The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Jason POV:

I should have known tonight wouldn’t end normally.

Not with Ella. Not with my witch of a wife who had a talent for making my life ten times harder than it needed to be.

Dragging her out of the restaurant was easy. She was pissed, sure, but I could handle pissed Ella. I preferred pissed Ella. It was the other versions of her that scared me—like the smug, vengeful one with blackmail material.

Anyway, we got to the car, and I opened the passenger door for her.

"Get in," I said.

She glared at me. "I can take my own car, Jason."

"I’ll send someone to get it."

She crossed her arms. "I’m not a child."

"And yet, here we are," I muttered under my breath, shoving her in before she could argue further.

I jogged around to the driver’s seat, slid in, and started the engine.

It was supposed to be a simple ride home.

Key word: supposed.

But five minutes into the drive, Ella suddenly shifts in her seat.

Then again.

And again.

I side-eye her. "What’s your problem?"

She tugs at the collar of her dress. "It’s... hot."

I glance at the temperature controls. "It’s literally 19°C in here, Ella."

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she fans herself with her hand and shifts again, her breathing becoming noticeably uneven.

Okay. Weird.

"You good?" I ask.

"Yeah, yeah, just..." She suddenly groans, tilting her head back. "Why is it so freaking hot in here?"

What. The. Hell.

She starts tugging at the straps of her dress, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

I choke on air.

"What are you doing?!" I snap.

She kicks off her heels.

Then her hands go for the zipper of her dress.

Jesus Christ.

"STOP. STOP RIGHT NOW," I yell, gripping the wheel like my life depends on it.

Ella ignores me and pulls down the zipper anyway, her dress slipping off her shoulders.

I swerve into another lane, nearly getting honked at by an angry driver.

I. AM. GOING. TO. DIE.

"ELLA!"

"Hmm?" she hums dreamily, eyes half-lidded as she continues wriggling out of her dress like some damn siren trying to seduce me in my own car.

"PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON!"

"But it’s hot," she whines.

"IT IS NOT HOT!"

"Then why do I feel like I’m burning?"

I was about to yell at her again, but then—it clicked.

Oh.

Oh shit.

SHE WAS DRUGGED.

And if she was drugged...

I WAS DRUGGED TOO.

Because I had drank her wine.

Fucking hell.

"Shit," I cursed, gripping the steering wheel.

"Jason..." Ella moaned my name.

I almost crashed into a pole.

"WHAT?!" I barked.

She arched her back, running her fingers over her exposed skin.

"I need..." She gasped, her thighs pressing together. "I need relief..."

Jesus. Mary. Joseph.

I am not built for this.

"ELLA, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT TOUCH YOURSELF IN MY CAR."

She whimpers.

I see my life flash before my eyes.

"Jason..." Her voice was breathy, sultry, and I swear on my ancestors that I have never prayed harder for strength than I did in that moment.

"JASON! RED LIGHT!"

I barely slam the brakes in time, the car lurching forward.

Ella falls into me.

And now she’s half-draped over my lap.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not fine because my drugged wife is now pressing against me, her lips dangerously close to my neck, her hands gripping my thighs—

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I shove her back into her seat like she’s a rabid cat.

"We are GOING HOME," I declare, voice strained.

Ella pouts. "You don’t want me?"

My grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"I want to live," I mutter under my breath.

I speed the rest of the way home like a man fleeing the devil.

Because, well—I am.

And her name is Ella Kingsley.

I knew that good-for-nothing Jake was a scumbag.

Did I have a meeting at the restaurant? No.

Did I end up there anyway? Yes.

And it was all thanks to Dylan—that nosy bastard—who decided to take a photo of Ella and Jake dining together and send it to me with a message that read:

"Uh... Jason, is this your wife? Asking for a friend."

Yes, Dylan. That is, in fact, my wife.

And yes, I got jealous.

Don’t ask me why.

I know—I’m scared of her. We aren’t exactly on good terms. But I think I already told you guys that I loved Ella.

So yeah, I was driving home from my company when I got the text, and without thinking, I swerved in the opposite direction to get to that damn restaurant.

Now here we are.

And guess what?

That bastard drugged her.

And because I am a grade-A idiot, I finished her drink right before walking out.

I run a frustrated hand down my face, glancing at Ella in the passenger seat.

She had attempted to undress, but somewhere along the line, she got too loopy to finish the job, and now her dress was half-off, exposing her bare shoulder and the smooth skin of her collarbone.

I gulp.

Yeah.

I need a miracle.

Because if this drug kicks in before I get to my room and lock the door, I am so screwed.

I white-knuckled the steering wheel, trying to ignore the fact that my wife—my vengeful, take-no-prisoners wife—was practically melting into the passenger seat.

She was squirming, her dress still hanging dangerously off her shoulder, her skin flushed, and—oh Lord—she was making these soft little sighs as she shifted around.

Jesus, take the wheel.

"Jason," Ella mumbled, shifting in her seat again. "It’s... hot. Like, really, really hot."

I cleared my throat and kept my eyes on the road. I was a man of self-control. I had survived hostile corporate takeovers, backstabbing business rivals, and an arranged marriage with my childhood nemesis.

I could handle this.

"It’s, uh—it’s probably the AC," I said, turning the temperature down so low we were practically in Antarctica.

Did it help?

No.

Because Ella—being Ella—decided to solve the problem in her own way.

By unfastening the top buttons of her dress.

Holy shit.

My brain short-circuited.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" I swerved so hard that a poor squirrel on the side of the road probably had a heart attack.

"It’s too hot," Ella whined, pouting at me. Pouting.

This woman wanted me dead.

"You can’t—" I choked, my hands tightening on the wheel. "You can’t just start stripping in my car, Ella!"

She blinked at me, her pupils huge and dilated.

"Oh," she murmured. Then she giggled—GIGGLED—like she hadn’t been plotting my death since the day we met.

I was in danger.

A drop of sweat rolled down my temple.

Okay. New plan.

Step One: Get Ella home.

Step Two: Get myself into a locked, secure room before the drug kicks in for me.

Step Three: Survive.

I pressed hard on the gas, ignoring Ella as she wriggled in her seat like a cat stretching in the sun. Focus, Jason. Drive.

By the grace of God, we made it to the villa in one piece.

I threw the car into park, jumped out, and rushed to her side.

"Alright, let’s go—" I reached over to unbuckle her seatbelt when—

BAM.

Lips.

On mine.

I froze.

My brain completely malfunctioned.

Did my wife just—?

Did Ella just—??

Before I could even process the fact that my mortal enemy turned wife had kissed me, she pulled back slightly and grinned.

"Hmm," she mused, tilting her head at me. "Your lips taste nice."

I blacked out.

(Not really, but I damn near short-circuited.)

"WHAT THE—" I yanked myself back so fast that I nearly tripped over my own damn feet.

Ella just giggled again—like she hadn’t just fried my brain like an overworked circuit board.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

I needed to get us inside.

Now.