Page 50 of Possession

And he touches me.

Lord, does he touch me.

But never when we’re alone.

When we’re alone, he’s a straight up asshole and wants nothing to do with me. At least that’s what he says.

It feels a whole lot different.

I know when a guy wants to use me, and I know when he’s into me.

And my husband is into me.

When he touches me, kisses me, devours me … there’s a smoldering vigor waiting to ignite. I’ve never felt anything like it.

I know nothing about him other than he’s taken over the operations of a drug cartel and isn’t afraid of whipping out his weapon at any given moment.

Though, not the weapon I’d prefer. Especially in the dining room last night.

When he left me at our bedroom door hot, bothered, and needing an orgasm in the worst way—but given my current life circumstances, who wouldn’t need a shot of dopamine to calm their nerves—I decided I was done.

I will not allow him to play with my emotions any longer.

Fuck that.

I’ll do what I do best—Brian “Boz” Torres is getting the silent treatment.

“Landyn.” Boz bites out my name like he’s chewing on an over-cooked piece of cheap steak for the millionth time today. No morebabyorchica. He tried those before we left the prison he calls a house. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts growlingMrs. Brian Torresto remind me to whom I belong. “We’re almost to the church. All eyes will be on you. If you get out of this car and act like you’re anything less than heartbroken over the man who was supposed to be your husband and think that people won’t notice, you’re crazy.”

The number one rule when breaking a silent treatment is to dish it up with a dash of snide.

I continue to stare out the window. “Heartbroken while so into you, I’m gagging for it. I’m on it.”

“Fuck,” he hisses before mumbling to himself. “What did I do to fucking deserve this?”

The number two rule when it comes to silent treatments: it’s okay to speak as long as you’re throwing words back in their face.

My head whips around to him for the first time since he insisted on opening my car door when we left the prison. “If you don’t know what you did to deserve this, thenyou’recrazy.”

He turns into the full parking lot of the church and goes straight to the front row where a man is standing in the only open spot holding it for us. I recognize him from the standoff in the dining room when he gives Boz a low wave.

I feel my seatbelt unclick but refuse to look at him until I feel his touch on my chin. It’s a different kind of commanding than it is when he’s about to kiss me.

He says nothing, but his stare is irritated while almost pleading. “This is about last night. I get it. I don’t know what came over me, but it won’t happen again. Are you happy?”

Am I happy?

No.

Not even a little.

But I can’t deny the fact I was happy last night when his fingers worked their way between my legs.

I have no choice but to lie. “Thrilled.”

“Please.” He lowers his voice to utter a word that I’m surprised he comprehends the meaning, let alone has a place in his vocabulary. “I can’t walk in there without knowing you’ll cooperate. If you insist on going silent, can you at least pretend it’s because you’re mourning your dead fiancé?”

“Since my only memory of him is jamming a gun into my side while choking me right before his brains were splattered all over me, that’s going to be hard.”

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