by Melissa Jane
CONTENTS
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Arrogant Fiance
Other books by Melissa Jane
Other books by TL Smith
SEVER
T.L Smith & Melissa Jane
Copyright 2019
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Editing by Swish Design & Editing
Proofreader by Contagious Edits
Cover design by Sarah Paige at Opium House Creatives
Cover image Copyright 2019
BLURB
One man’s wife is another’s obsession.
We had a love I thought could never be broken. But I was wrong. We weren’t as strong as our vows once promised.
Dark secrets and vicious lies, they tore us apart.
They cut too deep, leaving open wounds.
Pain is something that should ever come from the man you love. Forgiveness, understanding, tenderness, yes. But never pain.
But the fact remains. He is my husband and I am his wife. Perhaps he should have remembered that a year ago when he committed his first sin against our marriage. And perhaps then, I wouldn’t have fallen for the devil.
A devil who had me in his sights from the very beginning.
A devil who swore to never let me go.
1
He looks at me with an apathy that causes my hands to ball into tight, white-knuckled fists. His stare, loaded with contempt, has me itching to slap his five-o’clock shadowed cheek. But worst of all, the ever-formidable look of indifference has me pulling the sheets higher while I allow my already hurting heart to further break into tiny, irreparable pieces.
If I could count all the ways I love this man, I would. But it’s tiring, so fucking tiring, because I can’t bring myself to want to remember the reasons why I still love him.
So, I’ve given up.
But let the record show, he gave up first, and I hate him for it.
He let the love we’ve shared turn sour, and it’s all by his own doing. He took all I had to give, my heart, my passion, my life, and he held it in his hand and squeezed his long fingers around my vulnerability until everything oozed between the cracks.
I miss the feel of his hand resting on the small of my back, a gesture to let me know we were a team no one could challenge. How his lips would crush mine with a primal urgency he’d barely contain throughout the day.
And now?
Urgency is a thing of the past, and my husband is no longer a team player. He exited this marriage over a year ago when he concluded we no longer required the fundamentals to make it work.
There are no tender moments.
No kissing.
No fucking.
Not even a whisper of his fingers brushing mine.
We simply exist.
He ignores my efforts to regain his affections. My perfect hair and makeup go unnoticed despite being to his particular taste. My lasered, smooth body remains unseen by his now dispassionate eyes. I can’t recall the last time my husband lusted for me. His hunger to claim my body and mind was once uncontrollable, and his desire to bring me to my knees craving more until I fell limp at his side came to a crashing halt. Like a light flicking off, so did his taste for anything me.
No explanation.
No remorse.
He left me cold, unsatisfied, and unloved.
And now I’m left to wonder what had gone so terribly wrong that I deserved to be abandoned in the dark without a hint of a clue. Not only did he switch off his love, but his communication became non-existent.
When it first happened, I remember the many nights I broke down at his feet, pleading for answers, and he would look as though the words were on the tip of his tongue, like he wanted me to understand. I even saw anguish, his own hurt, a pain I knew nothing of before he’d shut down. And then his eyes would glaze over and indifference set in.
It was then I stopped pleading.
My desperation turned to anger and my anger morphed into my own indifference. One he didn’t question or care for.
He hasn’t asked for a divorce. The word has never left his perfect lips.
Despite everything, I still love him.
I went through our seven-year marriage thinking he would be my last love, but now everything is crumbling around me and there’s fuck all I can do to stop it.
Shawn steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his waist revealing perfectly sculpted abs and a V-line I used to love running my tongue over. There isn’t an inch of him I haven’t explored and vice versa. Water glistens over his tanned skin, and when he eventually turns to me, he catches my roaming eyes. Perhaps my own indifference is a work in progress because he still has the ability to suck me in.
His eyes lock onto mine and I hold my breath as he moves to his side of the bed. His gaze travels my body, from the fallen strap of my nightie revealing the milky skin of my breast to my exposed leg curled around the tangled white sheet. I see a hint of something I can’t quite determine and my heart races, clinging to false hope that he’ll find the courage to claim me again as his wife. I hold hope he’ll lean down and kiss me, assuring not all is lost. At this point, I’d settle for a simple graze of the cheek so I know he still cares.
But there’s nothing.
Worse than that, there’s not even a hint of wanting to do anything.
My heart drops and the rage I keep at bay resurfaces, hot blood coursing through my veins. Shawn turns away without a word, and I scream on the inside, wanting to hurt him the same way he does me. Instead, I climb out of bed and walk straight to our walk-in closet where I close the door, wishing I could be anywhere else but in the same house as my husband. Yanking the nearest designer dress off its hanger, I ball the thick fabric into my hands and scream, the muffled sound no doubt falling on deaf ears. I scream until my lungs hurt and my hands ache. I hear his footsteps a heartbeat away from the door and I feel a false sense of hope. The same I feel every time only to be crushed. I still, holding my breath and sob, my ear inching closer to the door, listening.
Will he care?
Will he knock?
Will he pull me into his arms and reaffirm his love for me?
Will he crush his lips to mine and bed me the way a husband should his wife, the way we used to every morning and night before things changed?
He must know how I feel. My pain is often hard to hide.
Or perhaps his heart has turned colder than I realize.
The latter is confirmed when I hear his feet padding on the polished floor toward the bedroom door.
My heart sinks and I chide myself for once again giving a damn.
Straightening my nightgown, I go through the motions of compartmentalizing my pain and picking my outfit for the day. Life has to move on and as I’m beginning to realize, plans have to be put into motion. Plans that no longer involve my husband.
After showering, I slide on a pencil skirt and a loose flowing, tucked-in rose-gold blouse, apply mascara and then lipstick. Once my heels are on, I check my cell before putting it in my handbag. Making my way down the staircase, a bittersweet smile plays on my lips as I recall how my husband would take me on these very steps. How he’d hike up my skirt, tear my lace panties—if I was wearing them—and fuck me hard, and with a ferociousness that would leave me bruised for days. I didn’t mind. I craved his uncontrollable lust. His cock driving deep, teeth biting down my neck, could have me coming sometimes three times in one session. Perhaps that’s why his sudden rejection has cut to the bone. There’s no explanation, just continual dismissal.
Shawn sits at the counter drinking his coffee when I make my way into the kitchen. He doesn’t see or hear me, but runs a hand slowly over his face.
Is he exhausted?
Frustrated?
Both?
I pause, unsure of what to do. We’ve not just lost any form of physical intimacy, but we’ve become two strangers who just so happen to share a bed, and that’s only when he chooses to come home.
“Shawn,” I call, tentatively.
He immediately stiffens at the sound of my voice yet still manages to turn, his eyes sweeping over me as they did earlier in the bedroom. Does he still care, even if the moments are fleeting? It takes everything in me to hold back from touching him.
“Yes?” he asks, his gravelly voice is strained.
One last attempt.
One last attempt to save anything that can possibly be redeemed.
“Why don’t we take the rest of the week off and fly to Monaco?” His big blue eyes widen a fraction causing my nerves to spill the words. “Our anniversary is coming up. We could get an early start and… I don’t know… I guess we reacquaint ourselves.” I reach out and slide my hand along his tense shoulders. It feels like such a foreign thing to do after all this time, and I get a sense he must feel it, too. Those same big aqua-blue eyes now look at me as if I’m an intruder. But that doesn’t hurt me near as much as what he does next.
“Blythe,” he scolds, his fingers tightly curling around my wrist, removing my hand. He rests it on the counter but maintains his hold, preventing me from further touching him. It’s yet another reprimand that cuts too deep. I feel my heart splinter and the blood through my veins runs cold. He says my name and it stings. How much longer can we play this game?
“What?” I say through clenched teeth. “I can’t touch you anymore? Not even platonically?”
His eyes darken and so does my soul.
“I don’t have time for this?” He sighs and I scoff.
“For what? Us?”
Shawn goes to stand, releasing my wrist like I’m a mere annoyance.
“Why do I disgust you so much?” I ask, following him around the counter as he places his coffee mug in the sink.
“You don’t disgust me, Blythe...” he pauses before continuing under his breath, “… far from it.”
I’m confused by this. “Then how are we like this, Shawn? How can we be such strangers when we share the same bed?” I wait for his response, but when all I get is his silence, I continue, “Shawn? Why can’t you even look at me?”
He dries his hands on the hand towel and picks up his briefcase, choosing to ignore the pain in my voice. “I have to go,” he dismisses, avoiding all eye contact.
I follow him to the door and my demeanor softens. “Please,” I murmur quietly. “Can you just think about it? It could be good for us.”
To understand how the hurt feels, it’s like a thousand daggers to the heart plunging relentlessly, yet, I still haven’t left him.
But that’s all about to change, and I’m still to find out if it’s for the better or for the worse.
WE MET at a college football after-party. I was eighteen and he, twenty-two. Kegs of beer were an endless supply and the glow of the enormous bonfire warmed our faces. Our tipsy friends had coupled up in various dark corners, leaving me alone with the dangerously handsome man I’d known for only a heartbeat. He sensed my nervousness as I looked awkwardly between him and the happy drunks fumbling about. He made one move. One move that spun my world off its once-stable axis, and had me falling head over heels for a man I thought to be well out of my league. He reached out and took my hand, offering a reassuring squeeze, instantly putting me at ease.
Inching closer, his lips grazed my ear as he spoke, his beautifully deep voice drowning out the noise around us. “I know any other day you’re a blonde-haired angel, but this bonfire makes you look like a sinful devil.”
A smile pulled my lips and I did my best to not let his compliment affect me. “Do you say that to all the girls?” I gently teased, my own lips grazing his warm cheek.
“This is my first bonfire, so… no.” I giggled because the man had a point. “Besides,” he continued, “I haven’t met one worthy enough… until now.”
My heart thudded hard against my ribs, the feel of his lips tingling my skin, his sweet and spicy cologne affecting my senses. I had never felt like this. No man had ever had such an instant effect on me. I knew then and there that this man was going to bring me to my knees in more ways than one, and I was going to enjoy every second of it.
“You know all the right things to say, don’t you?”
He pulled away to look me in the eyes. They were beautiful. Eyes I could drown in. We were both sober drivers, so we couldn’t blame alcohol for how we were responding to each other. “You make it easy,” Shawn said, and my knees grew weak. “I know a place.” He continued, “I think you’ll love it.”
“Whoa, cowboy,” I laughed nervously, placing my hands on his muscular chest. I was so taken aback at how firm he felt that I was more than prepared to go anywhere with this stranger. “You’re moving a bit fast.” I hated the words as soon as they left my mouth because I was more than happy to move fast with him.
He frowned. “Too fast for pie?”
Pie?
Sensing my confusion, he continued, “I know the best pie place in town. Cherry. But not the fake cherries.”
“You’re taking me for pie?”
“I am.”
My eyes traveled the length of his body, taking in every curve of muscle. “You don’t strike me as the pie-eating type.”
He smiled cheekily. “Every Friday without fail.”
“Today is Friday,” I said slowly, considering his invitation.
Shawn raised his brows expectantly and I giggled at his enthusiasm. “What about the others?”
“It’s too early for them to come up for air. Let’s see what we can get up to in a few hours.”
Twenty minutes later, we sat side by side, thighs touching, in a diner on the main strip. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, a groan escaping my lips. “This…” I said through a mouthful of pie, “is the best I’ve ever eaten. It’s… it’s ever so slightly orgasmic.”
“Only ever so slightly?”
“Okay, it’s a full climax.”
“I’d like to see that.”
I turned slowly to meet his deep, penetrable gaze and I tingled in all the right areas. I wanted him to see the effect he had on me, but I made him wait. A week and half after we officially started dating, I finally gave in to the cravings. I’d wanted to devour him from the moment we’d met, but I didn’t want to be a hit and run. I wanted more with this man and he respected that because he too wanted the same. When we did make love, he took me hard and fast and then slow and deep. His cock took some getting used to, and he was always patient at the beginning until the pain gave way to pleasure.
Then it was fair game.
Shawn ravaged me day and night, in between lectures and during private study, proving his insatiable
desire for me. We lusted and we loved, and within a year, Shawn asked me to marry him. Despite everyone objecting to my young age, pressuring me to explore the world before settling down, our marriage was the envy of anyone who knew or saw us. Our passion never faltered, and we always operated as a team, even if at times our opinions differed.
No one could come between us.
No one could destroy what came so naturally to us.
Until a year ago when everything changed.
When suddenly our perfect turned into a distant memory in less than a heartbeat. Shawn had swept me off my feet and didn’t put me back on the ground until he decided one day to stop loving me. Some would describe it as the seven-year itch—being that it was exactly six years at the time—but it was so much worse than that. There’s no way to adequately describe the feeling of loss. Someone may as well have died.
“I’VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT,” Shawn replies brashly without giving my proposal the time of day. “I’m far too busy.”
“Shawn, if you haven’t noticed, our marriage is in crisis and going—”
“Blythe,” he says my name as if I’m an intolerable child. His impatient eyes meet mine and for the first time, he holds my gaze. “This…” he gestures from me to him with a cutting gesture, “I can’t do this right now. So, please, get off my case.” There’s a flicker of remorse when he notes my crestfallen face, but as quick as it came, it’s replaced with his familiar cold eyes.
What’s happened to my husband?
Shawn opens the door and stops on the threshold, his back to me, shoulders stiff with a burden I don’t understand. Or is it guilt? What has my husband done that’s so bad?
“I won’t be home tonight,” is all he says in a frightfully empty tone.
I feel a heavy weight on my heart, and air traps in my throat making it too difficult to talk. I watch as my handsome husband, who’s now a perfect stranger, walks away from me for the last time.
“Goodbye, Shawn.”
2
“Blythe, you have someone asking to see you,” Amanda, my secretary calls from the door. Her gaze travels to the pile of used tissues on my desk and then back to my blotchy face. “Okay…” she says concerned, “we’re going to address this…” she twirls her finger at me and then at the mess I’ve created, “but first, should I tell him to come back later?”