AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No, counselor. I wish to proceed with the trial.” Those dark eyebrows rise in shock.
“I’m not scared to go against the famous ADA Cain,” I offer. “I’ve faced him many times before.” I flash him a wicked smile right before he lifts his hips, helping me jerk down the waistband of his pants, revealing snug black boxer briefs underneath. “And I still don’t understand the hype that surrounds him.”
His cock strains against the soft fabric as I inch closer, my lips parted in pure need. It’s one thing to know a man wants you, but it’s another to know that you can take down a man with nothing but your body. I don’t need Van to tell me that he cares for me or even finds me attractive. Van has never been good with words. His passions have always been revealed through his hands. Unlike when we first met, a match isn’t clutched between his fingers.
Instead, his hands are clenched into fists as the black titanium wedding band gleams against his whitening fingers. I can tell it’s taking every ounce of restraint for him not to reach out and touch me.
“Whether you admit it or not, under that blazing hatred is a good man who hides his love behind his flames and protects it with the very thing that’s destroyed him: fire.”
Before I realize it, his fist is in my hair, and my head is yanked backward.
“Don’t talk like you know me,” he threatens viciously, hiding behind his truth.
I can feel the edge of my mouth curl into a smile. “I may not know you as intimately as a wife should, but that’s about to change.” He leans back against the leather chair, pulling me with him.
“Are you saying you intend to know me as a wife should?” A layer of caution coats his question, and tingles swirl in my belly.
“It depends,” I answer, relishing the feel of his punishing grip. “Will you have me as your wife or as your prisoner?” It’s a fucked-up question to ask your husband, but then again, Van and I have never been like everyone else. Our marriage is more than a sentence. We aren’t the people who ask for permission—we take it by any means necessary. Don’t think I’m oblivious to the fact that Van could have punished me in several ways. If he hated me as much as he claimed and knew where my sister was, he could have turned me in to the police.
I assure you, after what I did, their punishment would be much worse than marrying the man I wanted to run away with years ago.
Van’s fingers comb absently through my hair, his eyes far away on something I’ll likely never know.
“Alistair,” I whisper, making his eyes dart back to mine. “I asked you a question.” Leaning into his touch, I hold his gaze in challenge. “Will you claim my body as my husband and mark me as yours?” And then I do something completely stupid.
I chuckle and say, “At least for the next ten years?”
Let my mistake be a reminder to every woman that men—especially temperamental men—have a breaking point. Once you find it, proceed carefully, but never, ever plow through it without a pain reliever in your purse. You. Will. Be. Sore. Tomorrow.
Suddenly, I’m yanked forward, chest to chest, against a man who people fear. Yet, it’s not fear I’m feeling as his heart pounds against mine.
“Let me assure you, Wife, you will bear the scars of our marriage. No one will ever look at you and not know who you belong to. Even after twelve years.” He flashes me a wicked smirk. “Like any artist, I sign my work. Even if I have to burn my name into your flesh, everyone will know you are mine long after I’m gone. You will forever be my beautifully flawed sunflower.”
He slides his hand out of my hair and puts it at my waist. Before I realize it, we’re standing at the fireplace. It’s not on—not yet. But like anything with Van Gogh, the fire is coming.
“You know what to do,” he whispers in my ear, his hands tightening around my ass cheeks, and God help me, I do know what to do.
I reach into his pocket and find the matches he carries at all times and drag it against the box, watching the flame rise. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, just as he flips the switch to the gas.
For a moment, all we do is just stare.
Van Gogh is a man of few words. I don’t believe he’s going to suddenly admit his love for me. But I also know that he isn’t threatening me. He isn’t giving me more time as his prisoner; he is simply staring at me with more emotion coming from his eyes than I have ever seen. That, ladies and gentlemen, is all it takes for me to know that this man still loves me just as much as I love him. He may hate me, and he may not trust me. But somewhere deep down inside of him, he must know that I didn’t betray him.
Without any words. I toss the match into the fireplace, and the flames jump in celebration as the man who set fire to my town lowers us to the ground with me still straddling his hips.
“You don’t want to do this in the bed?” I ask him.
“Do I look like a bedroom type of guy to you?”
“No.” He looks like a fuck by the fireplace guy to me.
“But still, how comfortable can it be?” I ask.
He chuckles. “The better question is, how comfortable is it going to be for you?”
His sweatpants are still down, hanging low on his hips. But it’s his words that creep up inside my heart.
“Do you think I’m a good man?”
