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But not for long.
The door opens, the light comes on. I blink drearily, glancing around to get my bearings. I’m not in Knox’s room, like I thought, butmine. My wrists secured tomyheadboard, the foot restraints disappearing past the bottom of the mattress. To attach to the bed frame, probably.
He comes around and pulls the headphones off. “Enjoy that?”
I wet my lips, ready to curse him out for real—until the sound of other people in another part of my condo reaches us. Male voices.
He was being serious about movers?
“They’re coming in for the bed next,” he says. “Hopefully they don’t mind the wet spot you’ve left behind.”
“You—” I lick my lips. “This is?—”
Improper. Insane. Unjustified.
Wholly exhilarating.
He undoes the ankle restraints. Then my wrists.
When he reaches into my panties to remove the toy, he drags his finger across my clit. He stays there, his gaze on my face, until I come again. I groan through my teeth, refusing to make more noise. Finally, the feeling—and his finger—leaves me.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “Do you want to know what the guys in the other room said?”
“No.” My face heats, and I sit up slowly. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“They said I was a lucky guy, having a screamer like you. I told them you were doing it to show off, and they got all flustered.” He leans forward. “But you know the truth of the matter?”
I shake my head.
“My wife might be the most fuckable woman in the room.” His gaze drops to my breasts, then to my lap. “Might have the best ass and lips and strange, alluring eyes… but you’re never going to know what my dick feels like sliding into your cunt. Because that is so beyond what you deserve, it’s almost laughable.”
Why?
The question is on the tip of my tongue.
But instead, I just grit my teeth and nod. Accepting that he hates me for something bone-deep, and it’s just another mystery I’m going to have to solve on my own.
“Anyway.” His tone changes. Lightens. “There’s an outfit for you in the closet. We’re leaving in ten minutes, whether you’re ready or not.”
I shiver. He pats the bed next to him, then hops up and leaves me in the room. Keeping the door open, the voices still out there now getting louder as Knox rejoins them.
Someone passes by the door, and I yank the sheet up with a quiet gasp.
Asshole.
Before someone else can pull the same stunt, I hop up and slam the door. Then cross to the closet, which hasoneoutfit in it.
The tight black dress I squeezed into when I declared myself his wife in front of everyone at the bar. Tall black heels with red soles—freaking expensive shoes, is what those are. I turn away from it and scour the rest of the room foranythingelse, but I barely recognize my bedroom. It’s been cleared out except the bed.
“I hate him,” I whisper. Letting the loathing crack my chest open and fill me with ice.
It’s what fuels me. What gets me into that dress and heels. I run my fingers through my hair and smudge out my eyeliner, but that’s the best I’ve got under the circumstances.
And yeah, maybe it does look a bit like I was just fucked.
All the better to convince whoever Knox wants to show me off to that we’re… something other than enemies.
When I write about us, I vow not to skip out on the ugly parts. I’m not going to shy away from the darkness in him, the things he hides away. The sick gleam of joy in his gaze when he’s twisting the knife in my gut. How far we’ve come from where we began.
