Page 35 of Possession

Fuck me.

Rhetorically, that is.

I adjust my rock-hard cock that’s unhappy and trapped in my trousers. I lean my head back on the leather chair and try to think of anything but my fake wife, who I have no business thinking about in any way other than keeping both of us alive to see the other side of this operation.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman in my arms. Let alone a barely dressed one pressed against my dick.

It’s like he’s forgotten what we’re here to accomplish and has a literal fucking head of his own.

A head that’s hogging all my blood at the moment and wants nothing more than the woman in the next room.

I grip my raging hard on through my pants and try to calm down. I thought Damian was the road block I needed out of the way, but pretending I’m fucking the beauty queen that every man in the Marino cartel wants might be the thing that actually does me in.

Protecting her might be harder than taking down the Marinos. And in this world, protecting her is no joke. She has no clue that her life would have already been a living hell had I not convinced Alamandos to give her to me.

I might be closer to my end goal with Damian out of the way, but dealing with Landyn Alba makes me feel like I’m starting this marathon all over again.

9

SIX FEET UNDER AND CHIPPER AS FUCK

Landyn

I’d like to know who prepared for my arrival.

Not one thing in this house is my own. I haven’t seen my cell phone since the day the Marino family took me and my parents from our home. Not my clothes, my makeup, or my hair products. I wonder if I’ll see my car again, let alone be allowed to drive myself.

I might’ve been handed the keys to my Rover by my dear old, human-trafficking-asshole of a father, but I love that car.

I’ve not only been treated like a flight risk since my world turned to hell, but I’m a prisoner locked in luxury.

This may be romanticized on Netflix or in the most outlandish fictional tale, but in real life, it’s beyond disturbing.

I escaped from Boz’s office and locked myself in the bathroom. He hasn’t broken the door down, so I’m calling that a win for married life.

At least for today.

Small victories and all.

Even though nothing on my side of the bathroom or my closet are my own, it doesn’t mean I hate any of it. Even if I am continually creeped out as to how perfect everything fits.

Down to the bras and panties.

Yes, creepy-as-fuck, top-of-the-line lingerie. It’s a shitload of lace and none of it is itchy. After I dropped out of college, I went full time as a personal stylist at Nordstrom. I know quality when I see it.

I try not to think about it as I pull a sundress over my head and turn to look into the full-length mirror. It flows from below my breasts and hits my knees. But it’s cut so low, I might as well be wearing a bikini.

I have a feeling my dead fiancé might’ve made some demands when it came to my new wardrobe.

Whatever. It’s not anything I haven’t worn before, even though I probably wouldn’t pick it for breakfast on any random Tuesday.

I run my fingers through my damp hair and turn on a bare foot. I’m starving and need coffee if I’m going to make it through the next dramatic guest who visits Boz.

I open the door to the bedroom and find him sitting on the sofa that has become my bed. He’s leaned back with one expensive loafer hiked on the low table in front of him that’s littered with empty plates and others that are still covered. He’s holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a cellphone in the other.

His eyes rake over me right before he pulls in a big breath and taps the screen a few more times before tossing it beside him. “That was not fast.”

I shrug a shoulder. “I never claimed it would be. I haven’t even done my hair or makeup yet. If you want a low-maintenance wife, we should talk about an annulment—I’ll happily be on my way.”

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