Claimed

by Portia Moore

  Vincent glances over at me, as if he can hear the gears turning in my head, the internal struggle. “Don’t worry about your family, Poppy. I made calls this morning, and there’s a spot being prepared for your father at the University Center now. They’ll start the treatments immediately.”

  My heart suddenly fills with love for him. Hearing him talk this way, it makes me remember he truly does love me, that he sees my family as his own, too. After all, they’ll be his in-laws soon. It makes me feel as if we’re a team.

  I squeeze his hand. “Thank you so much, Vincent,” I tell him sincerely. “For everything.”

  He smiles down at me, though his eyes don’t have much warmth to them. “When we get back, I’ve arranged for you to have lunch with the wife of one of my business associates,” he says crisply, switching topics abruptly. “Now that things are settled and good between us again, I think it’s time you start to really get to see what’s going to be expected of you as my wife. The way the wives in the circles that I move in dress and behave and spend their time. You will be a reflection of me, and it’s important that you take that very seriously, Poppy. I’ve worked extremely hard for everything that I have.”

  I nod at him, giving him a small smile. My heart pounds anxiously in my chest, but I want to make Vincent happy. After all he’s done—having lunch with one of his associates’ wives is hardly the worst thing in the world, but I don’t want to be one of those women who sits around doing nothing other than having lunches and planning dinner parties.

  He promised, I remind myself. Once I’m settled in to my new world as his wife, once my father is better, once things slow down and I’m not biting off more than I can chew, then I’ll go to school. Then I’ll do the things that I’ve always dreamed of. And in the meantime, I can support Vincent the way he’s supporting me and my family right now.

  “So the lunch is tomorrow?” I ask tentatively. “What time?”

  “One. April will drive you. Don’t worry, she’ll make herself scarce.”

  I wince but try to hide it. I’d hoped that the April issue might solve itself, that Vincent would see he’s being overprotective and ridiculous by having someone follow me around at all times. But it’s clear that he’s not going to change his mind, and I don’t want to upset him. The last thing I want to do is fight right now.

  The house is quiet and still when we get home, and there’s no sign of April or anyone else. Vincent immediately walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of Scotch, leaning back against one of the stools as I approach and fix myself a gin and tonic. I see his eyes sweep over me slowly as I stir my drink and add a lime, and I feel that familiar tingle run across my skin. There’s a possessiveness to his gaze that makes me feel both slightly uneasy and also turned on, and I remember the early days of our relationship—that first night he touched me, the sensation of his fingers trailing down my spine as he unzipped that tight black dress.

  Heat flushes over my skin, and I feel his eyes following me as I perch on the stool next to him, the gin tart on my tongue as I take a sip of it. “Ready to go to bed?” I ask, letting just a hint of suggestiveness into my tone. I don’t come on to him often. Vincent likes to be the instigator, like in so many other things—the one in charge. But I’m in the mood to flirt with him, to remember what it felt like to have that intimacy.

  His green eyes meet mine, and I can see the heat in them. “I was thinking a shower,” he says.

  That brings back another memory of our first night, and I shiver slightly, imagining his handsome, naked body, wet in the shower, his hands running over my soapy body. “I love showering with you,” I say softly, and he smiles tightly, taking another sip of his whiskey.

  “You get in the shower,” he says, his voice commanding. “And then meet me in bed.”

  Visions of him kneeling between my legs in the shower, or his fingers sliding between my thighs as the hot water run over us both immediately disappear, and I feel slightly deflated. I try not to show it. I don’t want to ruin tonight. So we won’t be having hot and steamy sex in the shower, but he wants me still. He wants to watch me walk across the room to him, join him in bed so he can do all sorts of things to me…

  Vincent reaches out and takes the glass smoothly from my fingers before I can take another drink. “It’s getting late. Meet me in bed in fifteen minutes.”

  He likes to be in charge. I know that—I’ve always known that. So why do I feel so deflated, almost rejected, even though that’s clearly not the case?

  I shower quickly, trying not to think about how frustrated I am that he couldn’t let me take the lead for once, do what I wanted. I avoid washing my hair, knowing that he hates when it’s wet when we have sex, and I don’t have time to dry it. Instead, I make sure to scrub thoroughly, using the soap that I know he likes the best, and when I get out and towel-dry off, I rub the same lotion all over until my skin is soft and faintly scented with his favorite perfume. This should make him happy.

  He’s in only his black silk pajama pants when I walk out, the fly undone as he runs his hand slowly over himself, slowly bringing himself to full arousal as he watches me walk naked across the room. His eyes slide over me possessively, but there’s something off about it.

  He looks detached, as if he’s sizing me up, deciding if I meet his criteria. Clearly, he’s aroused, I can see that without a doubt as he slides off his pants, but as I crawl into bed, I feel an unfamiliar distance between us.

  I want him to pull me into his arms, to kiss me passionately and slide into me slowly, renewing our relationship, the love that was there between us. I want tonight to mean something. But as he pulls me on top of him without even a kiss, his fingers moving deftly between my legs in an effort to get me wet before he slides into me, I can tell that it isn’t only going to be the suggestion of a shower that isn’t going to go the way I wanted it to.

  Despite all of that, I can’t help but be turned on. Vincent is, as always, devastatingly sexy, and he knows exactly where to touch me to make every nerve in my body hum with pleasure. I wriggle atop him, my breathing coming faster as my body softens and my legs spread, and before I know it, he’s inside of me.

  I try to lock my eyes with his, to lean down and kiss him, to bridge the distance between us. I want to feel intimacy in his arms again, safety. But instead, he holds my hips tightly, keeping me atop him as his gaze takes me in, a beautiful thing on display for him.

  When he’s tired of seeing me move on top of him, he grabs me suddenly and flips me over onto my stomach, pulling my hips up as he plunges into me so that he gets the best possible view of my ass as he thrusts into me again and again, faster and faster. I suddenly realize that I don’t think I’m going to come, that despite the heat flooding my body and the pleasure from his every thrust, it isn’t enough to push me over the edge. I feel detached, far away from him, almost out of my own body as he increases his pace. It’s like I’m watching myself do this. And then I feel him shudder, and the sudden absence of him. At first I think he came, but then I hear the sound of his hand on himself, stroking hard, and his loud, deep groan as heat splashes over my upturned ass.

  I’m hollow as I sink down onto the blankets, Vincent’s satisfied sigh only making me feel worse. He didn’t even come inside of me. He all but marked me, finishing on me as if he were reclaiming me in some weird way. He’s never done that before, and as I crawl off of the bed and go to the bathroom to clean up, I almost feel like crying. I’m not satisfied, but the lack of an orgasm isn’t the part that bothers me.

  I’ve never felt objectified by him in bed before, or used. But I don’t feel like the woman he loves. It’s like I could have been anyone, just something to get him off and be done.

  I wind up taking another shower, scrubbing what’s left of him off of my skin. By the time I get out and slip into my nightgown, Vincent is already sound asleep. Well, he would be, I think, irritated. He just had great sex.

  The gulf between us in the California king-sized bed f
eels wider than ever, as I close my eyes and try to fall asleep.

  When I wake up the next morning, the bed is empty. I’m not even sure if Vincent is home until I walk into the kitchen to make breakfast and see him sitting at the table with toast and eggs with smoked salmon, scrolling through the news on the iPad. He glances up at me as I walk in and get yogurt out of the fridge.

  “April will take you to the restaurant to meet Elyse at one,” he says, his attention going back to the screen in front of him. “I think it will be good for you. Instructional.”

  Instructional?

  I don’t need to be taught, like some kind of child, but I know there’s no point in saying that. It will just make him angry, and we’ll fight, and then we’ll make up, and he’ll tell me how he only has my best interests at heart, that he’s just trying to take care of me, to prepare me for the kind of life I’m going to be living with him.

  And after all, shouldn’t I know how to conduct myself? It’s not like I grew up with this kind of wealth and privilege, in the kinds of places he frequents. I don’t want to embarrass him.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” I say carefully, sitting down at the table.

  “I just want you to be comfortable as my wife,” Vincent says, reaching out to touch my hand. It soothes me a little, makes me feel less anxious about the way things were between us the night before.

  He was just tired, I rationalize to myself. It was a long drive. He just wanted a quickie.

  “I know,” I say softly. “And I want you to be proud of me.” It’s true, I realize. I want him to see me as an equal, to be proud to have me at his side, not worried that I’ll embarrass him. I don’t want to feel small and childish next to him, I want to feel powerful and strong. A woman who is his equal.

  So to do that, I need to know how to operate in his world. And if that means having a bodyguard and spending my afternoon at a ridiculously fancy lunch with a woman I’ve never met, then I guess that’s just what I’ll have to do.

  He stands abruptly, setting the iPad aside. He leans over and drops a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be back tonight,” he says. “Possibly late. I have meetings well into the evening. But maybe we can go out for a late dinner.”

  “Okay,” I say softly, touching his arm. “I love you.”

  “And I love you, Poppy.” He says it casually as he exits.

  He loves me. I hold onto that thought as I finish my breakfast and go back to the bedroom to get ready. I see as soon as I walk in that he’s laid out clothes for me to wear, complete with jewelry and shoes, and that feeling of annoyance returns. Can I not even dress myself?

  He doesn’t want me to embarrass him by picking the wrong thing, I remind myself. I’m new to all of this. He’s only trying to help.

  I get dressed in the skinny jeans and white silk top with fluttery sleeves that he picked out, slipping on the black Louboutin pumps and the rose-gold hoops and diamond cuff bracelet. I curl my hair and apply light makeup, shadowing my eyes in soft neutrals and putting on a matte rose lipstick.

  I look young, pretty, and rich. All the things Vincent wants me to appear as. But as I look in the mirror, I don’t really recognize myself. I don’t look like the girl I remember being, the one who wore ripped up jeans and forty-dollar boots, the one who scribbled stories in a notebook on the bus rides to school.

  I quickly look away. I don’t want to think about all of that. I just want to get through the afternoon so that Vincent will be happy with me.

  April is quiet on the drive to the restaurant. I feel like I should apologize to her for the way I spoke when I left for my parents’ house, but I don’t really know what to say. Vincent has made it very clear that she’s one of the staff. Do you apologize to the staff? None of this makes sense to me. But April isn’t my friend, or even my employee. She’s Vincent’s. And so I don’t say anything. I keep my hands folded in my lap and look out the window at the city as it passes by, trying to remind myself to breathe as we drive.

  It’s not hard to pick out Elyse. She’s a tall, thin woman with long, dark brown hair that’s expertly styled, swept away from her immaculately made-up face. She’s wearing designer jeans and a sleeveless blue silk top that matches her eyes, with diamond jewelry at her ears and neck and wrist. She smiles beautifully at me when I walk up to her, holding out a long-fingered, manicured hand to shake mine.

  “I’m Elyse,” she says sweetly. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Rain,” I introduce myself, shaking her hand. I feel small and shy next to her, not nearly as graceful or elegant.

  “Oh, how funny! Mark told me to call you Poppy. I thought that was your name.”

  “It’s just a nickname,” I say, flushing slightly. God, I hate that so much, I think. Why can’t Vincent just use my real name? Why does he have to introduce me to people with a name that isn’t mine, like he has to give me some other identity?

  “Have you been here before?” Elyse asks as she leads the way towards the dining room.

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t think Vincent has brought us here.” The whole place is breathtaking; clean and bright with huge windows that let sunlight spill out onto the marble floor, complete with tables covered in crisp white tablecloths and crystal glasses glinting in the rays.

  “You’re going to love it,” she says conspiratorially, as if she’s confiding something in me. We’re immediately seated by a stiff-looking waiter, and Elyse orders a martini. “What do you like to drink with lunch?” she asks, her smile genuine. She seems sweet, but she makes me nervous. Everything about her is so at ease in this environment, and I’ve never felt less like I belong.

  “Um…a Margarita, I guess?” I want to be elegant like her and order a martini, but I know I hate them.

  The waiter nods at me, and Elyse peruses the menu. “We’ll have the charcuterie board as a starter,” she tells the waiter, and he bustles off, leaving me there to twist my fingers together in my lap and try to think of something to say.

  “I’m so glad that Vincent and Mark arranged this little lunch,” she says, beaming at me as our drinks and appetizer arrives. “I haven’t had much to do this week with Mark gone and all of my other friends out of town. Besides, when I heard that Vincent was getting married, well, I just had to meet the girl who finally locked him down!”

  Is that what I’ve done? I wonder as I take a sip of my Margarita and smile at her. She picks up a piece of cheese delicately, nibbling at it as if she isn’t even really hungry, and meanwhile, I’m ready to devour the whole thing. It doesn’t feel like I’ve locked Vincent down. If anything, I feel like I’m the one who’s been caught.

  “So, where did your husband go?” I ask casually, reaching for a piece of cheese and prosciutto. “Business trip?’

  Elyse laughs, waving her hand. “Oh, no. He’s on the Amalfi Coast for the week with his mistress. I don’t know which one, some model or something. He’ll be tired of her before they even get on the flight back, I’m sure.”

  The piece of cheese falls out of my hand and onto my plate. I stare at her, wide-eyed, and the waiter comes back to take our lunch orders at the same moment that I croak out. “What?”

  Elyse laughs lightly. “I’ll have the salad with grilled shrimp and goat cheese,” she says sweetly to the waiter. “Dressing on the side. And another martini, please.”

  “Very good.” He glances at me.

  “Um…the burger and fries?” I hadn’t even really looked at the menu. The waiter looks slightly surprised—I guess most girls who come here eat salads, but he takes my menu anyway and walks off, leaving me to continue staring at Elyse in astonishment.

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she says, laughing again. “It’s normal, with these kinds of men. They all think they’re so important, too important to be locked down to just one woman. They need to be admired and adored, and having young, beautiful girls throw themselves all over them makes them feel that way.”

  “And you don’t care?” My brai
n feels sluggish. How can she not care that her husband is cheating on her? That he’s off on a romantic trip with some other woman, fucking her in some five-star hotel probably right this minute? “Don’t you…I mean…shouldn’t it be you on that vacation with him?”

  Elyse shrugs, taking a sip of her martini. “We went to Bali a few months ago. And I have a trip to Spain planned with some of my girlfriends in two weeks. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get up to some fun of my own with one of the locals.” She winks at me, clearly expecting me to join in. But I can’t seem to find anything to say.

  Finally, she sets her glass down with a sigh. “Mark mentioned you were new to this lifestyle. I didn’t realize how new. Look, Rain. All the men do this. And none of us care. Why would we? We have endless money, more than we could ever spend. We have credit cards with no limit, accounts at the finest jewelry stores, houses to decorate and remodel as much as we want. We can go anywhere we want, travel anywhere. Nothing is too extravagant or luxurious. Private planes, designer clothes, invitations to the most exclusive events. I went to the Oscars last year.” She laughs. “With all of that, who cares if our husbands dally a little somewhere else? Mark and I still have fun in bed. And if I don’t feel like it, well, he just goes off and satisfies himself somewhere else. There are no blowjobs to placate them at that time of the month, no pretending you want to have sex when you have a headache or just want to go to sleep. He gets to feel young and virile, and I get to spend his money. It’s a win-win.”

  “Vincent doesn’t do that,” I blurt out. “He doesn’t sleep with anyone else. I’d know.”

  But would I? The voice in my head pipes up, making me wonder for the first time. Well—maybe not the first time. I’ve worried a little when he’s been gone on too many late-night meetings, or when his business trips have run long—what girl wouldn’t? But I’ve never seriously wondered if he was cheating on me.

  “I’m sure he’s not, then,” Elyse says gently, but I can see the pity in her eyes. She thinks I’m naïve, I realize suddenly. She’s thinking that Vincent is cheating on me, that he has mistresses, and one day I’ll realize it.