Page 101 of Unholy Obsession

No man in my life has ever wanted me this way. Tears roll down my eyes as emotions I’ve never felt before well in my chest. I cling even tighter to him, squeezing him to me, our bodies cemented together except for our hips that separate and slap back together with each desperate thrust.

He buries his face in my neck and howls when he comes, triggering the deepest G-spot orgasm. But for once, sex isn’t about the pleasure that shakes my body as we shudder together. Tears pour out my eyes as I cling to him, feeling?—

I—I—He’s?—

I give up on trying to figure out what I’m feeling, clutch the back of his head to me, dig my fingers into his hair, and abandon myself to him fully.

No more secrets between us.

We’re bared fully to one another.

Man and wife.

THIRTY-EIGHT

BANE

Swearyou won’t go and confront your father about the money.

I repeat the promise to myself as I walk, hands flexing at my sides, jaw tight. The streetlights flicker as I pass, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement.

But it’s not my father’s door I’m knocking on tonight.

It’s only the promise I made to my wife on the way home from Vegas that keeps me from tracking that motherfucker down. My father still thinks he has any say over my life? That he’s got even a shred of control over me? The fucking bastard. But I won’t go after him because she asked me not to. And feeding his narcissistic supply with another fight would be letting him win. I opted out of his games a long time ago.

They say the best revenge is living well, right? Somehow, I’m doing just that. I’m living a life I never even let myself hope for. It’s intoxicating, like breathing in deep after drowning for years.

Moira is in my house. In my bed. In my shower. Bent over my kitchen counter. Wrapped around me at the club. Wherever I go,she’s there. Electric and unpredictable and completely fucking mine.

And while I can let it go with my father, sometimes, revenge is also about sending a message that won’t soon be forgotten.

I never go through Moira’s phone. That’s not who I am. That’s not what I do.

But the second she told me she didn’t even remember the name of the fucker who put his hands on her, I knew I had to fix my mistake.

So I looked over her shoulder when she was entering her password, and once she was in the shower, I scrolled. Through every damn dating app, every message thread, my blood getting hotter with each pathetic, simpering attempt from random pricks trying to get her attention. Until I found him.

Jeff.

Cocky in his messages. Too many winking emojis, the kind of guy who thinks he’s charming but is really just a walking, talking red flag. And most importantly, I found an address. It was the only message from anyone that day—the day she showed up with a black eye.

I reach his building. It’s a grimy, forgotten complex, and my blood hums in my veins. My life is better than I ever imagined it could be, but that doesn’t mean I let things slide.

Not this. Not him.

The apartment complex is cheap and rundown, and the elevator is out of order. Not that I’d necessarily want to trust my life to it anyway. I jog up three flights of stairs, then rap my knuckles against the peeling wood door, firm and insistently. After too long a pause, it creaks open.

A guy stands there, looking exactly like the kind of greasy asshole I imagined—barefoot in basketball shorts, a smirk half-formed on his unshaven face.

“Jeff?” I double-checked.

“What?” he drawls, looking me up and down, not knowing he’s about to have the worst night of his life.

My fists flex at my sides. I’ve spent months sinking into this new life, this new purpose, Moira’s warmth wrapping around me like something I never knew I needed. But beneath all that light, there’s a sharp, jagged edge. A reminder of what I let slip past and of what I need to correct.

I take a slow breath, steadying the rage boiling in my gut. She’s mine. She chose me. And I choose her, over and over again.

“Do you remember Moira?” I ask, low and even.

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