บททั้งหมดของ My Neighbour's Wife: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

She extricates herself from my touch, turning around to grab her things angrily. "Yes, I'm on the fucking pill. The last thing I want, though it does seem everyone else is open to the idea, is a messy scandal with you or anything that'd bring me back to you after I leave." Agitation tightens my shoulders. She doesn't want to stay. She speaks of forgetting me. She doesn't want more from this. Me. It's just sex. I knew the lines would blur when it came to her. It is why it pissed me the fuck of that the hunger I felt only burned hotter for her. "You're unexpectedly good at this, Mrs. Hawke. The affair. The detachment. Staying your line. Clearly, this isn't new for you. How many other 'scandals' have there been? Two? Three? More?" The words are out before I can think of stop them. Venomous, spiteful and angry. And I hate them immediately, regret them. When Susanna turns to look at me, the light in her eyes are gone, replaced by a darkness I've seen haunt her in the privacy

My world narrows on the pool of blood forming around the body, soaking into the white suit. There's something oddly colorful about the stain of blood on a white fabric. Perhaps, more so, because it is Donovan's.Numbing cold flows from my toes to my fingertips and I feel it reaching into my chest as I glance up from the body to catch Zefiro lowering his gun.There.His amber eyes gleam, unnaturally bright with something unidentifiable, yet devilishly sinister. Though I know I won't find it there, I search for even a glimmer of remorse and find nothing but chilling satisfaction. "I urge you to sit, Belikov. Donovan was and has always been a loose end. For Cosa Nostra. For Bratva. He talked too much."The blonde sits, wiping the blood off his cuff. "He had his uses."Like that breaks the tension in the room, everyone else sits, and conversation continues like a dead body isn't a few feet away. Against the marble, the blood is thick and black, like the soul of the man seated at the head

I stare at the woman in front of me and understand why I’ll never be a man’s ‘only’ choice. She is everything I could never be. Regal, graceful to a point that borders royalty, soft spoken, demure, and more importantly, there are no dark shadows haunting her eyes.She’d make a loving partner. The kind that’d make her husband and children breakfast, lunch and dinner and even sing while doing it. The kind that has every important date in her head and signs off everyone’s gifts. The kind that holds her husband in his darkest hour and knows the right words to say, not offer him her body because it is the only way she knows how to take the pain away. The kind they make love to and whisper against her ear, “I love you.” The kind they kiss on the forehead before a heartfelt, “Goodnight.” The kind every man needs.Not some broken, stray dog without an owner.The shower stops running and I know it’ll hurt more if I saw him step out of it. My limbs tangle in a desperate attempt to get out of th

My flipflops squeak against the dirty rug and my nostrils crinkle at the familiar stench of alcohol, sweat, sex and cheap perfume. I wonder if this is where Alessandro brings all his women, or if my worth was to him was the same as the run down, shady and unkempt hotel that seemed more appropriate for drug dealings and traffickings than hook ups.Or maybe Alessandro is just a cheap bastard.We stop at the counter, and despite my aversion to the man in front of me, I step close to him until our sleeves brush. Hungry gazes leer at me from every corner, vicious, predatory. I resist the need to hug my chest and hide myself from them. I’m dressed decently. It’s not my fault they’re staring at me that way. It’s them. It’s not me. I’m not a whore. I’m not a slut. Gum smacks loudly, bringing my gaze to the receptionist. The ginger slouched behind the counter is so high, her irises cover her pupils, making the light blue appear black. Under the red, harsh lighting, her skin appears pale and

He lied.I’d permed my hair, cutting it to a shoulder-length style that framed my face. The lip color I chose was so vivid, so dangerously alluring, it could only be called siren red. And for once, I wore a dress. Not just any dress—a short, scandalous piece that clung to me like a second skin, stopping at mid-thigh, baring my legs in a way I haven’t dared in years. A metallic silver dress.Black sheer tights, fishnet-patterned, designed to set the mood with every inch they teased. If he hadn’t stood me up, he would have seen that underneath them, I wore nothing. No underwear, just a delicate incision under the tights, right where my entrance was, waiting. And my heels—knockoff Louboutins, sure—but they came at a price I could barely afford. They were worth it. I looked good. More than good. Every man around me stared, their gazes dripping with lust, desire, the kind of attention I’d spent so long avoiding. I’ve been given three expensive bottles from different men, each of them try