Page 51 of Claimed By Desire

“It’s the morning. You need to get up either way.”

“Not everyone’s on your schedule. Are you always like this?”

“Yes,” he says and lets go of my leg. He climbs to his feet and stares down at me. “Pick up after yourself. Don’t make this a thing.”

I flip him off as he walks away.

The thing is, he’s not wrong. The water glass situation got a little out of hand. And there was also the bathroom conundrum, when I left big globs of hair stuff in the sink and accidentally clogged it up. He fixed it, but also tried to ban me from using product, which isn’t going to happen. Then there’s the laundry situation: when the dryer is done, he takes out his clothes and he folds them right way. While I like to throw mine in a basket and leave it there for a while, until it eventually gets bad enough that I’m forced to put it all away again. Obviously, he’s not a fan.

We clash, to put it nicely.

He’s a stuck-up neat freak, and I’m much more loose and free with my living situation.

Things come to a head a couple days after the initial water glass skirmish. I’m minding my own business and putting his fancy espresso maker to good use when he comes storming down the steps. “Printsessa,” he says, practically fuming with frustration. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, husband?” I bat my eyelashes at him very sweetly.

His jaw works. “I looked in the guest room. And do you know what I found?”

“Blankets. Pillows. No, wait, hold on. A Tiffany lamp? A thousand dollars in unmarked bills? A clown. Two clowns!”

He is not amused.

“I found a pile of your clothes on the floor.”

I frown at him and sip my coffee. I swear, there are very few good things about living here with him, but that stupid espresso machinealmostmakes it worth it.

If I could inject that stuff directly into my brain, I absolutely would.

“And?” I ask, not really understanding.

“Clean clothes. Thrown in piles. On thefloor. Not put away in drawers, not hung in the very large walk in closet, not even neatly laid out on the bed which would annoy me but I could live with it, but justthrownthere. What is wrong with you,printsessa? Why do we keep doing this?”

I finally hit my breaking point.

He’s been badgering me about all this crap since I moved in with him. He’s been up my ass about everything, from the water cups (admittedly those are annoying) to the Q-Tips I leave out around the sink to my dishwashing skills.

I understand that we have different ideas of what’s clean, but the man is a monster.

“Are you seriously giving me shit for this right now? If you don’t like it, close the door.

“That’s not the point. This isourspace now, and you treat it like it’s your own.”

“Actually, you treat me like you expect me to do everything your way. But like you said, husband dearest, it’sourspace.”

“I can’t tolerate a mess. You know that.”

“And I can’t tolerate an overbearing dick head glorified room mate who forces me to sleep on the couch and is up my ass about every little thing. You realize my life got turned upside down for this? My friends won’t talk to me? Lev won’t return my calls or texts? Everyonehatesme, Alex, and you’re seriously going to give me crap for my mess?”

I’m breathing hard and livid. I throw back the rest of my espresso, which is probably not going to help calm me down, and shove past him.

“Where are you going?” he barks as I grab my spare key from the neatly organized ring he keeps beside the door.

“I’m going out.”

“You know it’s not safe for you right now,” he says, softening a little. “The Italians have been making noise.”

“Let them fucking yell for all I care. I need to get away from you for a while.”

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