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An arrogant grin pulls at Van’s lips as he drops the match onto my pillowcase—a silent reminder that I’m just as capable of controlling the flame as him.
Something I never thought Van would ever share.
And for some reason, my stomach flutters at the sentiment that it’s me.
But he can’t know that.
“Your tongue only intrigues me for one reason, and your little party trick isn’t it,” I bark, pushing up and away from his sculpted body. That is, until he pulls me back down.
“Don’t pretend, Flower.” Amusement dances in his eyes as the sheet falls, leaving me bare and exposed to the enemy. “You enjoyed the pain just as much as I did.”
The urge to slap him weighs heavily inside me.
I made a mistake thinking things would be different now.
No number of angry confessions or sex-filled nights will change the fact that Van Gogh and I are not real lovers.
Part of me, the delusional part, just thought it may have been enough.
But I was wrong.
Van Gogh still thinks of me as a traitor, and if my words can’t convince him that I’m innocent, my stained soul certainly won’t.
“And if I did?” The question lingers between us. “Would that excite you?”
“Not in the least,” he muses, smoothing his fingers down my thighs like he’s mesmerized by the sight. But I know the only thing that mesmerizes my husband is the glow of his enemies burning.
“Good, because I despised every minute of it.” My fingers fall to his chest—tracing the tattooed sunflower that lingers there.
“The way your tongue molded to mine spoke otherwise.”
He’s insufferable.
“I came here for a reason, and I’m not leaving this bed until I get it.” Puffing my chest, my boobs bounce slightly, enough to catch his attention. His eyes never stray from my chest as I’m reminded of the internal question of what happens to the sunflower that favors the darkness of the West.
Will he torch it and turn it into nothing but a beautiful memory?
Or will he mourn it as he paints the others in ash?
At this point, I’m not so sure.
“You’ll leave my bed when I command it.”
There he is, my husband, the asshole.
“Well, command it after you indulge me,” I say, lifting his chin so our eyes meet. “Please. Trust me and open your mouth—taste something for me.”
His eyebrow arches, creasing the smooth lines of his forehead. “Trust? Don’t be foolish.”
Before I realize what’s happening, his arms snake around my thighs, and he thrusts me forward, my center hovering over his full lips. “But taste, I can do.”
I press my hand against his chest. “You can taste me after you taste what I made for you.”
It’s like I flipped his bitch switch. He sits up, shoving me off his face, and grabs one of the cookies, taking a huge bite. “Done. Now sit on my fucking face.”
Reese
He’s choking.
