He looks down at me with raised, cautionary eyebrows. “Your point being?”
“Just saying.” I find the muscle power to curve my lips into a grin, my husband’s possessiveness providing the amused strength necessary.
“I’m ignoring you.” He’s fighting his own grin as we exit the lift and he lets us into the penthouse, kicking the door shut behind me.
“You won’t be able to carry me soon,” I grumble, holding on extra tight. I’ll miss it so much, but when I’m bursting at the seams and double the size, I can’t envision being carried with such ease, like I’m just an extension of his own body.
“Don’t worry, lady.” He kisses my forehead and turns to push his back into his office door. “I’ve already increased the weights I’m lifting in preparation.”
I gasp and reach up to pull his hair. “Hey!” I’m placed on my feet, but I still have hold of his hair.
“You’re a savage, lady.” He laughs, his head lowered to prevent the pull. “Are you going to let go?”
“Say sorry.”
“Sorry.” He’s still laughing. “I’m sorry. Let go.”
I release him and kick my shoes off. “Why are we in your office?”
“I wanted to show you something.”
“What?” I ask. He looks shifty all of a sudden, uncomfortable and all boyish. “What’s up with you?”
“Turn around,” he commands softly, resting his hands in his pockets.
I look at him questioningly, but he remains silent and his frown line remains fixed in place. He’s concerned, which makes me concerned, and very, very curious. I slowly pivot, wanting to close my eyes, but far too inquisitive to do it. And then the wall slowly comes into view, and I stop breathing. A choked gasp flies from my gaping mouth, and I know I’ve taken a step back because Jesse’s chest is pressed up against me. I can’t even take it all in. My eyes run from one side of the large wall, the length of his office, to the other end.
It’s completely coated in…me.
Every square inch is me. Not framed pictures or canvases or photographs. It’s wallpaper, although you would never know it. Each seam is so incredibly perfect, it looks like one giant piece of art—an homage to me, and the biggest piece, the center piece, is me spread on the cross in our room at The Manor. I’m naked, my eyes are dropped low, and my lips are parted. My hair is a mass of glossy waves, framing my lust-filled face, and the sensual vibes pumping from my body in the still shot is tangible. I can feel it as I’m standing here.
My gaze starts to drift, absorbing it all. There’s too much, and I’m gasping again as I spot a motion shot of my back as I rush down the steps of The Manor. It wouldn’t be particularly strange, but I can clearly see the head of a calla lily extending from the side of my fleeing body. And I register my dress. It’s my navy pencil dress. It’s the dress I wore to my very first consultation with Mr. Jesse Ward.
“That was the first one I took,” he murmurs. “It became a bit of an obsession after that.” His voice is quiet and unsure. I swing around, my mouth still gaping. I can’t possibly speak. He’s biting his lip, watching me closely. I swallow and turn back to the wall.
The Ava Wall.
I’m everywhere. I’m at the launch night of Lusso; I’m sitting on the bench at the dock side after our encounter; I’m in the shower, the kitchen, on the terrace. I’m in Harrods’s changing rooms, and I’m sitting on my stool in the bar at The Manor. I’m kitted out in my biker leathers, and I’m storming away from him in an oversized, cream knitted jumper. I smile, noting so many shots of my back from where I’m running away from him, probably after I’ve received the countdown or I’m having a strop. I’m naked in countless, or just in lace. And then there’s me in handcuffs on the bed, and another of me swimming in the pool at The Manor. I’m laughing with Kate; I’m brushing my hair from my face; I’m eating lunch in Baroque; I’m dancing with my friends, and I’m tapping my front tooth with my fingernail. I also see myself slouched in the passenger seat of the DBS, clearly drunk. I’m running toward the Thames and I’m collapsed on the grass in The Green Park. I’m pushing a trolley around the supermarket, I’m getting changed into my baggy shit, and I’m brushing my teeth. I’m asleep on the jet and standing on the veranda in Paradise. I’m poking about on the market stalls, kicking the sand on the beach, and cooking breakfast in the villa. We only returned from Spain yesterday. How did he do this? I’m asleep in his bed and asleep in his arms—there are so many of me asleep in his arms. Every facial expression imaginable and every habit I have is displayed in one of these pictures. It’s like my life in images since I met this man. And I wasn’t aware of any of it. He really is obsessed with me, and if I had known about this in the early days, like when he persistently pursued me, I think I would have ran faster and farther. Not now, though. Now I’m just reminded after a tiring day of this man’s love for me.