Page 8 of The Imp Act
CHAPTER EIGHT
ENZO
I have lived with Noelle for months now, and I’ve seen plenty of versions of her, including Nervous Noelle, Sultry Noelle, Aroused Noelle, Stressed Noelle, Compassionate Noelle, and so many others. But until today, I hadn’t seen this version: Giddy Noelle.
She’s excited, running on nerves and caffeine, and singing her way through her final to-do list. Her voice is surprisingly strong and on-key; it seems fashion isn’t her only talent. It is her passion though, that much is clear.
Her first show is tonight, and she’s been breaking her back to get everything ready. I’ve seen sketches here and there, as well as fabric swatches, but I have no idea exactly what she’s come up with. After we got married, she converted one of the spare bedrooms in the penthouse into an office, and that’s where everything has lived. She didn’t exactly forbid me to go in there, but she didn’t invite me in either. She keeps the door closed nearly all the time, as if she needs to keep that part of her life contained. She claims it has something to do with her artistic temperament.
All I know is that this collection seems to be dominated by the color purple, in all its various shades. I’ve seen fabric in royal purple, lilac, lavender, periwinkle, and more come through our home.
So naturally, when thinking of a congratulations gift to give her, something glittery and impressive, I thought of amethyst, tanzanite, and purple tourmaline. The bracelet I picked for her features all of them, along with little diamonds for extra sparkle. It’s somehow both delicate and glamorous, and it reminds me of her. While I was at the jewelry store, I also snagged a dangly pair of tourmaline earrings that match her eyes, but I’ll save those for another day.
Along with the bracelet, I have an enormous bouquet of pale purple roses, as well as a reservation at my favorite restaurant. It’s a family-owned hole-in-the-wall, and serves the best Italian food I’ve ever had. I know Noelle will love it.
Tonight, I’m going to celebrate my wife in all the ways I know how. I couldn’t be prouder of what she’s accomplished in just a matter of months. I’ve told her that, of course, but I want to make sure she knows it. Showering her with gifts and food is just the start.
She leaves in an hour, and I promised to meet her there. Obviously, I’ll be in the front row, cheering her on, and afterward, I’ll make her feel like the queen she is.
It’s time to show her how I really feel.
ENZO
Rather than going the slick and modern route, Noelle has chosen to hold her first show at the Odeonne, a gilded cupcake of an old building. It’s an ornate classical theater, complete with murals of goddesses painted on the ceiling. It doesn’t have a typical runway, though she worked with a crew to cover the orchestra pit and create a little flared area at the front of the stage where the models can twirl and pose.
It's a small collection, only nine pieces each for women and men. Her focus for this one was eveningwear, extravagant and glamorous. As the models step forward, one by one, Noelle’s talent shines. The variety is stunning; a diaphanous gown follows a sequined one, only for a seductive lace dress to appear next. And yet, there is a sense of cohesion to the grouping. It’s clear to me that Noelle’s gifted hands created each of these elaborate pieces.
When each item has had its moment in the spotlight, and all the models have gathered on stage, Noelle takes her place in the forefront, beaming at the crowd. Those assembled—myself included—rise to their feet, clapping and cheering. It’s probably considered indecorous to give a standing ovation at a fashion show, but I don’t care. She deserved every accolade. And from the glowing smile on her face, I’d say she’s pleased.
She should be. This show was a smashing success. And it’s only the beginning.
NOELLE
Tonight was absolutely surreal. People cheered for my collection, preorders began rolling in on my newly-launched website (how I’ll fulfill them is another matter—I need to hire a team immediately), and then my handsome husband swooped me up backstage.
He greeted me with a passionate kiss, an incredible bracelet, and the biggest bouquet of roses I’ve ever seen. And then he snuck me off to a tiny restaurant, where I stuffed myself with the city’s best garlic bread, pasta, and cannoli.
Now we’re back home and he’s looking at me with something in his eyes, an emotion I can’t quite name. Wonderment, maybe. Without a word, he pulls me into his arms, peppering me with soft, seductive kisses. On my neck, along my jaw, at my temple. At long last, he takes my lips, and I melt into him, sighing with pleasure.
Normally, we crash together with passion and intensity, like a hurricane. This feels more like a gentle rainstorm, tender and slow and unbearably sweet. He walks me to the bedroom and undresses me, piece by piece, murmuring the whole time how incredible I am. Then he strips out of his own clothes and settles on the bed, sitting up and lightly resting his back against the headboard without crushing his wings.
“C’mere,” he says, crooking a finger, and I crawl to him without hesitation.
I straddle him and he slides inside me with ease, filling me until my breath catches.
He feels like home.
Without breaking eye contact, he begins to move, slowly thrusting into me and making me see stars.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Talented. Creative. Perfect. Mine,” he growls, thrusting higher into me and making me mewl.
I can’t catch my breath. Everything about this feels different, physically and emotionally. This doesn’t feel like sex or fucking. It feels like making love.
“I am yours. And you’re mine,” I say.
“All mine. Only mine. Forever.”
I’m not sure if he’s even aware of what he’s saying, the way that he’s claiming me. But it’s making my heart do funny things, weird flips in my chest.
He notices the tears shining in my eyes, which I didn’t realize were there, and swipes at them with his thumb as they roll down my cheek. “Don’t cry,” says, his voice husky.
“I didn’t know I was,” I whisper. “Everything is so…I don’t know, potent.”
He gently pushes my hair out of my face and slowly twists his cock inside me. I buck and gasp. Even in the tenderest moments, he can rock me with pleasure. He begins to pick up his pace, and I reach out and grip his horns, just like I imagined doing the first time I saw him.
He groans and shivers, and I clue in to something new: his horns are sensitive.
I smile at him, still staring into his golden eyes, and stroke them lightly with my fingertips. He returns my grin, pushing deeper and faster until we both break, coming undone in each other’s arms.
When the aftershocks fade, we’re still sitting there, embracing so tightly we might as well be one person instead of two.
It’s so apparent now, I don’t know how I didn’t understand it sooner: I’m hopelessly, endlessly, recklessly in love with him.
Oh, no.