Page 42 of Bitter Arrangement

And my husband is behind the wheel.

I hesitate, staring at him. He looks right back at me and motions with his head for me to get in.

I figure running away would only make things worse, so I climb into the passenger seat.

“I didn’t know you were running a car service,” I say as sweetly as I can.

“You shouldn’t be out here. You know how dangerous it is.”

“I just have some things I still need at home.”

He glances at my empty hands, and I realize I left all my stuff back in my room. Oh, well, too late now. I’m not going back inside.

He puts the car in gear. “Next time, tell me where you’re going.”

“Are you tracking me now?”

“No, I’m making sure you’re safe, remember?”

“I didn’t realize you were going to be overprotective and controlling.” I sit back in the seat, frustrated and angry, though not really at him.

Mostly at myself. But I feel like taking it out on my husband.

“Let’s call it possessive.” He stares out the front window as he drives. “Your place is in my house now.”

“Let’s call it delusional instead.”

“Are we going to fight about every little thing?”

“Probably.”

“Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll want to fight when you’re dead, too.”

“You and I can bicker in heaven. Well, I’ll be there; I don’t know about you.”

He smirks and glances at me. “You think I’m such an evil man?”

“If the shoe fits. Or maybe I mean if the gun holster fits.” I eye the bulge under his jacket.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “The world needs men like me, princess.”

“That’s what every asshole says.” I lean in close and put a hand on his thigh. He stiffens, lips pressing into a tight line. “Except most of them are too stupid to realize when they stop being the hero and turn into the villain.”

He says nothing. I leave my hand right there on his thigh, dangerously close to his big hard dick, mostly just to tease him, but also because I like it.

He’s attractive as hell. I can’t pretend otherwise. But for all my talk about villains and evil men, I find myself absolutely fascinated by my husband.

Maybe he’s a bad guy. But maybe I like bad guys.

“Either move your hand further up or sit back and put your damn seat belt on,” he snarls, fingers gripping the wheel, and I realize maybe I’m being a tad impulsive yet again.

“Yes, sir,” I say, clicking myself in.

“Good girl.” He glances in my direction. “Looks like I called your bluff.”

“Don’t be a child. There was no bluff.”

“Then climb in my lap right now. I’ll park the car and we can work on getting you pregnant.”

---