The Diary

by Julia Derek

  “I know you know how to suck cock,” he mutters, “so show me how it’s done, or I will have to hurt you.” Both his hands are fisting my hair now as he holds me close to his groin, making sure I can’t escape.

  He groans loudly as I keep working him with my mouth and tongue, massaging the lower part of his shaft and his balls with my hands. He pulls my hair so hard it burns and tingles my scalp as he keeps me firmly in place. I don’t want him to stop; in fact, I wouldn’t mind if he pulled harder. The hardwood floor on which I’m kneeling is hurting me, but I don’t mind that, either. It only serves to make me hotter.

  “You’re a good little whore, aren’t you…?” he mutters, thrusting his hips to my face. “You like me fucking your mouth, don’t you…”

  I’m so hot and wet now I can’t help but moan a little.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s my little whore. I bet you’d like it even more if I spread your legs and fucked you in the ass. I know you’d like a hard cock up your ass.”

  Roughly, he pulls my hair so hard that my head moves away from his groin and my lips leave his cock. I let go of it with my hands too, sensing this is what he wants me to do. He flips me around.

  “Go on all fours and show me your ass,” he orders me darkly.

  I immediately do as he said and arch my back so he gets a better view of my butt. He sinks down behind me and, leaning on top of me, he wraps his arms around my waist and unbuttons my gray pants. He rolls them off me and, taking my panties with him, he pulls them all the way off me and throws them aside. My stiletto pumps are still on me, but other than that, I’m naked from the waist down.

  I feel him behind me, his hard erection against my bare cheeks. He runs a hand between my legs and groans, pleased.

  “I knew that would make you super wet… I bet there’s nothing you’d like better now than a big dick up your pussy… Don’t you, you slut?”

  It’s true what he’s saying—I want him to bury himself inside me—but I still don’t know what to say. Even though I like what he is doing to me, I don’t quite recognize him. The few times he’s been rough with me before, he rarely speaks, and if he does, it’s not as if I’m a whore and he a customer, a stranger who loathes such women.

  A burning sensation assaults the skin on my ass then and I gasp, more in surprise than in pain.

  “Answer me, you slut.” He slaps my cheek again before I can, and this time I find that I welcome it. “Or do you want me to keep spanking you?”

  I do want him to keep spanking me, so I don’t say anything, just moan. He slaps me a few more times and I spread my legs, hoping that he’ll see how much the pain he’s inflicting upon me is turning me on.

  “Oh, God, you love it, don’t you,” he murmurs in a surprisingly tender voice now, shoving two fingers inside me and twisting them around. I moan again, I like it so much. He takes them out and runs them over that other part.

  “Spread your legs wider,” he demands and I do, breathlessly waiting for what he’ll do to me next. I’m so wet now I can feel my juices trickling down along the insides of my thighs. Spreading me apart with one of his hands, I feel his cock against my other opening that he has made slick with his hand. Slowly but decisively, he pushes himself inside me.

  Pain mixed with pleasure rushes through me as he gets deeper and deeper in.

  “This is what you want, you slut, isn’t it?” he demands, his voice back to hoarse and cold. I just moan loudly in answer and he slaps my cheek so hard it stings. Suddenly the pain as he presses inside me morphs into sheer pleasure and I push against him, wanting him to go deeper.

  “You dirty, dirty slut…”

  He slaps my behind again, then grabs one of my breasts and squeezes it, rolling its nipple between his fingers until it turns into stone. Heat rushes through my stomach as he begins pumping me, harder and harder, getting deeper into my ass with each stroke. The hand that isn’t playing rough with my breast finds a big chunk of my hair and he pulls it so hard my scalp tingles with the most exquisite pain. And as he call me dirty slut again, I come so hard I shudder violently and disappear into a cloud of indescribable ecstasy. He lets go of my hair and breasts and grabs my ass firmly, pumping furiously. Then he, too, comes, groaning out his pleasure loudly along with me.

  ‘

  Chapter 13

  When I wake up the next morning, the alarm clock blaring loudly on the nightstand, my head is pounding from having drunk so much alcohol yesterday. The alarm’s deafening sound only serves to intensify the pain, splitting my head in two. Duuuuun, duuuun, duuuuun…

  Groaning, I fumble in the dark to make the torture stop; the clock is on my side of the bed. Finally, I find the damn thing and slap at the buttons on top of it. I’m successful because the sound is suddenly cut short.

  I rub the sleep out of my eyes, try to awaken. When I feel semi-awake, I push myself up into a sitting position. Jason is still sleeping what seems to be soundly beside me. I watch my beloved husband and, even though my head hurts like hell, I’m experiencing a moment of intense peace with life right then. Reaching for him, I caress his hair and he grumbles something unintelligible at my touch. I smile at him and yawn, waking up further. Suddenly, as all of yesterday comes back to me in a rush, one image after another, all of them unsettling and with the power to make me fully awake, the peace dissolves and then quickly disappears.

  The cold, harsh reality settles in my stomach like a huge slab of ice.

  I have to go to the police and turn Jason in today, tell them he is the person who killed Celeste Hyland. I’m the only person who can make him right his wrong, pay the just price for what he did. He won’t do it on his own or he would have gone already. Celeste has been dead for several weeks now. He obviously thinks I will keep his secret for him because I’m not sensing that he is worried that I’ll go, either.

  But he is wrong—I will go to the police today, do the right thing. He might have found the key to my darkest desires, made me enjoy sex like I have never enjoyed it before, but that doesn’t mean I have lost myself completely. As much as I enjoyed all that he did to me yesterday, the disdainful way he spoke to me, the horrible things he called me, he didn’t manage to fuck me senseless. I can still separate right from wrong, and killing another person is still terribly, terribly wrong, even if the culprit is my husband and he did it to save our marriage. So I need to make him pay for his crime.

  I move my legs to get out of bed and find that I’m so sore that it bothers me to stand up and walk to the bathroom. Even so, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips as moments of the ecstasy Jason showed me last night flash through my mind. The images are so powerful they cause the sore flesh between my legs to throb deliciously, a throb that I make myself ignore. We don’t have time for any more sexual adventures. I got what I wanted and shouldn’t be greedy for more. I’m pretty sure Jason fell asleep as deeply satisfied as I did, and that had been my ultimate objective anyway.

  Our final time spent together couldn’t have been more enjoyable and I truly believe he will remember it forever, just the way I will.

  Throwing a glance over my shoulder at Jason, I ponder whether I should even bother to wake him up while I head to the police station. What’s the point for him to go to work when he is going to jail anyway? It’s not like he is crazy about his job and will miss it much. But then I decide that I will wake him. I don’t think he’ll want to face the cops newly awake. I know my husband; he’ll want to look presentable when they come for him, so the least I can do for him is making sure he gets a chance to get ready. And I will tell the cops not to come for him when he is at work, either. No need to embarrass him in front of his coworkers and employees; it’s not like they won’t find out soon enough. No, the cops can come tonight, when we’re both back home.

  I’ll go to the police during lunchtime today, not now. Hopefully by then my headache will have lessened and I can be fully focused, in charge of myself. If my head is hurting the way it is right now, I’ll be impatient and struggle to
get the words out. I’m not fooling myself into thinking that it will be easy once I’m inside the police station. It’s going to take all I have to make myself betray my husband, a man who trusts me to a fault, a man who loves me so much he has killed for me.

  After visiting the bathroom, I climb across the bed toward Jason. Leaning over him, I wake him with a kiss on the cheek.

  He stirs and opens his eyes slowly. Turning around so that he is facing me, he gives me a lazy, sexy smile.

  “Good morning,” he murmurs in a raspy voice and pulls me back down so I end up on top of him. He locks me in place with his strong arms and I can feel that he is hard against my stomach. Bracing myself with my elbows on either side of his head, I sigh inwardly. We really don’t have time for this. Gazing into my eyes, he whispers, “How are you feeling today?”

  “I could do without the hangover, but other than that I’m great,” I lie.

  He laughs and kisses my nose. “Yeah, as much as you drank yesterday, I can imagine you must feel like shit… Nothing a couple of Advil can’t cure, though, huh?”

  A shadow falls over his handsome face then and he seems worried. “Do you regret yesterday?”

  “What do you mean?” I’m honestly not sure what he is referring to. There was so much going on yesterday. So much to potentially regret.

  “The way I treated you in bed. It seemed that was how you wanted it and I admit I was pretty drunk myself, so I just went with i—”

  I cut him off by putting a finger over his lips. “Shh. You know I loved it. It was great. Did you love it?”

  His eyes leave me and find a distant spot far past my shoulder. He inhales deeply, then sighs with a mixture of despair and... and something I can’t figure out. “Yeah. As sad as it is to admit, I must say that I really enjoyed it. But now I feel bad about the way I talked to you.” His boyish gaze returns to me and he looks suddenly helpless. “That’s not a way for a husband to talk to his wife.”

  I smile at him and lean in to plant a light kiss on his lips. “Well, as long as it’s okay for this wife, I don’t see a problem with it.”

  I can feel him relax under me and then his arms wrap tighter around me, hugging me closer. I rest my head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. “I’m definitely the luckiest man in the world to be married to a woman like you,” he mutters into my hair. “You’re truly one amazing creature.”

  As I lie there in his arms, inhaling the faint smell of Platinum Egoiste that still lingers on his skin, the pain of my hangover threatening to split my head in two is nothing compared to the one going through my soul right then.

  ***

  I see her when I exit the building that houses Ernst & Young to eat lunch, needing fresh air after having spent several hours inside my stuffy office. The gorgeous, blonde cocktail waitress from Capital Grille. There is no question that it’s her. She doesn’t have that almost childlike prettiness so many blondes have, all-American like apple pie, football and cheerleaders. No, this one has a distinct look, almost exotic with her long nose, diamond-shaped face, sun-kissed skin and striking green eyes with impossibly long eyelashes. As though she can sense my presence, she looks up from the public bench where she is sitting, checking her smartphone. If I ever doubted it was her, she helps me shed that doubt by waving at me and smiling as I pass by her.

  Her unexpected action causes me to instantly tighten up, but I manage a weak smile and a half wave back nonetheless. I’m too stunned to do anything else, have another reaction such as perhaps just ignoring her instead of returning her greeting.

  Picking up my pace, I walk to the other side of the plaza where the street crossing is. On the other side of Broadway is the diner where I will get my lunch. A shock of black fury streams through me and my nostrils flare. My heart pounds.

  What the fuck is she doing here?

  Out of all the park benches she could choose to sit on in the world, why has she chosen one in the plaza before the building where I work? And it’s so cold out, so why was she wearing such a little jacket over her short skirt and black tights? It’s December, for Christ’s sake! I myself am wearing my thickest, longest coat that reaches all the way to my ankles to stay warm today what with the sudden wintry cold in the city. It’s almost as if she is wearing her sexy outfit to taunt me with her tall, perfect body, show me that she is so hot that she doesn’t need more clothes; all the looks she attracts from passing men keep her warm enough. I hate the way her eyes flashed with recognition at the sight of me, the flippant way she brushed back her long, blonde locks. She is clearly well aware of how beautiful she is and how men would do anything to get her in bed.

  I can’t shake the feeling that the smile on her lips wasn’t as friendly as she made it seem. There had been pity in it too, pity for the pathetic, insecure wife of Jason Woods. Someone as insecure as that doesn’t deserve a catch like him.

  Well, he is no longer the catch he used to be, I remind myself as I cross the street and head inside the diner. I wonder if she’d feel the same way about him if she knew what he had done. Knew what I knew about him. Knew that he is no way near the alpha male he likes the world to view him as. Underneath that handsome, alluring surface, he is nothing more than an insecure, sad man. The thought makes me feel a lot better.

  Plus, whether there was something more than friendliness in her smile or not, it doesn’t really matter. She might be hot, but in Manhattan girls like her are a dime a dozen. I doubt she has anything of substance to her, the way Jason likes his women. She is just some cheap-looking cocktail waitress working at a place no one who matters in this city cares about. Not anymore at least. Capital Grille is passé. I nod to myself. Definitely passé. Then I laugh at how insecure her sudden appearance has made me. Why do I waste even two seconds worrying about her?

  Besides, even if Jason does like her, it’s not like he could ever do something about it. After this evening, he will be in jail.

  A huge clump forms in my throat as I think about what I’m about to do, at the thought of how he’ll look at me when he knows I’m the one who betrayed him. I try to swallow it, but it remains in place, hard and painful. Will I ever get over the hurt in those clear blue eyes? I steel myself, pushing the terrible image out of my mind. Well, I guess I have no choice but to find a way to get over it. The idea of never letting on what I know makes me feel even worse.

  I walk up to the salad counter and ask the short guy behind it to make me a Cobb salad. I’m not sure why I even bother since I feel absolutely no hunger. Maybe it’s just to buy time. This morning after I left Jason in the cab we shared, I promised myself that I would go to the police and tell them who murdered Celeste Hyland after I had lunch today. If I don’t have a salad, there is nothing left for me to do but go now. Either way, it’s already one thirty, so I can’t wait much longer until I go.

  I pay for my salad and sparkling water and find a seat by the windows. Picking at my food with a white plastic fork, I can’t make myself eat any of it, just like I had suspected. The idea of putting it in my mouth makes me cringe. Involuntarily, I look for Claire only to see if I can get another glimpse of her. But she is gone.

  When it’s almost two o’clock, I resign myself to the fate of what needs to be done. I throw away the salad but keep the water bottle and then leave the diner. Out on the street, I raise my hand to stop a cab, hoping against hope that none will stop for me, that they’ll all ignore me forever. But I’m not that lucky—two cabs stop instantly, competing for my attention. I choose the one that is closest to me and jump inside.

  I give the driver the directions to a police station in the very north of Manhattan that I found online while at work. It seems somehow kinder to Jason if the cops come from a station that is not close to where we live or where either of us works. I pray for plenty of traffic so it will take me forever to get to the station; I’m even half hoping that we will end up in an accident that will kill us both. That way I won’t have to go through with the horrible thing I’m about to do. But
there is little traffic and the driver uses care as he smoothly zips along the long streets of Manhattan, never even getting close to hitting another car and instead staying safely away from all other vehicles. My heart is slamming in my chest and my mouth is dry. I feel weak and dizzy. I find the water bottle in my purse, open it and lukewarm liquid is in my mouth. I keep sipping and sipping, but the dryness doesn’t go away.

  You can do this, Lexi, I cheer myself silently. You have no choice but to do it. It doesn’t matter that you love this man and that it will break your heart when he realizes how you’ve betrayed him. Killing another person is wrong.

  My heart is beating so violently it hurts, but I welcome the pain. It’s nothing compared to the pain in my soul. The hangover has long since passed, courtesy of the Advil I took this morning. In fact, I’m biting the inside of my cheek so hard I soon taste something coppery in my mouth and I know I must be bleeding. That doesn’t stop me from biting another part of my cheek, though.

  Of course—as if I’m not already suffering enough—I receive a text from Jason, as I’m only a few blocks away from the street where the police station is located.

  “How are you?” he wants to know.

  I stare at the three simple words my husband has inquired of me and the pain in my stomach is more than I can bear. Warm tears start streaming down my cheeks as I type back: “I’m good. What about you?”

  My phone buzzes with his reply: “In a cab for a meeting in midtown. I forgot to tell you something this morning.”

  I can just barely make out what he has written and just barely type my response back to him: “What’s that?”

  “That I love you.”

  Chapter 14

  I spend another afternoon at the same shoddy, dark bar I visited yesterday, but this time around I’m asking the bald, potbellied bartender to serve me vodka straight up instead of cheap bar wine. He pours me glass after glass, asking no questions, and I swallow them as easily as if the contents of my glass had been water. I have placed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar counter and told him to keep my glass full at all times.