Page 10 of Til Divorce Do Us Start

We’re not going back to ten years ago. We’ve lived plenty since that night. I won’t bring it up. He’s the one who walked away. He was thefirstreally bad decision I made. A truly terrible decision that looked good, felt good, even tasted good. Then morning burned away hope and left me with an empty bed and the wrinkled shreds of my pride.

“What? Now you have nothing to say? You’re actually going to-”

“Forget it,” I grumble, edging around him. “Wash the dishes.”

“I wash them on my schedule.”

“Now I get why you don’t have a girlfriend,” I say before retreating to my room.

Moving in together has proven plenty. One, we absolutely hate each other. That’s certainly not one-way. Two, Colin shouldn’t live with anyone. Ever. Because even though I’m determined to make his life hell, he’s doing a damn good job of ruining my free time too.

I shut the door and take a few breaths. I don’t know how to deal with this back and forth. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week let alone nearly three months. I stroke through my hair, then hear something against my door.

Despite how angry I am, I’m curious. I open the door, look at Colin’s admittedly sexy back walking away, then turn to look at my door. There’s a bathroom schedule. Morning and night has been claimed by Colin’s name.

In the huge middle section (times when I willalwaysbe at work) there are asterisks. I lean closer.

My house, my bathroom. Be sweet and you’ll get more time.

I might just murder this man.

After I order in dinner, making sure to eat it where Colin can see and smell it – he loves Chinese food – I plan to get a shower, a full shower. I walk over, almost bounce when I see the door open, then freeze.

Because there’s steam coming out of the shower and I can see Colin. The down side to glass paneled shower doors. Every inch of him is on display, his face taut, one forearm pressed to the wall as he tries and fails to bite back a groan. I blink at the sight, then, despite every cell in my body saying to walk away, my eyes dip.

I clearly didn’t remember his cock properly. It’s thick and hard and his big hand isn’t enough to fully cover it. Every sure stroke, steadily getting faster makes my belly clench.I hate it. I hate him.

“Fuck,” he growls in a low, thick voice that coasts across my body like I’m naked.

Turning, I walk back to my room, shut the door and lean back against it. I shudder. “Fuck, Colin. It’s not fair.”

I flop in my bed, but I’m so hot. I know it’s not from the shower steam either. I haven’t touched myself since I got the news Colin and I are technically married. Now seeing him like that, touching himself, groaning in that familiar dark way ignites fantasies I don’t want.

My hands slowly free the sash of my robe and spread over my breasts. I shudder and arch into the touch as my eyes close.

I think of him coming in, dripping wet and seeing me touching myself. He’d spread my legs wide open, say that my pussy is the only sweet thing about me, the only thing that he could ever want. I shudder and open my legs wider. I know it’s my fingers between my legs, but it should be Colin’s tongue.

He’d eat me out slowly, making me earn it, working me up with every flick and stroke, teasing my clit, completely ignoring what I want, what I need. I pant out his name, bite my bottom lip and lift my hips. His fingers work into my pussy, curling and teasing while he keeps working his tongue over my clit.

He’ll make me come from just that, but I want his dick. I want every inch. I want that growling, panting voice in my ear as he slams into me again and again and –

I turn my head as I come, trying to hide it in my pillow. Shuddering, I slowly draw my hand back from between my legs as I pant. My thighs tense again and I suck my bottom lip. Hate fucking isn’t something I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I could ... or maybe I should sleep on it instead.

Chapter 6 - Colin

“Yes, that’s a great idea. I’m so glad you brought that up,” Noelle’s chipper, bright voice rings from her room.

I massage my temples. She doesn’t even sound like she’s doing work. She sounds like she’s talking with a friend. Every laugh feels real. I can practically hear the smile in her voice as she continues the conversation.

Just sharing my space over the last four days has been ... trying my patience. I like things to be predictable, especially in my home. But I can’t escape her here. If it’s not her voice, it’s evidence that she lives here. If it’s not that, it’s her lingering perfume. It’s her in the shower, sighing just loudly enough that I can hear it.

Granted, I was practically begging for retribution when I taped the so-called “bathroom schedule” to her door. Now she’s waking up earlier just to beat me to the shower—out of pure spite. And when she struts out wrapped in a robe or, worse, just a towel, with that playful smile on her lips and venom gleaming in her eyes... it takeseverythingin me not to move. Not to reach.

She looks like trouble incarnate. And I hate that my body reacts faster than my brain.

Somehow, I get through work. I shut the laptop, push back from my desk, and just as I’m heading to the kitchen to start dinner, I hear a loud huff from behind me.

I turn—and there she is.

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