It’s a masterful performance, the way he eats me out. Never hurrying, always in tune with the way I writhe, with the moans I utter, knowing exactly how to slide his tongue against my clit, when to suck it between his teeth, when to flick in quick circles. And then he adds fingers, not one or two, but three, sliding deep, curling, touching me somewhere just so and I can’t control the gyrations of my hips, can’t stop the hoarse whimper, can’t stop myself from clutching his head and grinding my cunt against his eager, talented mouth.
I come, and it’s long, hard, and messy. Everything inside me spasms, and I feel something break within me, feel something release, spurt free. He grunts in surprise and backs away, watching as a thin stream of something wet gushes out of me, pulsing and spasming, as my core clenches and contracts, ecstatic bliss wrenching through me so hard I can’t breathe, can’t see, can only arch off the chair and contain the scream behind my gritted teeth.
He rocks back on his heels, wiping at his beard, which glistens, damp with my juices. “You got yours, I’d say.” He is intensely self-satisfied, a ghost of a smirk on his usually impassive face.
Somewhere a door opens, and then closes.
A female voice calls out. “Hello? Are you home?”
“Shit.” He tugs my dress into place, hauls me to my feet, and shoves a purse into my hands. “You have to go.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Before I can protest a second time, I’m out the door. It’s dark, quiet. I see I’m in an alley, a crumbling brick wall opposite me—the side of a building. To my right is a dead-end, trash in a corner, a small, overflowing garbage can, a roughly-made wooden pallet, empty, turned on it side. To my left, the alley opens onto a narrow sidewalk, and then a street. A pair of headlights pass slowly by the entrance to the alley; the vehicle is large, the windows reflecting the nearby streetlights.
The door behind me closes, and I take a step to the side, away from the window in the door.
I’m trying not to panic; this isn’t how it should go.
I’m frozen. Behind the door I can hear his boots on the wood floor, hear him quietly moving the chair to its original place near the fire. Then I hear a door open and close.
“Ah, here you are, darling.” The thin, sharp click of a woman’s heels on the wood floor. “What a day. I’m dreadfully tired, so I’m turning in. Will you be long?”
“No, I won’t be long. You go ahead.” His voice is…masked. I don’t know how else to describe it. Cold, flat, hiding any hint of emotion.
My heart is rabbiting, twisting. Sliced, wracked. That woman is obviously his wife.
Bastard.
I risk a peek in the window. She’s tall, lithe, curvaceous. Knee-length black skirt, tight, molded to her thighs and ass. A willowy white blouse, short sleeved, elegant. And her hair, god, that hair. Thick sheaves of natural red hair, pure ginger glory twisted into an elaborate up-do, baring the delicate column of her neck, a hint of shoulder, pale skin, white as ivory. She is utterly gorgeous. Nearly perfect.
And he’s hers.
Not mine.
You’re not mine, and I’m not yours.
I’m the other woman.
Tears prick my eyes.
I flee the alley. Mindless, without thought or direction.
..
My feet carry me at a run, tears blurring my vision.
I’m the other woman. I’m his affair. I’ve always known this, but seeing it played out in front of me is devastating.
An intersection is just ahead. A lone car is stopped, waiting for the light to turn green, and there are no other cars on the road. No light pollution. The stars shine and twinkle overhead in myriad millions, bright and brilliant. This is a small town, and most of the windows are dark. No tall buildings, a handful of dim yellow streetlights spaced far apart. No traffic sounds, no honking of cars in the distance or rumble of trucks. None of the buildings around me are over two or three stories, and the road I’m following leads out of the town proper and into darkness, unlit and unpaved.
My feet continue to carry me. I turn left down a narrow side street. It feels…correct, to turn here. Familiar, somehow. Cars are parallel parked on my right, businesses beside them, shuttered, locked down, glass fronts dark—a bakery, a café, a hardware store, a grocery store. On my left is a row of old brick rowhouses, four steps leading up to the front doors. Most of the windows are dark; a few are lit with a yellow-orange glow.
My feet stop at one of the rowhouses and carry me up the steps. When I turn the knob the door opens easily. I don’t feel afraid, opening this door, as I’ve done it a million times before. I enter into the narrow foyer. A coat tree stands to one side, hung with a man’s overcoat, a fedora. A large pair of wellington boots sits on the floor nearby.
The house is dark and quiet. Directly ahead, a steep, narrow staircase leads up to the second floor. To my left is the formal sitting room containing a long couch, a love seat, and a matching armchair. A coffee table sits in the center of the room. There is a narrow table along one wall beneath a framed painting shadowed in darkness. On the table, I see a silver tea service and a large radio, electric, wood encased, with a tuning knob and a volume knob.
To my right, a doorway leads to a kitchen with a black and white tiled floor that stands out in the dim light cast by a tiffany-style light that hangs down from the ceiling. Beneath the light are a small round table and two chairs bathed in the golden light.
My throat seizes.
Sitting at the table facing me is a man wearing dress slacks, his torso clad in a white tank top. He’s lean, hard, tautly muscled and his feet are bare. Blond and clean-shaven, he is handsome in a sharp-featured way. Blue eyes flick up to pierce me. Blue as the summer sky and cold as ice. His fingers twist a beer bottle by the neck, rolling the bottom edge along the tabletop.
This is my husband—the knowledge is there inside me, automatic and undeniable.
My gut roils.
“Beer?” His voice is quiet and low, and it reminds me of a snake in the grass.
“Sure.” I feel off-balance. Unsure.
He was waiting for me. I cross the kitchen and sit down at the table. He doesn’t leave his chair, but leans back and opens the refrigerator door. He pulls out two beers and uses a bottle opener to remove the caps. He sets one in front of me; the other is for him, for when he finishes the one in his hand.
I take a sip, waiting for him to speak first. Nerves blaze through me.
“Said you were going for groceries,” he says, speaking the words into the mouth of the bottle.
“I—” What do I say? I’m utterly lost.
“Don’t see no groceries.” He finishes the beer, and starts on the second. “And you were gone a good long while, especially seein’ as you ain’t got no groceries with you.”
He knows. God, he knows.
Shame burns in my gut; guilt boils in my throat. How could I do something like this?
“It’s him, ain’t it?” His voice is bitter. “That rich fuck from across town. The one with the ginger bitch of a wife. He’s had his eye on you since the day we moved here.”
He stands up. Slams back the beer, drains half the bottle, and then sets it down roughly. “Can’t deny it, can you? I knew it. I’ve known for a while, I guess.”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
His eyes find mine, flaying me with distain. “Nothin’ to say.” A shrug. “You ain’t never loved me.”
“I’m sorry.” I stare down at the bottle, at the table, anywhere but at him. His hurt is buried deep, but I see it. “I don’t know how it happened. It just…happened.”
He drains the rest of the beer. “Don’t know how it happened?” A laugh, bitter, but not without humor. “He cornered you at that holiday party last year. I saw the way he looked at you. And I sure as fuck saw the way you looked at him. Ya’ll both coulda eaten each other. Right then and there, like some kinda animals. That, or started fuckin’ on the floor or somethin’.”
“I…” I shrug, shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say but I’m sorry.”
He circles around the table and stands beside my chair. He hooks his foot around the leg of the chair and effortlessly tugs the chair, with me on it, around so I face him.
“Look at me.” His voice is low, sharp as razors. I lift my eyes to his. “You fuck him?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“We haven’t had sex.” That much is true. I drink, long swallows of the beer. Swish it in my mouth to remove the taste of cum. To remove, perhaps, the memory of it, as well.
“But you done other shit.” I don’t answer, and he nods, turns away. Wipes his mouth with his hand. “I don’t give it to you good enough? That it?”
He crouches in front of me. Breath beer-sour, but his eyes are sharp, lucid, angry. He lifts a hand, almost tenderly, to cup my jaw. His palms are work-roughened, his fingers strong. I can feel the strength in his hand even though he’s only barely touching me. I’m trembling under his touch. Will he hurt me? I don’t know. Fear rifles through me. He stares at me, eyes flicking side to side, searching my face.
“You screamed plenty loud the other night,” he says, murmuring, barely above a whisper. “So either you was enjoyin’ what I was doin’ to you, or you oughta move to Hollywood and be in a movie.”
He leans closer. His lips part and drift lightly across mine, and then his teeth catch my lower lip and tug. The sting of his teeth in my lip is sharp. He releases my lip, but doesn’t move away. His mouth remains almost-but-not-quite touching mine, and I can taste his breath, feel it, hear it. His hand is on my jaw, gentle but insistent. His other is on my thigh, easy and familiar.
My heart hammers, and it’s not entirely fear.
“Which is it? Huh, babe? You fake it last time I was fuckin’ you, or did you enjoy it?”
I can’t answer.
I’m frozen, petrified, confused, disoriented.
He stands abruptly, shooting to his feet. His strong hand circles my wrist and he yanks me to my feet. I stumble, my low heels clacking on the tile. He catches me against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, slow and steady. I can feel his erection, too. He’s getting off on this?
He presses his mouth to my ear. “I don’t think you was fakin’ it. See, you been my wife for near on six years now. You may not have ever loved me, but I know for damn sure you enjoyed ridin’ on me like I was a prize stallion or some shit. You’ve never faked it a day in your life. You like it too much to have to fake it.”
I can’t breathe. I don’t think he’s lying, but I wish he were; I don’t want to be this person.
He moves his face away from mine, so he can search my face. He nudges aside my hair with an index finger. Tender, gentle, despite the anger in his eyes and the heat in his voice.
“So what is it? He got a bigger dick than me? Is it that he’s got more money than me? News flash, babe, he ain’t givin’ up that wife of his. Not for a woman like you. You ain’t gettin’ his money. So it’s his dick? He fuck you better than I fuck you? What is it?”
“I don’t know.” My voice is a squeaking whisper. “I don’t know!”
“You don’t know.”
“No. I don’t know.” I breathe out slowly, fighting for composure. “All I know is I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” He laughs. “Hurt me, she says. That ain’t it, sweetheart. Angry? Sure as hell. Jealous? Hell, yes. Embarrassed. Definitely. Hurt? No, not quite.”
I move away from him and back up a few steps. “I’m tired. I’d like to go to sleep.”
He follows me. “I don’t think so. Not yet.” He closes in again, and I can’t move away. “How about this. I got me an idea. We’ll play a little game, you and me. All you gotta do is tell me to stop, and you can go to bed. You can even have the bed to yourself, if that’s the way you want it. I can sleep in the other room. So, them’s the rules. Just tell me no. Tell me to stop.”
He circles around behind me, and all I can feel is him, all I can smell is him. He is at the center of every sense I possess. I close my eyes, breathe in slowly, and let it out slowly. I feel him, behind me. He presses his nose to my hair and inhales. He gathers a thick sheaf of it in his hands and places it over my shoulder to bare my neck. Damp hot lips touch my nape; I shudder, exhale sharply. He moves, kissing the curve of my shoulder. I feel his fingers dimpling my hip. Dancing across the swell of my ass. Drifting up my spine. His touch is light, sure. I can’t help another shiver, another shudder. I feel him pinch the zipper pull between my shoulder blades. He tugs it down to unzip my dress. I’m not breathing at all now as he unzips it all the way, nestling the zipper just above the small of my back. His lips, warm and moist, kiss the sliver of flesh bared by the open zipper. From between my shoulder blades down, down, down, his fingers nudge open the gap. I feel him crouch behind me, feel his hands slide up the bare flesh of my back, over my shoulders, pushing my dress with it.
Stop.
The word does not emerge; I am weak. So weak.
I’m trembling, yes, afraid, but also something else, something darker. There’s a part of me that’s…excited by this. I want to hate it, yet what I actually feel is hate for that part of myself that isn’t repulsed but, rather, the exact opposite.
I just had another man’s cock in my mouth.
He had his face in my cunt.
And now my husband is touching me. But his touch is…different.
He knows my body.
I feel my dress pool at my feet.
“Damn, baby, look at you all bare-ass under that dress.” He’s still behind me, standing now, mouth to my ear. “Gotta say, you sure are beautiful. You know I’ve always thought that.” His voice tells me he’s speaking the truth.
I’m naked. Utterly bare. Trembling, knees shaking. There’s a chill in the air, making my flesh pebble. Making my nipples harden and stand at attention. Or is it him? He’s not touching me, but I can feel him. I feel his mouth again, at my nape. Trickling downward, trailing kisses along my spine. Kissing the left globe of my ass. The right. His hands, then, cupping my ass. Lifting the globes, letting them fall free with a bounce. A pat, gentle, testing, teasing. Palm smoothing in circles on the left side.
SMACK!
I cry out and lurch forward under the force of his hand cracking across my ass. Hard. Hard. The stinging ache shoots through me, and I don’t even have time to catch my breath before his hand slaps the right side, too, just as hard. He slaps me with enough force to rock my body, to send searing pain shoot through me. Tears prick in my eyes from the fire of the pain.
There’s a searing sensation somewhere else, though. I ache somewhere else.
The word “stop” is not on my tongue.
God, what’s wrong with me?
He caresses each of my ass cheeks with his hands, soft, gentle, tender circles of his palms. And then—
SMACK!
SMACK!
One side, then the other, so fast it feels like a single blow.
I cry out again, dance forward, away.
“I don’t think so, sweetheart. You know you like it. You always act like you don’t, but you do. So just stand there and take it.” His voice is rough, hard.
His left hand steals around my body to cup my breast. My nipple aches, throbs, begs. And he provides release. His finger and thumb pinch the sensitive bud, pinching hard, so fucking hard I can’t even breathe to scream, and then he releases my nipple, and his other hand spanks my ass cheek. Hard as before. I struggle to breathe, to fight the ache between my thighs.
Then he pinches my nipple and spanks me at the same time and I cry out, a breathless half-scream, from the pain that sears through me, from the way it sends the burning ache between my thighs into a blazing inferno, so hot and so heavy. A million tons of ripping pressure is building up within me so that I writhe in place, rubbing my thighs together.
I’m crying.
Hyperventilating, actua
lly.
Gasping, sobbing.
But he’s not done.
Another pinch, to the other nipple, and another spank. One, then the other. And then simultaneously. And I’m on fire, now. Weak in the knees and panting. My skin tingles all over, my ass throbs, my nipples pulse. My core is a knot of pressure and heat.
He’s in front of me now, his long lean body still clothed in the slacks and tank top. His zipper is bulging, tented. Bending over me, staring down at me, eyes hooded, expression unreadable. Eyes on mine, he slides a middle finger against my clit, and I whimper.
God yes, I think, but I don’t say. I want to say it.
Stop, please stop, I want to say, but don’t.
He gathers my hair in his fist and tugs my head back so I have look up at him. I meet his gaze, let him see into me.
And then he kisses me.
His tongue blasts between my teeth, scouring my mouth, tangling with my tongue, his lips moving on mine, stealing my breath, making me dizzy.
His finger slides inside me. Deep, curling, sweeping, dragging my essence out and smearing it on my clit. He’s using two fingers now, moving in circles. He keeps a grip on my hair, making sure I’m looking up at him while he fingers me.
Dips in, withdraws. Circles.
My knees threaten to give out, but I refuse to hold on to him. I don’t know why. I close my eyes and fight it, but he bites my lower lip and whispers. “Look me in the eye while you come all over my hand. Don’t you close your eyes.”
His touch on my clit is deft and sure and quick, two fingers lightly touching, circling just so, finding the perfect pressure and rhythm to force my hips into motion, forcing me to writhe and buck on his hand, forcing me to ride his touch. Two fingers, and I come undone. I cry out, a distraught wail, head tossed back, hair flailing across my face, my knees finally give out.
He catches me.
I have no choice but to lean against him, cheek to his chest, gasping for breath, panting, trembling, aftershocks quaking through my body.
The Black Room: The Deleted Door Page 2
