise from the balcony. I must have forgotten to rearm it,” I lie.
“Do I need to punish you to make you remember?”
I shake my head, thinking yes, but saying no.
“Don’t forget again,” he warns, “Or I will.”
“I won’t forget. I promise.”
This surprisingly pacifies him. “You should have told me you were scared, angel. I would have had one of the men stay with you.”
“Yes, I probably should have. I just felt silly.”
“My Gemma,” he says, “My angel Gemma, you don’t need to be worried. No one knows about you. They don’t know where you live or who you are to me.”
“But last week you said—”
He cuts me off. “I had a bad day that day. Sometimes my lack of sleep causes me to believe things that I shouldn’t—to be almost paranoid.”
I swallow, relieved at the direction the conversation has taken. “Did you get some rest?” I ask.
Ignoring me, he licks his lips. His eyes ravaging me like a starved man. “I missed you, is what I did.”
“And I missed you,” I tell him.
His hands run down my sides and he tugs my towel free. I expect him to take a step back to gaze at me like he always does. But he doesn’t. Instead his lips move to my neck and his tongue drags up it, and then shocking me, his hands go to my waist, lifting me up.
Repulsion and confusion fill my mind.
When he presses me against the wall, I purposely wrap my legs around him, knowing touching is one of his triggers.
As soon as I do, he lowers me back to the floor. I knew he would. Still, he’s allowing himself to get further and further away from his convictions. What I’m realizing is, I have to reciprocate my affection quicker if I want him to stop sooner. My eagerness seems to spur his guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, already knowing he’ll blame me for his actions.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then he leans down to my ear and whispers his confession. “Gemma, you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—exquisite, flawless. Fighting temptation is a virtue I struggle with every time I see you. Staying faithful to my wife is becoming very difficult. You have to help me.”
“I’m trying, but it’s hard for me as well.” I swallow and attempt not to think too much about the warped game he is playing. What kind of game I don’t know, but I need to figure it out so I can stay one step ahead of him.
His eyes bore into mine, but yet again, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he stays close and hovers his lips over mine. “Sometimes I want to give up the fight.”
My body reacts strangely to this—my lips part, my pulse races, and I can feel my nipples harden. I close my eyes, remembering there was a time I would have done anything to gain this man’s affections, to trace the lines of his fit body, to feel the touch of his lips on me, to know him intimately.
His fingers slide down my silhouette and his touch drags me back to reality. Reminds me those feelings are long gone and of the repulsion I feel toward him.
He presses his forehead to mine as his hands rest on my ass and then he does something he never has. He pushes his raging erection against my body. “Feel how much I want you?”
I nod yes while choking back the vomit that threatens to gag me at the thought that he might just take this further.
Right here.
Right now.
“Do you want me?” he asks.
I nod again.
He stands still without another move, not forward or back.
Spurring him on is the only way to stop him. So with trembling hands, I sell my soul to the devil. I place my palms on his chest once again and begin to run them down the fine fabric of his shirt. “Can I touch you?”
Silence hangs between us.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
I start to worry that this time I may have pushed him to a point of no return. I hope not. Pray not.
Standing like a statue, he’s deep in contemplation. Oh God, is his body going to win out over his mind this time?
I hold my breath.
With a slight sigh, he removes his hands from my naked ass and takes ahold of my wrists, pinning them above my head. “It’s not time yet, my Gemma,” he breathes.
I force air from my lungs.
He drops his hold on me and his fingers pinch my chin forcing my eyes to his. “Soon, very soon though, I promise. My life coach tells me purity is not very far away. He feels you're close.”
His life coach is a staff member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, which I’ve come to conclude is a cult-like association where brainwashing takes place. I attend classes there twice a week and meet with his life coach privately each time because I have to. He’s always asking me a million questions. I wish I knew how to navigate Lamar Trentworth, but he’s one person I can’t seem to crack. I can’t tell what he thinks of me, and I hate it.
Feigning disappointment, I sigh. “I understand.”
This game may be getting too dangerous for me. After spending so much time with him and his life coach, I almost understand Enrique’s warped sense of wanting me pure before he fucks me—it’s so he doesn’t feel so bad that he’s cheating on his wife.
How screwed up is that?
The problem is I don’t know exactly what gauges my pureness—the fact that I haven’t fucked another man since we entered into this arrangement? That I understand the values of his precious higher mind philosophy? Or something else entirely? I just don’t know. I never ask, though. I’m not sure I want to know. The reality that I might become pure enough for him to take me is too daunting.
“Gemma?” he whispers, breaking my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Is your fear the real the reason you locked the bathroom door or is there another reason?” he asks.
I blink in confusion, stifling my terror that he knows I left.
“Were you perhaps satisfying your needs?” he continues.
“No,” I choke out in relief.
“Good,” he breathes. “You know I want you to save your pleasure for me.”
I meet his eyes. “I know.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to give you that, but I hope that changes soon.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
He finally takes that step back I’ve been expecting him to take for a while. “Good. Now let’s go in the bedroom where the light is better, so I can really appreciate you.”
Just as I start past him and begin to pad down the hall, his hand forcefully squeezes my shoulder.
“Please keep that covered. It mars your beauty.”
I turn to look at him. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cruz, I should have concealed it before I left the bathroom.”
He smiles and loosens his grip on me. So easy to appease. I continue toward the bedroom. He doesn’t like the tattoo on my shoulder and insists I cover it up with makeup, which I typically do.
As soon as we cross the threshold to my room, the sunlight floods in. Enrique removed the blinds and the curtains when I moved in. He said they restricted the natural light.
Out of habit, I traipse across the room to stand in front of the window, where he likes me, but he doesn't take a seat on the bed, where he always does. Instead, he stops at my easel with the blank paper on it and stares at the pencils and charcoal for a long while.
“Why aren’t you drawing?” he asks.
“I’ve been busy at work,” I tell him, and it’s true, but not the real reason.
Accepting my answer, he heads toward the bed and sits. Leaning back, he places his palms on my white sheets and his eyes sweep me as if I’m his drug, as if seeing me naked heals his wounds.
It’s like the first time I saw the Mona Lisa or Starry Night in person and I knew I’d never be the same, only I’m flesh and bones, not a masterpiece. I stand there, breasts pushed forward, arms at my sides, waiting for further instructions.
After a long while, he sits forward and lifts a finger to his chin. “Come closer,” he beckons cocking his head to the side.
I take a step forward.
“Closer.”
I take another step.
“What happened to your lip?”
My hand flies to it and I can feel the slight swelling from the ruckus earlier. “I don’t know,” I lie again. Lies. Lies. Lies. I hate them all. “I must have bitten it when I screamed.”
He stands up with a look of disgust on his face. “I have to leave. Get dressed in what I laid out for you. Your new security will be here shortly to take you to Santa Monica.”
“Santa Monica?” I question.
“Your contact is there.”
“Am I going to a gallery?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” he tells me, hesitantly.
“What does that mean?”
He gives me a look that demands no more questions and strides toward the door.
“I’ll figure it out,” I whisper more to myself than him, and I can’t help but wonder why I’m using some broker two hours away instead of someone local.
Without turning around, he tosses over his shoulder, “Gemma, I have some business to attend to out of town. I’m not sure how long I will be gone. But the next time I stop by I’d like you ready for me. I’ll text you with what I want you to wear and what else I require.”
Of course he will.
No matter how I feel about him, I can’t let him leave this way. I have to try to turn things around. “I’m sorry about today, Enrique,” I call out in an attempt to soothe him, but he slams my bedroom door before I can finish my apology.
I guess whatever high he gets from looking at me doesn’t materialize when I’m flawed.
Well, fuck him.
I almost needed him today.
Almost.
I won’t make that mistake again.
There is no doubt that I’ll get the silent treatment from him for days, and although normally I’d revel in it, I’m not doing so today.
I can’t help but feel time is running out.
With all my heart and all my soul I have to fight back the outburst sitting on the edge of everything I am.
If he discards me before I accomplish my goal . . . I will have nothing.