Chapter Twenty-Seven
My husband.
Amber
“Evil,” I whisper to myself as I type furiously. Pure evil. That’s Liam.
And I’m a dark romance girlie, through and through.
Blushing, I ignore the fact my back has been burning ever since this morning and my heart has leaped every time Liam’s left his office. He hasn’t assaulted me here yet, but whenever his door cracks, I get this horrible vivid picture of him pressing me down against my desk to reach my wing bones. Every catch of my zipper cries in my ears, then he kisses, zips me back up, and acts like nothing ever happened as he returns to work.
It’s the anticipation that’s killing me.
The wanting.
The infernal, deep understanding of what the wanting means.
Liking my husband is unprecedented behavior.
The intercom crackling awake shocks me out of my skin. “Bambi?”
Freeing a breath, I stop writing my illicit scene of stolen kisses and press the button. “Yes?”
“Have you posted your ARC call yet?”
No. No, I have not posted my call for advanced reader copies yet. Yes, I am approaching the seventy percent mark of my first draft. “I’ll feel better about posting it once I’m completely positive I’m going to finish the book.”
Silence. Footsteps. A cutie’s sad eyes peeking at me from a cracked office door. “How can you not be positive you’ll finish the book? I’m invested. I won’t survive if you leave me hanging now.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
The pitiful melts off his face, and he states, “Post the call. It will take a day or so for the advertiser to learn your audience once you boost the post according to the instructions I gave you.”
“Don’t you have emails to answer and a meeting to prepare for?”
“I have bingo to prepare for.”
“You don’t need to prepare for a game of luck.”
“I could use this time to buy a lucky bingo troll.”
Yes, or he could go over finance reports and assess queries from potential clients.
In response to my frown, he approaches, and my defective heart jumps. His hand plants atop my desk as he tips my chin and leans toward me.
“Bambi.”
My toes curl.
“Make the post. Or I will make it for you.”
Evil.
His dark eyes fill with mischievous ideas. “Make the post…and I’ll give you a reward.”
That catches my attention. I cross my ankles. “What kind of reward?”
“Make the post, and find out.”
A mystery reward. That could be anything. And will probably be something incredibly disappointing since my stupid brain wants it to be something foolishly romantic.
I eye my husband, whose skin might still smell like mine after last night. Then I turn back to my document. “I’ll make it tomorrow. If I want to.” I don’t want to. Maybe I’ll never want to. I’m at the point in my book where every word is hard to get. I’m positive no one will like this drivel, and I’m contemplating quite seriously falling back into my billionaire husband’s embrace, sniffling, and saying I’ll just write stories for him.
He won’t hurt me.
He poses no threat of failure or underwhelm.
I am secure financially. I don’t need this stress.
And, yet, I keep fighting through blood and tears for another line.
I’ve already come to the—harrowing—conclusion that I like my stupid husband.
I have lost the determination that I need to achieve independence after a year. I don’t know what’s motivating me now. I don’t have spite. I’m just tired. And…adrift.
Adrift in the fantasies I think don’t quite match the way I imagine them once I put them down into words.
“On second thought, you don’t have to do this,” Liam says.
Something pricks inside me. I find his dark eyes.
His finger curls beneath my chin. “Not all dolls need careers. Especially not ones that rely entirely on perception when they hate being seen. You’re not Barbie. You don’t need to be a doctor astronaut.” Wicked, he closes my laptop—without the protective sheet to separate the screen and keys—and moves in to kiss my forehead. “You can be mine alone. It’s okay.” His breath touches my ear. “I’ll let you.”
How I ever believed this man was innocent is a truly shocking thing.
“You can tell me the ending and be free of it all. The social posts. The newsletter campaign. The other people thinking they have any right to see you. I’ll wrap you in plastic and keep you in your pretty room, safe from all of it.” All my doubts come alive in his evil whisper. He pulls away. “Won’t that be nice?”
It sounds lovely. As if anyone doesn’t want to live pampered and free.
Which begs the question, why…am I still writing? Because, sometimes, I enjoy it? That doesn’t justify all the other work that goes into it. I can write without publishing. If I don’t need the money anymore, why am I doing this?
Taking a deep breath, I open my laptop, fill the PIN code with eights, and set myself up to post the call for reviewers. “Thank you.”
Smiling, Liam steps behind me and bends, kissing my back through the fabric of my dress. “Don’t mention it.”
I shiver. “Get back to work.”
Chuckling, he says, “Gladly,” and leaves me with the haunt of his touch as he disappears back into his office.