“I really don’t,” I hiss, grabbing his hands and trying to pry them off of me. “I don’t want to talk about her—not now, not ever. She’s… she’s evil.”

“Calm.”

“You calm! You were engaged to her, were going to marry her,” I taunt, tugging at his hands.

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh, my God,” I growl, leaning as far back as I can go. “Do you know how often she flashed that obnoxious ring in front of my face? How often she reiterated that you were hers to me? Like… like I wanted you!”

“You did want me,” he whispers, and my hands move to his shirt, where I grab on with both fists and lean close until my face is an inch from his.

“Do not do that. Do not even say that. Never in a billion fricking years would I ever approach a man who I knew was married, engaged, or had a girlfriend.” I pull him forward, hissing, “Never. Even if I was attracted to you, I would never ever go there. Not ever.” I let him go then move quickly off his lap. “I’m not a slut, a whore, or a home-wrecker.” I hold his stare. “And until you,” I point at his chest, “I had never even been with a man, so put that in your pipe and fucking smoke it!” I yell, dropping to the seat behind me, feeling my chest heave, completely missing the look of shock and satisfaction on his face.

“Baby.”

“No, do not ‘baby’ me, and do not come near me.” I hold out my hand when he starts to sit forward. “I swear I will take out your eyes if you touch me.” Pressing his lips together, I can tell he’s trying not to laugh and that he thinks I’m funny, but I’m dead serious. “I can’t believe I’m fricking married to you.”

“Believe it,” he barks, pushing up the sleeves of his navy blue Henley up to his elbows. “We’re married, baby, and you better get use to the idea, ’cause that shit is not changing. Ever.”

“You’re not letting me go, blah blah blah… You’ve said it before.” I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Glad you’re starting to understand.” He leans forward, and I brace myself. “And just so we’re clear and you understand completely, you sealed your fate. You’re mine. That brain of yours is mine. Your body is mine. And,” he growls, leaning closer, “that pussy only I’ve had is fucking mine. You’ve been mine for a long fucking time, baby. You just didn’t know it.”

“And you think I’m the crazy one,” I mutter, turning my head to look out the window.

Feeling his hand on my thigh, my eyes fly to him. “Our pasts do not have one goddamn thing to do with what is going on between us now, and one day, when you’re ready to listen, I’ll explain things.”

“Sure.” I shake my head, pushing his hand away and turning my eyes back to the window.

“Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”

“And you’re a dick,” I mumble to the glass, resting my forehead against it, lifting it only to turn and glare at him twenty minutes later when I see where we’re headed.

“I told you I’m not staying at your house,” I hiss as soon as I see the limo turn down the long driveway that leads to his place. I wouldn’t even call his house a house; it’s a mansion, one of the only ones in town. The size of it is ridiculous for just one, or even two people to live in. It has to be over eight thousand square feet with upper and lower balconies, giant pillars in the front, along with a fountain in the circular driveway. Who the hell has a fountain outside their house unless they are the fricking Kardashians or the Fresh Prince of Bellaire?

“We’re getting my car, and I need to get some clothes,” he says while pulling out his cell phone, typing something on the screen that makes the whole house light up, inside and out, as we park out front.

“The driver can just take me home.”

“No,” is all he says as he shoves his phone back into his pocket and opens the door. Ignoring his hand that he holds out for me, I get out on my own and head to the trunk where my bag is stowed.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver as he sets my bag on the ground, doing the same with Dillon’s.

“Would you like me to help you inside?”

“No, thank you. We’ve got—”

“That’s fine, Tim,” Dillon says, and my teeth snap together.

“It’s really not a problem.” He smiles at me, picking up both pieces of luggage and carrying them toward the house.

“We could have carried our own bags,” I say, turning to glare at Dillon.

“Are you itching for a fight?” he asks when the driver is out of earshot, grabbing my hand and preventing me from walking away.

“No.” I attempt to shake him free but his hold tightens as he tugs, forcing me a step closer to him.

“Then relax with the attitude.”

“Don’t tell me to relax.”

“Baby,” his voice softens and his face dips closer toward mine, “I can tell you’re ready to go to war with me, but I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve had a really good weekend and we’re home now. All I want to do is get some clothes, go to your place, get something to eat, fuck you, and go to sleep with you pressed against me.”

“We are not having sex,” I grumble, looking over his shoulder. That is one thing I’ve stood firm on. Yes, somehow I’m still married to him, but I refuse to continue having sex with him until I feel more secure in what’s going on between us.