Page 2 of Staking His Claim
One of which was that no one would dare to question my actions, especially on the day I finally got rid of my bitch wife.
Gulping down the smooth, expensive bourbon, I shook my head in bewilderment. Regret had come and gone a long time ago.
If anyone had told me that at thirty-five, I would be an inconsequential married and divorced statistic, I would’ve laughed my head off. I wasn't one of those men who abhorred marriage and relationships because of some traumatic past.
My childhood was fantastic, with two sisters I loved dearly.
My parents were still happily married after forty years. And while I was more ambitious than most men and worked way more than I played, I’d still in some abstract way considered the marriage and kids thing at some point.
I hated failure, and a marriage that barely lasted months which then stretched into an acrimonious uncoupling was definitely not a win.
But nothing would’ve kept me locked in a situation where I could count on the fingers of one hand the many times I was happy with Violet.
I grimaced.
Maybe my first inkling should’ve been that we got hitched in Martha's Vineyard after attending an acquaintance’s“alternative“ wedding with way too much booze and hedonistic entertainment thrown into the mix.
An above-average fuck in the well-stocked cellar after night three’s bender had convinced me I was in love.
The rest as they say had been bad, bad history.
I knew within a month I'd made a mistake. But hell if I would’ve imagined it would take almost three years to extricate myself from my poor judgment.
I shuddered, shook off the somber feelings.
With any luck, I would be a free man by sunset.
Or earlier, please fuck.
I knocked back the rest of the drink and set the glass on the tray just as a soft knock came on the door and it opened.
I didn't need to glance over to know who’d entered.
My every nerve and instinct strained towards her every time she was within touching distance. And over the past six months I’d tortured myself with making sure that distance was close and frequent.
Not least because I didn't want any other fucker touching what was mine.
And Emily Hartley was mine.
At times I was convinced she knew it. Accepted it. Because that relieved sigh in the conference room just now had to mean something, right?
I flattened my hand on the liquor cabinet and leaned over, my gaze intent on the bottles until my vision blurred.
She was coming close.Closer. Within touching distance.Again.
I exhaled slowly, anticipating the time when I had to inhale again, breathe in her exquisite scent.
Peaches and cream and a dash of lilacs.
Ask me how I knew.
Ask me if another aspect of my obsession had led me into looking in her purse once when she wasn't around. Seen the tiny vial of perfume and memorized it, then ordered the largest bottle of it I could find.
In my very weak moments—of which there were more than I cared to admit even to myself—I’d sprayed some into my silk handkerchief and stroked my cock with it.
My blood heated up now in recollection of how hard I came the first time I did it. How hard I’ve come every time I succumbed to that temptation.
“Mr. Knight?”
