This Man Confessed (30 page)

“Hi.” I’m bracing myself. I know what’s coming, or I hope I know what’s coming.

He loses his battle and blisters my skin with his smile, bending his arms and lowering me to plant a hard kiss on my lips. “Good-bye, my beautiful girl.” His powerful arms straighten fast, and I’m launched into the black air on a squeal, my legs and arms flailing everywhere in deranged delight. I hit the water, still screaming, but quickly get stifled by the water as I go under. The dull muffle of frantic activity in the water surrounding me is definitely not just my doing, so I kick my legs urgently and work my way to the surface, emerging on a gasp and quickly doing a three-sixty turn to look for him. He’s nowhere to be seen and apart from my fitful inhalations, it’s deathly silent. I freeze as best I can, limiting my legs to a calm paddling beneath me. Damn it, where is he? Silent swells of water ripple away from me, and I can’t work out if it’s me causing the stir in the water or something in the depths below—something tall, lean, and beautiful, something that can hold its breath for a bloody long time. I don’t know why, but I hold my breath, too, silently deliberating on my next move. Do I remain still and silent or do I make a dash for the shore?

Dash, remain, dash, remain.

I release the stored air from my lungs. “Shit, shit, shit.” I’m totally torn, my heart racing as I battle my indecisiveness, but then I hear a splash behind me and with no instruction at all, my legs kick into action. I swim like my life depends on it, like Jaws himself is in pursuit of me. I’m squealing like a girl, too. “Oh fuck!” I yelp, piercing the night time air with my filthy mouth, as my ankle is grasped and I’m pulled under. I’m a rolling mass of wild arms and legs, probably kicking and punching him, but I can’t control it. It serves him right, anyway. My fright has turned into a little anger now, and I’m batting at the hands that are grasping at me. My eyes keep getting attacked with salt every time I attempt to open them, and my lungs are going to explode. And now his head in between my thighs.

I break the surface and immediately release the air in my lungs on a furious shout. “Jesse!” I’m on his shoulders being carted out of the sea, his arms locked over my shins on his chest.

“What’s up, baby?” He’s not even panting.

“You!” My hands smack his head a few times before I swoop down and grab his chin, yanking his head up. “Let me see you,” I spit out aggressively.

He laughs. “Hello.”

“You’re a menace.”

He seems to find his feet with no effort, rising from the water like some kind of otherworldly creature. “You love me.”

I lean down, but I can’t reach him. “I want to kiss you,” I whine.

“I know you do.” In a stealthy set of coordinated moves, I’m whipped from his shoulders and laying across his arms in a nanosecond. “And now you can.”

This grin feels like a permanent fixture on my face, and his sparkling eyes are deeply set and showing no sign of fading. We’re so happy. Laid-back Jesse is full-on and drowning me in lust and roguishness. Central Jesse Cloud Nine doesn’t get any better than this.

I
could get so very used to this. I could lay every morning and stretch happily, feel the breeze all over my nakedness and wander out onto the veranda to admire my god from a distance, running the curve of the bay. I could prepare him breakfast, despite the fact that I absolutely hate cooking, and I could sit naked at the table while he demolishes it with constant hums of approval around his fork before plunging his finger into a jar of peanut butter, which I’m sure he packed because it’s Sun-Pat. I could open my mouth when instructed so he can feed me, and I could reach over and stroke his bare, sun-kissed chest, just because I feel like it. I could puddle on the chair when he winks and yanks me onto his lap to ravish me, and then continue with his breakfast with one hand while he holds me with the other, offering forkfuls of salmon to me. I could slip into my bikini within the privacy of Paradise, receiving no look of horror or demand to put something more substantial on, and go for a swim in the giant freshness of the villa’s pool. I could be pulled out by my hand and dried off, then wrapped up and taken to the shower, where I’m soaped down and served in every shower-time way possible.
Every
shower-time way possible…and a little more. I could get very, very used to this.

It’s our last day in Paradise, and I’m feeling a little forlorn. It’s our last day of indulging solely in each other, with none of the distractions or issues that are all currently awaiting us in London. I’m sitting on the bed with tissue wedged between my toes and a bottle of pink nail polish in my hand. It’s gone noon. We’ve spent all morning doing all of
our
normal, and I’m now prepping and preening for an afternoon down at the port and a twilight dinner. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay in Paradise forever, just me and Jesse.

I look up, seeing Jesse rubbing his dirty blond mass of wet hair with a towel. I lean back on my pillow and savor the delightful view. He’s naked. I’m dribbling.

He saunters over and crawls up the bed until he’s sitting on his knees by my feet. “Let me.” The towel gets laid across his thighs and he takes my foot in his strong hands.

“You want to paint my toes?” I ask, a little amused at my manly husband taking on such a girly task. He flicks me an indifferent look, clearly not bothered to be tending to his wife to this extent.

“I may as well get some practice in,” he informs me, straight-faced and all matter-of-fact. “You won’t be able to reach them soon.”

My foot lashes out on reflex, jabbing him straight in his stomach, not that it has the desired effect. He grins down at his lap and repositions my foot. “I don’t want to go home,” I say quietly.

“Me either, baby.” He doesn’t seem shocked to hear it, like he’s read my mind, or clearly been thinking the exact same thing. He gives my big toenail a stroke down the center with the brush, then one on each side.

“When can we come back?” I ask, watching as his concentration frown emerges. It makes me smile and momentarily forget my dispiriting thoughts.

“We can come back whenever you like. Just say the word, and I’ll put you on that plane.” He wipes across the flesh at the base of my nail and sits back to observe his handiwork. It’s not bad at all, considering his big hands and the tiny brush. He looks up at me. “Have you had a nice time?”

“Paradise,” I muse, resting my head back. “Continue.” I nod at my foot in his lap.

His eyes narrow playfully. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good boy.” I sigh dreamily, relaxing into the pillow. “What happens when we get home?”

He continues with the painting of my nails, not giving my question the acknowledgment it deserves. Something needs to be done, preferably by the police officially, not by Steve as a favor to a man he’s pissed off.

“What happens is that you’ll go to work and finally fulfill your promise to enlighten Patrick of Mikael.” He tosses me an expectant look, which I ignore.

“Do you think Mikael stole your car?”

“I have no fucking clue, Ava.” He places my foot down and picks up the other. “I’m dealing with it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

“How are you dealing with it?” I can’t help the question. I really want to know because something tells me that like most of Jesse’s ways, it won’t be conventional.

As I knew I would, I get landed with a warning look, and I’m mindful that by pushing this, I may very well get tossed off Central Jesse Cloud Nine before we arrive back in London.

“End of,” he says simply, and I know it really is.

So I relax and let him finish the intricate task of painting my toenails as I silently appreciate both his attentiveness and the fact that he’s scrunched over, leaning down close to carry out his task, yet there is not a roll of fat on that stomach, whatsoever.

“You’re done,” he declares, screwing the lid back on. “I’m even amazing at this.”

I pull my feet up and lean over to take a look, half expecting to see a set of pink-colored feet, but no. Jesse is, indeed, amazing at painting toenails. “Not bad,” I flip casually, feigning the wiping of some stray polish that isn’t even there.

“Not bad? I’ve done a better job than you’d ever do, lady.” He jumps up from the bed. “You’re so lucky to have me.”

“Aren’t
you
lucky?” I ask incredulously.

“I’m luckier.” He winks, and I’m speedily dragged from my offended state on a sigh. “Come on, lady. Let’s go exploring.”

We pull off a roundabout and up to a security gate that leads down to a port. Jesse lowers his window and flashes a plastic card at a screen and the gate opens instantly, allowing him to drive through. “Where are we?” I ask, edging forward in my seat to look down the road.

“This is The Port, baby.” He proceeds at a crawl and turns onto a pedestrianized area, people mechanically moving to make way, not giving the DBS a second glance. I would’ve thought this strange, but I quickly register the dozens of prestigious cars, all parked in bays along the front. And not just the odd Merc or BMW. I’m looking at rows of Bentleys, Ferraris, and even another Aston Martin, all screaming
billionaires
. My attention is speedily drawn from the row of expensive vehicles when I clock the rows and rows of boats. No, not boats. These are yachts.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper as Jesse slips into an empty bay.

“Ava! Please, watch your fucking mouth.” He heaves a tired breath and gets himself out of the car, making his way around to my side. I’m stuck in my seat, astounded by the bright whiteness of many huge floating mountains on the marina. “Out you get.”

I absentmindedly eject myself with the assistance of Jesse’s hand while keeping my eyes on the boats. “Please don’t tell me you own one of those.” I look at him with wide eyes. I don’t know why I sound so shocked. This man is beyond wealthy, but a yacht?

He smiles and slips his shades on. “No, I sold it many years ago.”

“So you did have one?”

“Yes, but I didn’t have a fucking clue how to sail the stupid thing.” He takes my hand and leads me away from the car, to a pathway where we’re safe from moving vehicles.

“Why did you buy it in the first place then?” I ask, looking up at him, but he just shrugs my question off and points out across the sea.

“Over there is Morocco.”

I follow the direction of his hand, but all I see is open water. He’s trying to divert my enquiring mind. “Lovely,” I say with lashings of sarcasm, just so he knows that I know his ploy.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, lady.” He pulls me under his arm and makes a meal of biting at my ear. “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s mooch about.”

“Mooch?”

“Yes, mooch,” I repeat, looking up at an amused expression. “Like browse, peruse—mooch about.”

He smiles down at me, almost fascinated. “Okay. I feel another Camden coming on.”

“Yes, exactly like Camden, but no funny sex shops,” I finish quietly.

Now he’s laughing. “Oh, there are plenty of funny sex shops on the back streets. Want to see?”

“No, I don’t,” I grumble, reflecting back to our very own little pole-dancing treat by that leather-clad, dominatrix type. I inwardly gasp. A Sarah type. Holy shit, she looked just like Sarah, minus the whip, instead playing with a pole. Sarah may very well have a pole, who knows, but my sudden comprehension is overshadowing the similarities of the women. “You didn’t find that attractive, did you?”

My chin is grasped and pulled to face him. “I’ve told you before. There’s only one thing that turns me on, and I love her in lace.”

“Good.”

He kisses my forehead and takes a deep breath into my hair. “Come on, Mrs. Ward. Let’s mooch.”

I’m thoroughly fed up of mooching by the time we’re back on the marina front, and I know Jesse has humored me to within an inch of his life, insisting on buying everything that I picked up or looked at in a bid to reduce my browsing time. This wouldn’t have bothered me too much if it wasn’t for the kind of stores in which we were mooching. This is no Camden. Yes, there were a few knickknack stalls, but I was mainly directed into the abundance of designer stores, leaving me feeling a million times more conspicuous than I ever did in Harrods. The quiet, minimal spaces were dressed with just a few key pieces, not leaving much scope for mooching at all.

He’s weighed down with bags now, and God bless him, he looks harassed. “I’ll put these in the car. Wait there.” He leaves me on the side of the pedestrianized area, coating my lips in Chapstick, while he goes over to the car to dump the bags. Then he makes his way quickly back over and grabs me. I stifle a yelp as I’m suspended in his arms and ravished. “God, I’ve missed you.” His mouth slides over my freshly moisturized lips with ease as he takes me for all to see. As always, I’m oblivious to our location and company, letting him do as he pleases with me. “Hmm, you taste good.” He pulls back and pouts, his own lips shimmering slightly from the transfer of my Chapstick.

“If you want to wear ladies’ lipstick, then do it properly.” I reach up to apply, and he does nothing to stop me, even puckering to make the coating easier. “Better,” I conclude on a smile. “You’re even more handsome with shimmery lips.”

“Probably,” he agrees, with complete ease, smacking his lips together. “Come on, I need to feed my wife and peanuts.” He returns me to a vertical position and starts to reposition the slipping straps of my yellow sundress. “These need tightening.”

Shrugging his fussing hands away, I lead on, pulling my own straps into place and disregarding the grunts of protest coming from behind me. “Where are you feeding me?” I ask over my shoulder, keeping up my stride. I’m not striding for long, though. My wrist is seized, and I’m suddenly pulling against a dead weight.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he practically growls, spinning me around to face him. He’s scowling while I’m grinning. “And you can wipe that grin off your face.” He proceeds to tighten my straps, muttering some rubbish about an insufferable wife, who drives him fucking crazy. “Better. Ridiculous dress.” He takes a deep breath of patience. “Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I know it drives you crazy.”

“You just enjoy reducing me to a crazy madman.”

“You make yourself a crazy madman.” I laugh. “You need no help in that department, Jesse. I’ve told you before; you do not dictate my wardrobe.”

His eyes burn with green displeasure, but I don’t shy away from his hulking fierceness. I’m really rather brave. “You drive me crazy,” he repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“What are you going to do?” I ask smugly. “Divorce me?”

“Watch your fucking mouth!”

“I didn’t even swear!” I’m really laughing now.

“Yes, you fucking did! The worse word, in fact. I forbid you to say it.”

Oh, now I’ve really got the chuckles. “You forbid me?”

His arms fold over his chest in an act of authority, like I’m a bloody child. “Yes, I forbid you.”

“Divorce,” I whisper.

“Now you’re just being childish,” he huffs, just like a child.

“-ish.” I shrug. “Feed me.”

He scoffs loudly and shakes his head. “I should fucking starve you and reward you with food when you do what you’re fucking told.” My shoulders are clenched, I’m turned around, and then I’m guided to a seafront restaurant. “I’ll feed you here.”

We’re shown to a table for two on the outside terrace and settled by a happy Spanish man with slicked black hair and a moustache to match. “Drinks?” he asks in a thick Spanish accent.

“Water, thank you.” Jesse sits me down and tucks me under the table before taking a seat opposite and passing me a menu. “The tapas are sublime.”

“You pick.” I hand the menu back. “I’m sure you’ll make a suitable choice.” My eyebrows are raised cheekily, and the menu is taken from my hand thoughtfully, but with no scorn or reproving look.

“Thank you,” he says slowly.

“You’re welcome,” I counter, pouring us a glass of water each when the waiter places an ice-cold jug on the table. I down the whole glass in one fell swoop and immediately pour another.

“Thirsty?” He watches in astonishment as I make quick work of the second glass, nodding over the rim. “Be careful,” he warns. I’m frowning over the rim, but unable to stop gulping the icy liquid. “You might drown the babies.”

I cough a little on a laugh and place my water down to grab a napkin. “Will you stop with that?”

“What? I’m just showing some fatherly concern.” He looks hurt, but I know better.

“You don’t think I can look after our babies, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” he retorts softly, with absolutely zero conviction. He really doesn’t. I’m shocked, and my face probably shows it, even if he’s refusing to meet my eyes so he can see for himself.

“What the hell do you think I’m going to do?” I regret the question the second it falls from my mouth, even more so when his head snaps up and I’m hit with a skeptical look. “Don’t,” I warn, my voice cracking and tears of regret immediately burning the back of my eyes. I work hard to blink them back, mentally beating myself up for my cold-hearted thoughts. I feel terrible enough all on my own, without Jesse enflaming the guilt.