Page 152 of Bitter Poetry

I’m back in the closet in the foyer, rummaging in the toolbox. Thankfully, the screwdriver set comes with a dozen pieces, four of which are of adequate shape and size for this job.

I stomp back, unlock it, and push. Whatever she wedged behind it moves slowly.

“You’re such an asshole!”

I keep going until the door is open enough to fit through.

She’s standing in the middle of the room, looking adorably messy and rumpled from sleep, her dark hair all over the place, still wearing my T-shirt. Her eyes shift from mine to the screwdriver in my hand before her gaze finally settles on my dick.

Her eyes widen.

I’m hard. I was sporting a semi when I woke, and although I haven’t gotten my hands on her yet, this little spat has woken it up.

“What the hell, Dante? Why are you…” She gestures in my general direction, her cheeks flushed and her eyes playing ping-pong between mine and my dick.

I smirk. “It’s the morning, sweetheart. And,” I gesture toward my dick, my smile dropping, “he doesn’t like locked doors.”

I toss the screwdriver aside and start stalking toward her.

She backs up. The fire back in her eyes. “Don’t you dare put your hands on me, Dante.”

“I’ll do what the fuck I want.” Nice move. That’s going to de-escalate the situation…

“Not when you’ve been with her.”

“Her?”

This pulls me up.

Her chest is heaving.

My dick doesn’t get the memo that something is off here.

“Did you see her yesterday?”

Her words are laced with hurt and accusation.

It takes me a second before the answer kicks in. “So that’s what this is about? Why you left our bed.”

“No.” She sounds defensive. “Yes.” And confused. “You’re a married man, or did you forget?”

“I try very hard to forget,” I say, stalking her down again—she’s still backing up but running out of room. “And I don’t appreciate being reminded. The less I have to think of that woman, the better. And no, I haven’t been to see her. Not since my wedding night.”

Her nostrils flare, and her chest heaves. “Did you fuck her?”

I scowl at her in disbelief. “What? No!”

“I don’t believe you!”

“I have zero reasons to lie about it. I don’t fucking appreciate this accusation being tossed at me. Mention her again, and you won’t like the consequences.”

“Get out of my room!”

Enough is enough. She’s boxed in the corner. I snag her arm. She slaps my chest. I catch that wrist then I toss her over my shoulder before striding to my bedroom.

I drop her onto the bed. It takes me less than thirty seconds to strip her despite her strenuous attempts to keep her sleep clothes on. “This apartment is mine.” I come down over her, putting her wrists above her head and dropping my weight onto her to keep her contained. “This room, this bed. And everything in it. And that includes you.”

She growls at me. I pinch her face between my fingers and thumb. “That includesyou, Carmela. If I say you’re sleeping in my bed, you can bet you’ll be sleeping here.”