Page 94 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
She turns slowly, her gaze meeting mine like a blade.
“You!” she yells, voice cutting through the air just before she snatches a stapler and hurls it at my head. “You selfish, entitledasshole! Why the hell would you do that?!”
I duck, the stapler bouncing harmlessly off the floor. I pick it up and examine it casually. “Good to know,” I say calmly. “You can’t aim for shit.”
“I swear to God, Declan. I will end you.”
“Ladies,” I say calmly, never looking away from my wife. “Unless you want to experience the unholy and indecent way I’m about to fuck my wife, I’d suggest you leave.”
The blonde with the curls blinks, then mutters, “Yeah, that sounds like our cue.”
Shoes click. The door creaks open. And then I’m alone with a woman who still wears my name and looks two seconds away from hurling something else heavy at my head.
Her eyes blaze, panic flaring under the fury. “Declan,” she breathes. “What the hell is wrong with you? This could’ve been over. Tomorrow. We could’ve walked away clean.”
I hear her. I just don’t care.
I slam the office door behind me. The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot.
I cross the room without slowing. One long stride, then another, until her bravado falters and she instinctively steps back.
Too late.
There’s no escape now.
And that’s exactly how I want it.
“Declan—”
I hear voices coming from around the corner so I slam my other hand down on the frosted glass button on her desk. The windows fog instantly, erasing the world outside. We’re alone. Sealed in.
She yanks her arm back, eyes flashing. “Are you insane? People saw you come in here.”
“Oh no,” I mock, voice low and dark. “Someone might see me kissing my wife. Imagine the scandal. Wonder what they’d say if they heard the dirty things the sweet Americana moaned with her legs locked around my face.”
Her eyes flare, but she shoves at my chest. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses.
“You broke your fucking promise,” I snap.
“Again with that? Declan, this isn’t—”
I cup her cheek with one hand, cutting her off before she can say something I’ll never forgive.
My tongue teases the seam of her mouth, and her hands come up, pressing against my chest. It’s reflex—pure instinct—and that’s what gets to me. Because it means she still wants me.
My wife still burns for me.
She breaks our kiss. Tries to brush past me. I block her. She spins away again, and this time I let her go—watching as she storms across the room into the small bathroom tucked into the corner of her office.
I follow. I don’t knock.
She’s standing by the sink, gripping its edge like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her back is to me. That doesn’t stop me.
I grab her hips and pull her back against me. She gasps, but doesn’t move.
“You broke your fucking promise,” I breathe against her neck.
“Declan, don’t start—”
