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She paused for a long moment and then she said, “Jerry.”
My screen flashed, alerting me to the fact that she’d hung up on me.
I set my phone aside and placed my palms on the counter of the bathroom. My face was red and blotchy.
I’d never liked my mother, but in that moment, I truly loathed her.
My vision blurred with rage.
I stalked barefoot into the kitchen. I looked around at the stainless-steel appliances and the custom designed counter tops and cabinets. I suddenly hated the clean lines and spartan appeal.
This wasn’t a design aesthetic that appealed to me—it was just familiar. This was my mother’s style, through and through. I’d accepted it for so long I’d thought it was mine. I wasn’t original. I knew nothing about what I truly wanted or even liked.
I opened the cabinet that had a complete set of glazed white dishware. I picked up a plate. It was heavy in my hand, and I held it for just a moment before throwing it to the ground.
It shattered.
I picked up a salad plate and chucked it against the far wall. It put a massive dent in the drywall and then fell to the floor with a resounding crash.
Each broken dish fed my fury, until all the cabinet doors were open and empty, the remains of china littered across the wooden floors.
My heart thumped in my ears, savagely clawing at my insides with sharp talons, demanding to be let out. Demanding to destroy everything. Only in the aftermath of the destruction would it be calm.
I didn’t feel better. There weren’t enough plates in the homeware department of Harrods to make me feel better. My wrath was years deep, and it had blown like a volcano that had been dormant for generations.
A knock resounded on the condo door. I froze. My mind was static.
“Linden?” Boxer called through the door. He knocked again.
I surveyed the room and realized that I was so consumed with my meltdown, I’d forgotten he was on his way. I stepped over a pile of glass, mindful that I was still barefoot.
When I opened the door, I was greeted with Boxer’s warm smile. Without a word of hello, I grasped him by the lapel of his leather cut and pulled him inside.
“What the hell happened in here?” he demanded as he quickly surveyed the room and all the broken glass that I hadn’t had time to clean up.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, my hands climbing up his chest, demanding, silently begging for him to ignore the room.
Boxer looked down at me, his expression blank. “What do you need, Linden?”
“Oblivion.”
He pushed the door closed with one hand, staring at me with steely eyes. Then he was on me. His lips against mine, his tongue in my mouth, his hands underneath my skirt.
“Turn around,” he growled.
I did as he commanded, not questioning his edict. He pressed me to the door and my palms flattened against the wood so I could keep my balance.
His hand snaked underneath my skirt as he delved for the place between my legs. His breath hitched when he realized I wasn’t wearing underwear.
I sucked in air when he slipped his finger into me from behind. I took it easily, welcomed it. I was more than ready. I was primed for sex. Anger was a powerful aphrodisiac that clouded my brain but ignited my body. I clamped around him in sweet agony.
Boxer removed his finger, and I moaned at the loss of him. His chuckle was dark, husky. It made my blood turn to liquid heat.
He fumbled with his belt, and then metal clanked against the wooden floor. I looked over my shoulder. His jeans were down by his ankles, and he was rolling a condom down his impressive length. His gaze met mine as he slowly lifted the skirt of my dress to bare my backside to him. He took himself in one hand and positioned himself at my entrance.
He slipped into me, filling me completely.
My breath hitched, and then I hissed in pain. One of my hands curled into a fist, and I beat the door with it. “More,” I demanded. “Give me more.”
