Jameson stepped out of the cramped elevator, the muscles in his back tight with rage. He stalked down the dim hallway of the Brooklyn apartment building and shoved his key into the lock.
He pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a loud bang.
The living room was empty. Jameson ripped his tie from his neck and threw it onto the sofa. He was about to call her name when the bedroom door clicked open.
Debora stepped out. She was wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt. Her hair was damp around the edges, and her eyes were slightly red, as if she had just washed her face.
She froze when she saw him standing there, chest heaving. Her hands immediately flew to her stomach, her fingers twisting into the hem of her shirt. She looked guilty.
Jameson didn't hesitate. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter. There was nowhere left to run.
He planted both hands on the marble countertop, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his broad chest practically brushing against her.
"What was that little stunt today?" Jameson demanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Who gave you permission to call me that?"
Debora shrank back against the counter, her heart hammering against her ribs. His physical presence was overwhelming. "I... I ran into someone I know. Someone bad. I just needed him to back off."
Jameson let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He lifted his hand, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw, forcing her to look up into his icy eyes.
"You want to play the loving wife to your friends?" he sneered. "Then maybe I should start collecting my husbandly rights."
Before Debora could process his words, Jameson dipped his head and crushed his mouth against hers.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment. It was hard, demanding, and entirely consuming.
Debora's eyes flew wide open. The scent of cedar and aggressive, dark pheromones invaded her senses. Her brain short-circuited.
Jameson's large hand slid from her jaw down to her waist, his palm burning hot through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. His grip tightened, pulling her flush against his hard body. There was a raw, undeniable hunger in his touch that terrified her.
Her body reacted instantly. Not with desire, but with a violent, biological rejection.
A massive wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach, hitting the back of her throat. The morning sickness, triggered by the sudden adrenaline and his overwhelming scent, was uncontrollable.
Debora shoved both hands against his solid chest, pushing him with all her might. She slapped a hand over her mouth.
Jameson stumbled back half a step, his eyes flashing with shock and immediate fury. He opened his mouth to yell at her.
Debora didn't look at him. She bent over, a dry heave racking her small frame. She pushed past him, practically sprinting across the living room.
She slammed the bathroom door shut behind her.
A second later, the violent sound of her retching echoed through the thin walls, followed by the rush of the sink faucet.
Jameson stood frozen in the kitchen. The heat in his veins turned to ice. His face went pale, and then a dark, ugly flush of humiliation crept up his neck.
He looked at his hands. He remembered the sheer panic in her eyes, the way she had pushed him away like he was a disease.
His ego, the pride of a man who commanded empires, took a brutal hit. She was disgusted by him. A second later, that humiliation morphed into a seething, irrational rage. He had come here to break her, to torture her for what she had done, so why did he care about the murderer's reaction? This sudden, inexplicable sting of rejection made him feel out of control, and that loss of control only fueled his hatred for her even more.
Jameson marched over to the bathroom door. He hit the wood with the side of his fist. "Don't play games with me, Debora," he warned, his voice dripping with venom.
Inside the bathroom, Debora slumped against the sink. She splashed cold water into her mouth, tears of physical exertion leaking from her eyes. She gripped her stomach, too weak to speak, terrified he would figure out the truth.
When no answer came, Jameson kicked the plastic trash can in the hallway. It clattered against the wall.
He stormed into the living room, yanked a spare blanket out of the closet, and threw it onto the sofa. He lay down in his clothes, staring at the cracked ceiling in the dark. His jaw ached from clenching it. He swore to himself he would break her completely.
