I can hear my cold husbands dirty thoughts

I came downstairs to hand my husband divorce papers. I tripped. He caught me. And suddenly, I could hear every  filthy thought in his head.

“She touched me. God, she touched me. Two years of keeping my hands off her and she falls into my arms smelling like vanilla and trouble. Don’t pull her closer. Don’t. You’ll scare her.”

I froze against Damian Blackwood’s chest, staring up at the most expressionless face in Manhattan. His mouth hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch. But that voice-low, rough, starving-was unmistakably his.

“You okay?” he asked. Flat. Polite. The same tone he used with his driver.

“I’m fine,” I squeaked, snatching back the folder before he could see the word DIVORCE printed across the front. I stuffed it into my bag, and my eyes betrayed me, snagging on the outline of his abs through his half-buttoned shirt.

“She’s staring at my chest. Is she staring at my chest? Stay still. Do not flex. Okay, flex a little.”

I choked on air.

Two years ago, our families arranged this marriage like a corporate merger. I saw his photo and said yes before my mother finished the sentence.

Then I moved into his penthouse and discovered I’d married a marble statue. No kissing. No touching. If our hands brushed over the coffee pot, he recoiled like I carried the plague.

Meanwhile, the tabloids screamed:

[CEO Blackwood’s Midnight Rendezvous With Mystery Blonde!]