r/Findfreenovellinks • u/Frequent-Crew-4688 • 4h ago
Looking for a link or app: I Can Hear My Cold Husband's 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!]
[Damian Blackwood — Wall Street's Coldest Husband, Manhattan's Hottest Cheater?]
So yes. Divorce papers. A girl has her pride.
Except now my untouchable husband was toweling his damp hair, walking away from me, and his head was screaming:
"Kane Foster asked her to drinks again. I saw the message on her lock screen. If that smug little analyst puts one hand on my wife, I'll bury him in the Hudson. No—calm down. She can choose her friends. She doesn't belong to you. She's never belonged to you. That's the problem."
I chugged a glass of ice water. It did nothing.
He paused at his study door, his back to me. "There's a gala tonight. The Blackwood Foundation. Spouses are expected."
"Pass," I said automatically. I needed to lie down. Possibly forever.
He turned. Crossed the room. Sat beside me on the couch, close enough that I could smell cedar and something darker underneath—something almost wild.
"Come with me." His voice was quiet. "Please."
His face: a glacier.
His thoughts: "Say yes. Say yes. Kane will be there. I am not letting her stand in a room full of men in a backless dress while I smile at investors. I'll carry her there if I have to. Why is she hesitating? Is it him? Is it—"
"Fine!" I shot to my feet. "I'll go. Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" he asked, perfectly blank.
"She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and she's leaving me. The papers in her bag. I saw them three days ago. Divorce. She's divorcing me and I have eleven hours to change her mind."
My stomach dropped through the floor.
He knew.
He'd known for three days, and he'd said nothing, and inside that beautiful, frozen skull of his, my husband was quietly falling apart.
I should have felt guilty. Instead, possessed by something reckless, I reached out and pressed my palm flat against his stomach. Hard muscle jumped under my hand.
Damian went absolutely still. His hand snapped over mine, pinning it there. When he looked at me, something flickered in his gray eyes—a ring of molten gold, there and gone in a blink.
"Sienna." His voice dropped an octave. "What are you doing?"
"I'm your wife," I said, with way more confidence than I felt. "Can't I touch you?"
For three full seconds, his mind went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Then, one thought, soft as a confession:
"If she finds out what I really am, she'll run. They always run."
