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“I’m high maintenance.” “Just the way I like it.” “I have extremely expensive tastes.” “Good thing I come from old money and I’m rich enough to outshine a few countries’ GDP.” “I’ll drive you crazy.” “Nothing new there.” “I don’t like you.” “That’s because you love me.”
“In your damn dreams. I’m way out of your league.” “I can rope you back in if I choose to.”
“Forgot something, Mr. Elliot?” “Not really.” “Think again, because I can see your soul leaving your miserable body the next time you put your hands on my wife.”
The show from earlier is the last time you let another man touch what’s fucking mine. Are we clear?”
“You seem to need a reality check on who the fuck you belong to, Mrs. King. This”—he pinches my arse cheek until I whimper, then slaps it, hard—“is mine.”
“These tits are also mine. But above all.” He slides his grip from my arse, cups my pussy through my panties, and strokes his finger on my swollen clit. “This cunt is fucking mine. The next time you offer it to someone else, I want you to remember that.”
“You will look at your face when you come on my fucking fingers. The ring you wear isn’t a decorative item, Mrs. King. You’re my wife. My property. Fucking mine. It’s time you properly start acting the part.”
This is unfair. Why are men better in fiction? Petition to transform the entire male population into men written by women. Please and thank you.
“Don’t be a flirt. I don’t appreciate others looking at what’s fucking mine.”
“Hypothetically, I’ll claim you on his corpse so you recall who the fuck you belong to.”
“We’re getting married in maybe six months.” “No, we’re not.” He gently pushes her away. “He’ll come around.”
He finally notices my outfit and his brows shoot up to his hairline. “Does that include my funeral? Because if Eli sees you dressed like this beside me, he’ll have my head.” “Don’t be a wuss. Why are you scared of him?” “I’m not scared of him. I just value my life.”
“Rems! Help me.” I level him with a glare. He rubs his ear. “I’m afraid I have temporary loss of hearing. Oh my, better check with my GP. Shit’s serious.” “Remi!” Ava shouts, but I can hear the suppressed laughter in her voice. “Are you blind, too?” “No, I ain’t seen nothing. I ain’t seen nothing. Matter of fact, I’m blind in my left eye and forty-three percent blind in my right eye. I don’t see much of nothing. Matter of fact, I can’t even see you, sir.” “Are you quoting a meme? You damn traitor!” She tries to hold on to the door frame, but I easily pull her free. “Byee!”
My husband is a full-blown sociopath, and I’m his insane, completely illogical obsession.
