Page 67 of Twisted Temptation

An ugly twist of jealousy burns in my stomach, and for one crazy, irrational moment, I want to scratch this woman’s eyes out. Who the fuck does she think she is, walking into my home and talking about my husband that way?

I cross my arms.

Okay, honey. I get it. You fuck my husband.

"I know this place inside out," she continues as she moves around the room like a predator getting ready to pounce. "Every room. Every corner." She glances at me over her shoulder. "The bedroom has the best view; don’t you think?"

The knot in my stomach twists tighter. I hate that it's there because it feels a lot like jealousy, and I have no right to be jealous of a man who kidnapped me, forced me into marriage, and keeps me locked away like Rapunzel in his ivory tower.

But I am.

I take in her dark brown hair, red lips, and the heavy, smoky eyes that shine with smug glee.

"The sheets are Egyptian cotton," she says. "Fifteen hundred thread count. He's very particular about his sheets." She tilts her head. "I'm very particular about them too."

Enough.

"Get out," I snap.

Her polished smile falters for half a second. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Get out of my penthouse."

"Your penthouse?"

"Yes, mine. The wife. Now leave.”

Her eyes narrow, and I see something cold and sharp and mean in them.

"I was just introducing myself."

"You were just marking your territory." I walk to the elevator and stab the button, and the doors open immediately. "Fridays are canceled. Now get the fuck out."

She smirks as she sashays past me.

At the elevator doors, she stops. "He'll get bored, sweetheart. Men like him always do."

She steps into the elevator, and I jab the button to close the doors. "Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, sweetheart."

As the elevator starts to descend, I stand there with my heart hammering and fire raging through my veins.

I’m not a jealous person, and I don’t think of women as competition.

I’m very much a women straighten other women’s crowns type of girl.

But that … oh boy, that was something.

Obviously, Dante fucks her.

I feel sick.

Is he still fucking her?

I look at the couch and wonder if he’s fucked her on it. And the kitchen counter. And then I think about his head between her thighs as she sits on the edge of his bed, and my temperature is positively feverish.

I stalk over to the garment rack and look at the three elegant dresses supposed to help me make a good impression on Dante’s business colleagues.

I stare at them for a long time and feel the fire burn through me.