Nathaniel pulled on the round, white buttons that closed the designer silk and lace dress against the feminine curves of her back. He watched with minor interest as the soft expanse of woman appeared from behind the material he wasn’t good enough to touch and Cynthia no longer needed.
After the knife was wiped clean of his frenzied wrath, Nathaniel slid it carefully back into the polished wooden case and replaced the case on the top shelf of her closet. He knew Cynthia would never bother to laugh at his lack of culture, his clothes or his eating habits again. She thought she owned the world, and even more so, him. All she really had was money.
Money to buy her the well-practiced British accent—that Nathaniel thought was so gratingly nasal—to buy her designer dresses that she spray painted on her body, pay for her drooling trainer to tone that same body and, of course, to buy him to keep her entertained.
Just yesterday she had complained that she was not getting her money’s worth out of their little set-up and at least she should have someone sophisticated enough to eat at L’Auberge du Pelican. It had been all he could do to refrain from reaching gently across the table and driving his butter knife into the soft indentation in her—very—exposed neck.