Page 18 of The Heir
And it bothers me.
Chapter four
Noodles are Triggers
My phone pings the next morning while I'm busy preparing to go into my work room with a group chat between Fabian, Isobel, and I. My brows raise, wondering what that's about.
Mr. King, Ms. Brookes, good morning. Fabian here. Please come join me at my test kitchen this evening in order to taste test some of the dishes for my restaurant. It will help you get a better feel for my work.-Fabian
I smile, liking the eccentric Italian man. He talks a lot, is loud, but he knows his stuff and that's admirable.
I'll be there.-King
Thank you for the invite Fabian, I'd be honored.-Isobel
I walk into my work room, seeing the enormous circular table dominating the room that has a cut out in the middle for me to walk through. Dimming the lights and turning on the projector, I find my favorite playlist, the one that makes me think of her, and I begin to work as the music fills the room.
I don't worry about being interrupted, no one bothers me when I'm in here with the door closed.
Grabbing the stack of folders I start at one end of the table, laying down paper after paper, until the entire surface is filled. Usually I'll make it through one half of the table, break, then come back and do the other half.
I turn, grabbing my tools: a carpenter pencil that I sharpen with a knife, my architectural scale, tape measure, compass, eraser, and tablet. Picking up the remote, I softly hum along with the music as I click through the slides on my projector, shifting through the pictures until I get to the build that I want.
As I bend over my papers and begin to draw and measure, I think about Isobel.
The first month we met she had on this beautiful cream colored knit suit that highlighted her hair and set off her skin beautifully. I remember feeling a bit star struck, you don't see any people of color with hair like hers. It was so unusual, but the shade goes with her skin so beautifully that now I think it'd be weird if she dyed her hair a different color.
That day she'd walked in the door, and pinned me with a look before stumbling so slightly that I could barely see it, but it was there.
There was a tense first few seconds where I held out my hand and she took it softly, barely squeezing, and the current that raced through my skin was electric enough to make the hairs on my forearms standup. I will never forget that day, it's burned into my soul. Marked as the day I met the love of my life.
I knew it, even if she didn't.
Her eyes roamed everywhere as she spoke, telling me about Fabian's wishes for the designs, the things that she wanted that my two associates couldn't provide. I neglected to tell her that they didn't want to work with her because they were intimidated by a strong woman.
Because let me tell you, Isobel is tougher than nails and it's sexy, just what I need at my side as a spouse.
Obviously something has happened to make her that way, but in all the months that I've been watching her, I can't get a fucking hint about her childhood and it's infuriating.
The music plays and I spend a solid hour on one sheet, making sure my lines are clean, precise, perfect. I listen to the pencil as it slides over the paper. The whisper-soft feel of it as it slides across the side of my pinky finger as I stroke down the paper in one broad line, and I wonder what it would be like to slide a robe off her shoulders, baring her body to me.
Unfortunately for me, I've driven myself half crazy trying to imagine what she looks like naked, and here I am again thinking about it when all my concentration should be on the task at hand.
God, what do her breasts look like when they aren't supported by her bra?
I have sudden visions of pulling her bra off slowly, and seeing her breasts fall just slightly. I grunt softly, feeling myself harden. Swallowing hard, I move my tools over a foot to the next gridded paper and begin the design there, looking up and clicking over the corresponding slide on the wall.
Her fucking waist is unusual too, I bet I could span it with my hands. I torture myself with thoughts about what her arousal smellslike. Because I fucking love the smell of pussy. I want her fat ass sitting on my face until I can't breathe. Want her to ride me reverse cowgirl style so I can see her ass bouncing, recoiling into the flesh of her back with how hard I'm taking her. Will her waist have little rolls in it as she turns back to look at me?
Wouldshe turn to look back at me?
Will she say my name when she comes?
I pause, taking a deep breath. The first time she called me King was life changing.
She had on this matte rust red lipstick, her skin was slightly paler because it was still winter out and her cheeks were stained pink, almost like she'd just had an orgasm. She said"King"then sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth and bit down playfully. I let the nickname slide, though no one else calls me King. She's so cheeky, I love that about her. I want sass in the bedroom.
I want passion when I'm fucking her.
