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That is not how I planned my engagement party to go at all. I’m sure if you ask anyone, the idea of having their future husband hold them back as his ex-wife crashes the party and insults her is pretty far down on the list of things they thought they’d do during what was supposed to be a fun, celebratory night.

Now, I’ve spent the remaining hours of the party tossing back vodka shots with the two women who work at the Garrison Gazette with me, coupled with putting just as much energy into avoiding having to be one-on-one with Cohen.  All while prying eyes watch, waiting for more drama.

To be honest, it doesn’t make me angry that he disliked my attitude. The part that gets me fired up is that he didn’t think I should speak up for myself. The goddamn woman was making blatant digs at me, like I did something wrong by allowing Cohen to fall in love with me back in high school. Like it was my fault that their marriage ended.

I hadn’t even been in Garrison then. I hadn’t spoken to Cohen in years. And I sure as hell wasn’t the reason for their marriage’s demise. Maybe the memory of me was, as Cohen so eloquently put it once, but that’s not my fault, either.

I wait until the very last person is gone from the community centre before I hug my parents and head toward my fiancé, who is waiting silently near the front door for me. He’s obviously been ready to head back home to his place for a while, but been too sheepish to actually come and tell me so.

Good. He wanted me to enjoy this party, and so what if it took me picking a fight with his ex and taking shots with my friends from work to do it? That’s not exactly typical Vienna style, but it did make the overpopulated, over-decorated night more bearable.

“Ready?” Cohen’s already got the keys in his hand, and he’s turned away from me, pushing the door open. At least he’s still got enough manners to hold it open for me as I pass by.

The ride home is silent. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, and though my vision is a bit fuzzy at the edges, blurred by the vodka, I can see very clearly that his jaw is set tightly and the one hand that’s clutching the steering wheel is white-knuckled.

I sigh loudly and wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I can tell he’s deep in thought and rigid with anger.

Cohen and I have argued before, but I don’t think we’ve ever made it this long without saying something to each other.

He pulls the car into the driveway and kills the engine. This is when I think he’ll speak to me, finally. But as I unbuckle my seatbelt, he pushes open the driver’s side door and exits the car. I’m forced to follow him into the house silently.

Inside, I give up. I’ve got no intention of following him around all damn night waiting for him to be ready to talk, hoping he’ll want to mend the riff between us.

If he wants to go to sleep angry, so be it.

I hear the shower running across the hall, but Cohen hasn’t come into the bedroom to grab any clothes from his dresser. That’s when I realize first that he has every intention of just tossing his robe on that hangs behind the bathroom door...

And sleeping on the couch downstairs.

The man is really going to let this percolate overnight. Really?

I wonder then if he’s just avoiding me now because I was avoiding him at the party—an eye for an eye—but that’s never really been Cohen’s way of doing things.

As I remove my earrings, staring at my reflection in the mirror of my armoire in the bedroom, I think of him as he usually is—so cool, collected, and patient. So damn organized and put together.

So undeniably sexy.

Damn it, even angry at him, I’m still turned on by the thought of his chiseled abdomen and broad shoulders. The man knows exactly how to make me wet for him, almost instantly. Like he knows exactly where to touch me, where to lick and caress and kiss and—

“Vienna.”

A startled gasp escapes my throat and I attempt to turn around. Strong hands grasp my arms and hold me in place, forcing me to look behind me through the mirror.

Cohen is standing directly behind me, and the part of him that I can see is naked. Now that my mind has returned back to the here and now, I can feel the erotic heat emanating from his body. He’s not touching me anywhere but my arms, but the proximity and presence of him alone is enough to send goosebumps and a series of tingles creeping across my skin.

“Cohen, you scared me.”

“Vienna,” he repeats, and this time his voice has a hint of warning in it. “Do you know what you’re doing to me right now?”

I try to turn around again, and this time he presses himself against my back, pinning me against the armoire and causing my face to become closer to the mirror. The rigid hardness of his erection against my ass makes me suck in a breath. “I thought I was making you angry. Cohen, I—”

“I don’t want to talk, Vi.” His mouth is against my shoulder, and I watch through the mirror as he inhales the scent of my skin, letting his tongue dart out to taste me, kissing a slow, seductive trail across my collarbone up to the soft flesh of my throat. There, he nips at me, just below my ear. I yelp again. “I want to bury myself so deep inside you that I forget we ever fought.”

It’s an interesting way of making up, and I would normally crack a joke or something about his inability to stay angry, but one look into Cohen’s eyes through the mirror has me keeping my jokes to myself. “Thought you were mad enough that you’d want to call the whole thing off by now.”

“I can think of something I’d much rather do.”

He’s undoing the zipper of my dress, pushing it down over my arms, then hips, and letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor at my feet. Left only in my strapless bra and lacy black panties, the predatory gleam in his eyes has me feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Leaned over the armoire like this, there’s nowhere for me to go, no way for me to hide myself from him. And judging by the damp kisses and nips he’s placing across the back of my neck and shoulders as he deftly undoes my bra and tosses it aside, I’d say that’s exactly how he wants it.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Vienna,” he growls in between each kiss planted. “Every fucking inch. You’re gorgeous.”

His hands have let go of my arms, enough that I’ve managed to keep my palms planted on the armoire’s surface to prevent my head from hitting the mirror.

You’d think that’d be a turn-off, having your fiancé pin you against the mirror of your dresser while he manhandles you as though you’re his to do with as he pleases, but it’s not.

It’s hot. Really fucking hot. And I can feel the dampness pooling within my core in response to him.

And as he begins to tug my panties down over my hips, I catch my first glimpse of the material that’s strung over his shoulder.

“Co,” I breathe out, “What is that?”

He moves my hair gently out of the way and kisses the soft flesh near my hairline. “My tie from earlier tonight. I want to play.”

We’d discussed this type of thing before; taking control, being tied up, blindfolded. But every time it’d come up in conversation, Cohen had mentioned doing those things to me. Always the dominant one, holding me where he wanted me to be, taking what he wanted when he wanted it, pushing me over the edge as he sought fit.

I won’t deny that those ideas hold an element of intrigue to them, and I’d definitely love to try them out some time.

But not tonight.

Because, tonight, I’m not submitting to Cohen Bradley.