Trophy Wife

by Alessandra Torre

  * * *

  He moves against my back, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me tightly. My body slides easily across the fine sheets, until I am solid against his. His skin is so warm, his body so hard, his arm gripping me tightly, a cocoon of embrace. I feel the scratch of stubble against my neck, and he burrows his face into my hair.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  Drew's voice is so thick, so full of emotion, one that holds and protects me. He presses a kiss against the back of my neck before continuing. “I just … I couldn’t go to sleep without touching you.”

  * * *

  I arch against him, sliding my legs between his, fitting my body even tighter into the curves of his. He reacts, his hands traveling, turning, and gripping me until there is not a single place on our bodies that doesn’t connect. There is nothing for me to say—no words for what is a terrible idea. Words will only ruin this moment. Words mean thought, and I can’t think about what we are doing. I know what I need. I know what I want. And right now, in this one moment, I want to be selfish.

  * * *

  I roll, his hands sliding and tugging to keep me close. I look into his green eyes, their depths lit with desperation. Then his gaze drops to my mouth, and I yield. He carries such a hunger for me, his desire typically locked behind a stern, rigid exterior. But here, in the privacy of my bedroom, with Nathan’s room a stone’s throw away, he releases it; a storm of want, his passion breathtaking in its simplicity. He follows his line of sight, lowering his mouth to mine, his hands pulling my waist, a strong leg wrapping around me and drawing me close.

  * * *

  Kissing him is so different than Nathan. Nathan and I have emotional expression in our kisses, our lips able to communicate in ways that we will never verbalize. Drew’s eyes, his touch, his words—they tell me everything I need to know. His kiss is more of a sexual fire, taking this sweet, needy moment and pouring the kerosene of passion onto it. It starts off slow, our movements still drugged with sleep. Soon, it flares, his hands moving quicker, pulling me upright, yanking at the silk of my camisole until it’s over my head and I’m half naked before him. He moves to his knees, our kisses frantic, our hands twisting into each other’s hair, tugging and pulling. Then I am pushed back and I feel the slide of cotton against skin as my boyshorts take the long journey down my legs and off my body.

  * * *

  He kneels on the bed between my legs, my body naked before him. He pulls up my legs, placing my feet on his bare chest, his hands running softly along my legs, a look of drugged arousal heavy in his eyes. And there before me, lit by the moonlight, I can’t help but compare them.

  * * *

  He is rugged where Nathan is finely cut, scruffy where Nathan is smooth. They have the same messy hair—hair that is short enough to be professional but long enough to grip in my hand and pull. His chest is covered in a thin layer of dark hair where Nathan’s is smooth, his abs thicker where Nathan’s are thinner, his build stronger, evidencing his strength.

  * * *

  I love the look of my feet on his chest; I love the contrast of my lighter skin against his darker, delicate feet against masculine strength. He leans slightly forward, digging my feet into his pectoral muscles and his hands slide down the inside of my legs, pressing gently out as he moves, my feet sliding off his chest, my breath hitching as my legs fully open. His hand gently touches the smooth skin in between them.

  * * *

  “Drew, I …” I stop talking, his fingers sliding along my wet slit, his eyes on mine. Then he lowers his head, moving his hands to my thighs, and his eyes are on nothing but me. My face burns, and I prop myself up, about to protest, my mouth forming the words. Then I see him and stop, my mouth dropping open slightly, the view so carnal I almost moan.

  * * *

  He is examining me, his fingers sliding down my thighs and massaging the skin on either side of my pussy, opening and closing the lips, his warm breath tickling the skin, making every movement of my skin tickle in the most tantalizing way.

  * * *

  He glances up, his eyes black with need. “God, I needed this,” he groans, lowering his hot mouth onto me, my back arching at the shock of his hot, wet mouth, the soft trail of his tongue as it flickers lightly over my clit, his entire mouth working in perfect coordination to bring all of my senses to that spot.

  * * *

  My back hits the sheets, my hands reaching out and fisting fabric, the surrender of my body to him complete, his face buried in my most private place, doing something that is too perfect, his tongue knowing—without instruction—just how gently to sweep over my clit, just how to draw me into his mouth, how to use his entire mouth and not just his tongue. That look on his face, before he buries his mouth on me, is one a recovering alcoholic gives an ice-cold beer. Ravenous need. And it is obvious, from the sounds and expertise that he is showing below, that he loves what he is doing. It is something that I will do with him whenever—holy shit. I am about to come, my back arching, the swell of pleasure interrupting my thought processes, interrupting everything within a half mile radius, so pure and intense, swelling up the hill, small whimpers coming from me as it climbs.

  * * *

  Then, pure silence, my body wracking beneath his mouth, his tongue maintaining the perfect flutter against my small bud of nerves until my breaking point—a point he somehow instinctively knows. As I fall down that hill of pleasure, his tongue gently carries me down, slowly, softening imperceptibly, until I sink into a sea of perfect, post-coital bliss, my world going dark, every sense leaving my body in one perfect moment.

  * * *

  Jello has nothing on my limbs, their loose and pliable movement easily manipulated by his hands. He moves my legs, lifts my torso, and tucks my body underneath the sheets, pulling the soft weight of a down comforter over me. I murmur words of nonsense, trying to follow his movement, his soft chuckle irritating me briefly, my heavy eyes uncooperative. A sigh of relief leaves me when I feel the blanket lift, feel his heat settle in behind me, his arms stealing around my body, his lips gently touching my neck. “Sleep,” he whispers.

  * * *

  I should be offering to take care of him. I should be rolling over, pushing him to his back and dragging those way-too-sexy sweatpants off his hard, muscular hips. But I don’t. I grip his arm tightly across my chest and close my eyes, the relaxation of release bringing sleep to me quickly.

  * * *

  I don’t wake when he leaves my bed, returning to the big glass house and his portion of it. I don’t notice when my alarm sounds; I sleep right through my morning routine and—for the first time in five weeks—don’t dress in case Nathan calls.

  * * *

  I open my eyes to the unfamiliar view of full sunshine against the vaulted rafters. I have not prepared for him, an oversight that went unnoticed; Nathan’s morning schedule one that didn't include me. And I wonder, lazily, if this is the beginning of my end.

  CHAPTER 33

  I feel like I am a cocktail of sorts, different mixers and alcohol being added, the flavor and consistency changing with each new addition.

  * * *

  I can feel a break coming, my psyche sick of the rollercoaster of emotions it is riding. I can only harness rebellion and self-esteem for so long before my mind is going to say fuck you and kill everyone in the room. It’s only taken five weeks for me to realize I can’t be Anna Nicole Smith, unless Anna Nicole was a dominatrix who told the old man what the fuck to do. I am not good at being meek and mild and shutting my mouth. I can feel my body itching, feel my mind pushing against the restraints, testing for weak areas, searching for hidden passageways and loopholes to freedom.

  * * *

  But I can’t escape, can’t run, can’t ask Nathan for a divorce. First, I need to figure out what to do with my father.

  * * *

  His health seems to be in a limbo of sorts. He is healing, his color returning, his medication not as l
ife-sustaining as it originally was. But his improvement is at a slow pace and is unpredictable in its path. One day he is smiling, the next week I am met by Pam with sober eyes and a tight mouth, his health taking a hard right turn into serious. The problem child was first his immune system, then his kidneys. His vulnerable spots seem to change, having no rhyme or reason in their locations or symptoms. Today is a bad day, in the middle of a bad week. His breath is labored, and he has been unresponsive all day. His drugs are at a level that keep him one step above comatose, his sleep heavy, his hand limp when I pick it up.

  * * *

  The responsibility for his care weighs heavily on me, slowing down and tripping normal brain functions. I should be able to figure this out. I should be able to have a clear, concise thought process and come up with a plan.

  * * *

  The truth of the matter is, I can avoid any heavy lifting of my brain. The correct path is smooth and well-marked.

  * * *

  Separate myself from Drew.

  Follow the rules.

  Stop asking questions.

  Visit my father and support him in every way possible.

  * * *

  I can live my golden life, squash the ridiculous theories that my mind has been concocting, and listen to Nathan. Ride his cock, obey his rules, and deal with the minor items that separate this life and Happily Ever After. That is the unselfish choice, one that will guarantee my father the level of care that he needs.

  * * *

  I don’t feel the tears. They slide down my cheeks, salt paths through expensive foundation. I don’t realize it until I feel a soft hand on my shoulder and look up into Pam’s concerned face. She offers me a tissue, crouching beside me before wrapping her arms around my neck. The kind gesture breaks a dam of some sort, and a sob slips out, my own hands reaching around to return the hug. “It’s okay, Mrs. Dumont,” she whispers. “I promise, he’ll get over this little bump.”

  * * *

  I shake my head against the stiff curls of her hair. “Oh, Pam. It’s so much more than that.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I believe, with all of the rules involved in my life, my heart should have some. It shouldn’t be allowed to care for a man who is incapable of loving it back. It shouldn’t be allowed to care for a man who puts my father’s well-being at risk. And it shouldn’t fall for more than one man at one time.

  * * *

  My heart, like the rest of my body, doesn’t like to follow rules.

  * * *

  I have no reason to care for Nathan. Outside of sex, he is cold and distant—a dictator who has constructed this world of hateful rules. It is the glimpses that have done me in. Nathan in Napa, his soft words, loving glances, thoughtful gestures and carefree smile. The glimpses of compassion when he asks about my father, or the rare moments when I catch him in a genuine smile. Those glimpses have hacked the walls I’ve built between us to bits.

  * * *

  And if those bits are kindling, our sex is the blowtorch, held just above their sticks. Our long, hot fucks that have occurred in every part of the house, no matter who is around, or because of who is around—the raw need which he displays, the fever that burns in his eyes, the possession of his gorgeous face—every session is a new study in addicts who cannot get enough of each other. I am at the point of needing his body, craving its domination, the slick slide of his cock in and out, the delicious terse growl of demands.

  * * *

  I don't understand why Nathan is so cold, why he doesn’t let me stay in his bed. Has he ever been in a relationship? Has he ever been the happy, carefree man he so convincingly portrays in public?

  * * *

  I used to ask Drew those questions, though he’d never respond. Now, due to our affair, I have no one to ask.

  * * *

  Affair. It sounds so dirty. I am a cheating wife. I recognize the truth in the statement, but still attempt to justify this twisted triangle, if it can be considered one. The three points of us are all so badly contorted; our emotions and lives too gnarled to have something so simple as points.

  * * *

  I think of Drew, in his lonely corner of the triangle, and feel such confusion. The whispered words of Rick play in my mind. “They knew everything about you.” They. Drew included. He has been involved since the beginning. He is the one, when I tried to decide whether to sign my life away, urged me forward, spelling out my pathetic life and dire financial situation.

  * * *

  I have slept with the man, yet he has never shared why I am here, why they walked into Sammy’s and asked for me. He has never answered my questions, hinted into my situation, or looked the other way so that I could bend a rule. He is my jailor as much as Nathan.

  * * *

  He seems entitled to sample from my body—but, unlike Nathan, he offers nothing in return.

  CHAPTER 35

  Nathan has spent the day at home, working in his office. I’ve watched him through the windows, disguising my snooping behind a swim, then a few hours poolside with a book. Two men came at noon, going over documents with him and then leaving, Nathan returning to his seat, his hands running through his hair, frustration marring that beautiful face.

  * * *

  I feel like a voyeur, watching him from behind my sunglasses, marveling at how I still find him sexy, his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves, the darkness on his face when he barks into the phone.

  * * *

  I am getting turned on, a ridiculous side effect of boredom and Nathan’s presence, and I set down the book, stretching my arms upward, in the most attention-seeking move I have. I coil my hair into a knot and wander toward the edge of the pool, taking a long moment to adjust my bikini bottoms before I dive into the pool.

  * * *

  He is a sickness. I decide that on lap twelve. A virus that I cannot combat. Despite his incredible talent at being an asshole, I want his touch, want his approval. I want a cure but fear I would hesitate to take the medication.

  * * *

  I come up for air and he is there, standing at the edge of the pool, his hands on his hips. “Get out.”

  * * *

  I duck underneath and smile, swimming toward the edge and pushing up and over the side. My exit is less than graceful, my sexpot moment passing, but I manage to stand, water running off of me and staining the pavers underneath my feet. His eyes take in my bikini, the thin cords that run to small triangles, my breasts practically bare before him. He steps closer, his eyes flicking upward and meeting mine.

  * * *

  We stare at each other, our connection unwavering as he lowers both hands to my breasts, sliding his palms under the wet fabric and squeezing. My eyes close slightly, pleasure sweeping through me, and he rubs rough thumbs over my nipples. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  * * *

  I respond, opening my eyes and looking up, his blue depths studying me, noting the hitch in my breath when he squeezes, the slight drop of my bottom lip as need grows.

  * * *

  “I’ve been working,” he says roughly. “Trying to work. Do you have any idea how hard I get when I see your body?”

  * * *

  He waits for a response, my mouth moving without sound. I clear my throat, almost whispering the words. “No sir.”

  * * *

  “Feel it. Now.”

  * * *

  My hands move quickly, jumping into action, anxious for what awaits them. Wet hands on expensive fabric, unzipping and unbuttoning, reaching in and grabbing impressive, hard heat. Rock hard. Ready.

  * * *

  He bats my hands away, pulling at the strings of my top and letting it fall on the pool deck, the sun hitting my swollen breasts, the nipples hard and aching from his touch, then steps back, looking my body up and down. “Go in my office and get on your knees. You’re going to finish what you started.”

  * * *

  I move quickly, his presence behind me, my skin tightening as I move into the air-conditio
ned house. My feet cover the distance, turning corners and then stepping onto the plush rug of his office, my damp feet sinking into its mat.

  * * *

  “Before the chair. Kneel.”

  * * *

  His order comes from behind me, and I do as I am told, my knees hitting the floor, his steps coming beside me, my eyes looking up to find him staring down at me.

  * * *

  “Perfect,” he says hoarsely, sitting down and reaching in his pants, pulling out his cock and laying it out before me. “Swallow it. Deep.”