Page 275 of Hateful Games

Chapter Seventy

Nova

I did a very bad miscalculation.

It’s taunting me from across the room.

It’s completely irrational yet red-hot jealously rears its ugly head. I should be concentrating on the report that requires my urgent attention. Instead, my attention is riveted—fixed like a laser—on my beautifully distracting wife.

Since I was in between meetings, I had sent a car to bring her to the office for our lunch date. Rather than send her home, I made her stay because I’ve become a fiend for her smiles, her fiery mouth, and can’t spend a minute apart from her.

Thankfully, she’s finally finished her book. So, I know I’m not keeping her from work.

Apparently, I would watch her rather than run my company.

Because how much work I’ve done in the last hour? Zero.

She’s currently lying on her stomach on the couch I especially bought and added in my office for her along with the glass bookshelf displaying the signed books she’s authored.

Her bent legs kick in the air, the black pleated schoolgirl skirt riding up the backs of her smooth thighs while she leans on her elbows. Her eyes are glued to the Kindle she’s reading. Somewhere during the last hour, she’s kicked off her sneakers and untied her hair from the high ponytail it was in.

While I’m distracted, she’s serene and oblivious to my tortured state.

She does this a lot.

Zoning out completely. Often the reason is because she’d daydream a scenario or perk up with an idea she wants to explore and then hastily search for somewhere to note it down. Except, she never has her phone around. So, I’ve placed little notepads and sticky notes with pens all around the house. I always smile when she happily sighs and jots down without wondering how the stationary got there in the first place.

Rosalie is adorable without even realizing it.

Though she’d be pissed if I told her as much.

My predicament, which has me going insane and stupidly jealous, is the way she effortlessly loses herself reading those spicy books. I might as well as be a piece of furniture next to her for all the attention she bestows on me.

Yes, I know I sound illogical, but when have I ever been rational when it comes to my Rose? I’m possessive of every little thing about her that it borders on criminal.

I was worried about other men stealing her attention—I was dead wrong.

With Rose, I’m not just competing with every man in the world, but even the ones that don’t exist. The fictional ones she obsesses and often daydreams about. I want to be the only man she obsesses over.

To be the only man she constantly thinks about.

I want to bury myself into her psyche, her heart, and her goddamn soul.

The only reason I haven’t lost my sanity is because she writes me in her book, even if I’m painted as the villain and die a gruesome death. I don’t care as long as I’m deep enough in her mind that even when she creates another world, another realm, I’m part of it. She thinks of me. Even if the villains are inspired by me.

I’m so whipped for her, I’ll take any crumbs.

“Rose,” I call out, slamming my laptop shut. I’m not focusing on it anyway. My tone is barely restrained. My thin patience close to snapping.

Her head doesn’t lift from book she’s reading. “Hmm?”

“Come here.” I loosen my tie.

“Just a minute.”

“Now.”

Her legs stop swinging and slowly, she turns her head my way. The look I give has her swallowing nervously and clenching her thighs together. Pushing aside the Kindle, she sits upright and rises. Hips swaying enticingly, she struts all the way back to behind my desk while biting her fat bottom lip.

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