Gaping, I try to find the words. They don’t exist. I can’t believe his nerve! I’m so sick of him. I’m sofuckingsick of him stepping in to save me. I never asked him to.
“Go away,” I manage to spit out. Then I whip around and stomp away from him before I launch the pastry dome full of brownies at his head.
He doesn’t take the hint.
Instead, he follows me. “You don’t walk away from me,” Iosif says.
Bitterly, I laugh in his face. “Oh, get over yourself! I didn’t ask you to meddle. I can handle myself fine.”
His brows pucker in a frown. “You don’t have to ask.”
I’m not listening anymore.
“What, do you have some sort of signal for when I’m in distress? Do I look like a fucking damsel to you?” He looks me up and down. I see his mouth open and snap, “Don’t you dare answer that. That was a rhetorical question.”
When he takes a step toward me, I shove at his chest.
“Stop. It.” I don’t need his stupid comfort.
His concerned expression finally becomes a glare.Good.“What’s your fucking problem?”
“You!I thought it was fairly obvious,” I deepen my voice, facetiously mocking his words.
Lightning strikes in his stormy gaze.
“That bastard was hounding you. What did you want me to do, just stand by and watch?” he demands. My shove didn’t have any lasting impact. He steps forward again, undeterred and forceful.
“Did you ever consider that maybe I liked it?” I counter, lying through my teeth. “Maybe you’re not the only one with blue balls. Maybe I’m a hot, hot tease, and this is just how I lure men. What business is it of yours?”
I’m setting feminism back decades.
Yet I relish the way his face darkens. The way his jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together.
“Everything about you is my fucking business. You’re my wife.”
Again, I laugh—mirthless, mocking. “So divorce me,” I suggest.
My back hits the oven, its glass cold against my back.
How did I wind up in a corner?
“And why the fuck would I do that?” For the first time since the first night, he sounds dangerous.
“Because I can handle myself. I don’t need you,” I insist, palms splaying themselves against his broad chest. “I don’twant—”
The lie never makes it to its end. His mouth covers mine, incinerating every thought to ash. Iosif’s kiss is hard, almost punishing. His tongue pushes my lips apart, and I surrender all too willingly. My head falls back as he steps closer, claiming mewith an arm that devours my waist. Desire sears me—my mouth, my breasts, my…
His palm cups my cheek, fingers tangling in my hair. He swallows the moan I can’t help.
My knees threaten to buckle beneath me.
I grip his t-shirt in desperate fistfuls to hold myself up.
My need spurs him on. His fingers dig into my hipbone. Helplessly, I rise to my toes. I regret the mocha-brown sweater dress I chose today. The thick wool, belted at my midsection no less, keeps his fingertips from me. I’ve thought about those calluses dragging against my sensitive skin so many times. Now, finally, beneath his hands, I can’t deny it. I don’t want to.
He rewards it with a groan that rattles my bones. It’s the same low and deep sound from that night.
“So—fucking—beautiful,” Iosif murmurs.
