Page 19 of Tell Me I'm Yours
I freeze, except that doesn’t seem to stop the world from spinning. I close my eyes, trying to blink away the ring, only to open them, and it’s still there. I lower my hand, back up a few paces only to slide down the wet, tilled wall of the showeruntil my ass meets the floor while hot water beats down on my throbbing head and aching shoulders.
I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to fill the blank spaces in my head, begging for a memory, any memory to appear. And then, like a camera lens snapping into focus, the first blip returns. A heavy magnetic presence drew me in from across a crowded dimly lit bar. I remember the silhouette of e a man—broad-shouldered, towering, and radiating effortless authority that had the rest of the world fading into a blur.
Then his voice came back to me, deep gravelly and vibrated straight to my core, whispering words that makes my skin flush, even now sitting under the hot water.
"Let them look. You don't belong to them, Alexandria. You belong to me." A face materializes in my mind’s eye, though is features remain frustratingly vague. I can’t quite pin the exact color of his eyes or why he was there, but I do remember a dark shadow of stubble, a jawline that looked as though it had been carved from granite, and a devilish, roguish smirk that told me he’s a man who gets exactly he wanted, when he wanted it.
The man is a mystery wrapped in an expensive suit and an air of absolute power, the type I swore to myself I’d stay away from after working with his type for too many years to count.
Another memory flashes, hot and sudden, we were in a confined space—an elevator, or maybe a stairwell. He had me pinned against the wall, his warm hands anchoring my hips against his hard frame. The raw, possessive intensity of his thumb tracing the sensitive underside of my jaw before he leaned down to devour my mouth. I gasp, my hand flying to my wet lips as if I can still feel the bruising pressure of his kiss. I remember the taste of him: smokey, dark, and intoxicating.
“Tell me to stop, Alexandria,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against the shell of my ear, his breath warm against myskin. “If you don’t, I’m taking you back to your room, and I’ll have you begging for more.”
I didn’t tell him to stop, I pulled him closer, my fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, begging for more. Memories flood my brain, chaotic and messy. The sound of his deep laugh, one that felt private, meant only for me. The feel of his hands tracing the curve of my waist, pulling me flush, showing me how perfectly I fit against him. The way his gaze darkened with a heavy, unspoken promise.
And his mouth. Jesus, his dirty, wicked mouth. He whispered things to me in the dark, filthy, breathless promises of what he was going to do to me, how I belonged to him, and he stripped away every last one of my defenses. But how, how did I end up here? And with this mammoth of a ring on my finger.
“Oh fuck, I’m married.” I press my forehead to my knees when realization hits. Slowly, I stand up, turn off the water, and step out. I wrap a fresh towel around myself, walk back into the bedroom, my eyes scanning the space with a clearer focus.
That’s when I see it, resting on the table near the door next to a bottle of water is a small, cream-colored piece of paper. I double my pace, reaching out to grab the heavy cardstock with trembling fingers, I pick it up. Written in a strong, elegant, and familiar cursive script are words that has me falling on my ass.
Good morning, Wife,
You’re wearing my diamond, Alexandria. You belong to me now. Don't even think about running. I always keep what’s mine, and that’s you. I’ll be back to finish what we started.
—Dante
Oh my god, oh my fucking god, I married my boss’s best friend at a conference in Vegas and I don’t remember it.
