Page 30 of So Close

Still, I am elated to hear we’ll spend time together tomorrow.

We’ve lived together for weeks now, circling each other within the penthouse and managing to never be in the same space at the same time – except when you visit me in the dead of night, slipping into my bedroom to watch me feign sleep. As if you could ever be near me without my body awakening with tingling awareness.

I’ve suffered, wracked with need, the tips of my breasts hard and aching, the cleft between my legs wet and throbbing. It’s an instinctive reaction I can’t control. My body is sharply aware when you’re near, and it readies itself to be mounted and ridden, ravished and pleasured. Your stealthy presence is the most devious torture I’ve ever been subjected to, and I crave it. Compelled to lie there motionless, I can only regulate my breathing while your gaze covets my body.

“Will you be taking supper in the sitting room this evening?” Witte asks, returning me to the moment.

My arms cross. The penthouse is perfectly temperate, but I’m suddenly chilled. “Is Kane having dinner in his office again?”

Witte nods. “Mr. Black sends his regrets, but he has a great deal of work to accomplish.”

“Of course he does.” I smile thinly. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. Once I’ve arranged your meal, I’ll enjoy mine.”

“How about we enjoy ours together? In the kitchen, unless you prefer somewhere else.”

If he has any adverse reaction to my suggestion, it’s not apparent. “That would be a pleasure. In ten minutes?”

“Perfect.” I watch as he pivots neatly and disappears, leaving me an unhindered view of my reflection in the mirrored hallway where he once stood. But it isn’t me I see. The hair is too long, a sleek curtain of ink that falls below the waist. The face is subtly different. The jaw more angular, the cheekbones more sculpted, the eyes not so deeply set. She smiles.

I blink, and she’s gone. There is only me.

Touching my hair, I regret its chin-grazing length. The bob is stylish, but it ages me. Of course, the actual passing of time has helped with that, too.

I head back into the closet for something to pull on over the tiered black maxi dress I’m wearing. My gaze roams over the drawers filled with undergarments, lingerie and pajamas. I don’t know if you saved Lily’s intimates somewhere else. Everything I’ve worn and have yet to wear is new, freshly laundered and monogrammed withLRB. The assortment is luxurious and decadent, less about modesty and more about provocation. You’ve amassed the collection over time, and the embroidered initials prove they were purchased for Lily. The monogram also serves as a brand, your possessive mark. I’m reminded that when you think of Lily, you think of the bedroom. Your bed. Bare skin.Sex.

I am also reminded ofmyselfat a time when I’ve stepped into the shoes of a ghost, a woman whose memory, style and tastes have spread malignantly through your life, completely subsuming the man you once were.

You don’t trust me, and you don’t trust yourselfwithme. Does your remoteness betray desire? Are you as ravenous for me as I am for you? Or is it that I can’t compete with your first wife, the woman who still obsesses you six years beyond her passing.

Whyare you avoiding me?

Pulling on a crushed velvet dinner jacket in deep sapphire, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen.

“It smells amazing,” I tell Witte as I settle onto the barstool he pulls out for me.

I’m suddenly hungry for something other than you.

“Only half the equation.” He arranges a black napkin on my lap. “Let’s see how it tastes.”

He pulls plated salads out of the industrial refrigerator. Through the glass double doors, I spy precisely organized shelves.

Witte drizzles dressing in a zigzag pattern with quick, practiced artistry. He’s already poured glasses of red wine and sparkling water, and I wonder how he accomplished such robust place settings at a moment’s notice.

As he sets the plate with its hand-painted lily on my black linen place mat, I touch his wrist, and he stills. “Thank you for looking after Kane.”

He holds my gaze for a moment as if weighing his reply. “It’s my job.”

“It’salsoyour job,” I amend, picking up my salad fork as he takes the barstool on the corner to my right. “It’s clearly more than that.”

I hum with delight at the juicy, tart flavor of the lemon vinaigrette.

Noting my pleasure, Witte snaps his napkin open and lifts his utensil. “You’re correct, astutely so. Just as you were the other day in the library.” He pauses. “Mrs. Armand prefers it when she’s correct.”

I laugh. “That is the politest way I’ve ever been told someone hates being wrong.”

He lifts a powerful shoulder in a careless shrug that’s so at odds with the formality of his bearing and appearance I can’t help but love it.

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