by Penny Wynter
His free hand closes around my throat from behind as he fucks me with slow movements. If it wasn't for the vicious grip on my windpipe, this would feel tender.
"That really sounds like something I would enjoy. I've always loved it when you acted all calm and collected while only I was able to turn you into that wanton slut."
"Your slut," I pant, my knuckles white from clinging to the edge of the tub. I can't breathe, and my brain is swimming in my head. Yet, I don't want him to stop.
I love how good he makes me feel. He changes the angle of his thrusts, going even deeper now, hitting my G-spot every time. This all feels so familiar that it brings new tears to my eyes.
"No," Dom grunts next to my ear. "Stop thinking, or I will make you stop."
"Do it. Make me stop."
With a snarl, he starts fucking me in earnest, going almost too deep. I can feel the orgasm building as he rubs my clit. As I cum, he squeezes my neck tighter, and I can't breathe anymore. The darkness creeps into the edge of my vision. I should feel panic, but I'm calm. He's in charge, and there's nothing I can do.
The blackness comes closer, and I explode with a second orgasm while my husband pounds me hard, flooding the bathroom with the water from the tub.
I can feel the tension drain from my body and the worry from my mind before I lose consciousness.
11
I'm barely awake when Dom carries me into the bedroom and puts me down, draping the blanket over my body. His kiss is tender. "Sleep."
I must have obeyed him because when I wake up, the sunlight floods the room. It smells like coffee before Dom enters. He's carrying a tray with a big cup of coffee and an omelet with cheese—my favorite breakfast.
He smiles. "You're up. How are you feeling?"
"Good. Better than yesterday. Still confused and scared. But good, I guess."
He laughs and puts the tray down. "That's a lot to feel."
"A part of me is happy that I remember now, but I'm still on the fence. What if you're lying and you attacked me, and your scar has nothing to do with it at all? I don't remember you having it before, but six years is a long time. Speaking of six years, what will my aunt say if she sees me? I've been gone for so long, and I've worked so hard to build a new life, literally from nothing."
"You're doing it again." He hands me the cup. "You've never been good with letting things happen. Give yourself time to process things. We'll talk and figure out what we're going to do. You're not alone anymore."
My eyes drop to his naked chest and the scar. Damn, I really hope he's telling the truth. "Do you have something I can wear? You know, someone cut my clothes into tiny pieces."
"Of course. Call me overly optimistic, but I brought a few of your things." He gets up and opens the built-in wardrobe.
I recognize my old Marilyn Manson shirt, and it makes my heart beat faster as stupid as it may seem.
He hands it to me, but before I can say anything, the doorbell rings.
Dom frowns. "Who the fuck is this? I didn't invite anyone. Don't move. I'll be right back."
He leaves the room, and I get up. There's a blue pickup truck parked behind my rental car with a trail in the snow leading to the door. It hasn't stopped snowing, and the person must have been up to the belly in snow, wading to the door.
I hear low voices in the hallway as I slip that shirt on.
"Whose car is that parking in front of me?"
"It's a long story." Dom sighs. "What are you doing here?"
"I was bored and thought we could maybe go over the production schedule to see if we can make any adjustments to speed things up when the weather finally gets better."
"I'm sorry, but now is really not a good time. You should have called."
"Oh, come on," the other man says. "We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. What else do you have to do unless . . . oh, wait. Does this car belong to a woman? Did you finally cave and get yourself a whore? Good for you, man."
I don't know why but I feel compelled to get downstairs and take at least a look at Dom's colleague. He will have to introduce me sooner or later, anyway.
I quickly grab a pair of Dom's boxers and walk to the stairs. The carpet swallows the sound of my naked feet.
Dom blocks my view, but he turns around as he hears me coming. With a sigh, he shakes his head. "You just can't listen, can you? Well, I guess, the secret is out now." He takes a step to the side so I can see the visitor.
He looks vaguely familiar, but it isn't until he points at me and starts yelling that I remember him. "Whatever that fucking bitch told you, it's not true."
At first, I have no idea what he's talking about, but then my hand explodes with the throbbing pain from the ripped out fingernail that I only feel when I'm intensely stressed. But even then, it's never as bad as it is now. Clutching my hand to my chest, I stare at the man, and the missing piece falls into place.
"It was you."
"Shut up, whore." He takes a step toward me. "Shut up! Or I swear to God . . ."
The man is Stefano, my husband's younger and always envious brother. It all makes sense now. A sharp pain flashes behind my temples as it all comes back.
I can barely react as Dom grabs my shoulder and drags me into the living room. Stefano closes the entry door behind him and follows us, leaving a trail of snow on the floor.
"She showed up yesterday, pretending not to remember anything." Dom sounds disgusted and shoves me away from him.
I stumble back, close to crying because I can't believe he would lie to me like that.
Stefano looks at my naked legs, sneering. "That doesn't seem to have stopped you from fucking her, anyway."
My husband shrugs. "She's still a good lay."
The irony makes me choke. If only Dom knew how close to the truth he is.
"Besides, she pretended not to know me and said her name was Amber." Dom casually walks to the mantel and leans against it, his eyes sparkling. "I still haven't figured my revenge for the attempt on my life, so I thought fuck it, there are worse ways to pass the time."
A cold hand squeezes my heart, and it hurts even more than having my skull bashed in. I want to say something, anything, so many things, but I don't find the right words.
"Yeah, well I can help you with your revenge. Maybe you should let me have a go at her." Stefano smirks, his eyes glued to my legs like he's never seen a woman in shorts before.
"That actually sounds like a good idea. Feel free. I'm done with her." Dom simply shrugs, casually leaning like it's no big deal.
Each word cuts like a dagger, and I can feel the first tear roll down my cheek as his brother comes closer, already reaching for me.
I'm frozen. I know I should turn around and run or at least scream, but I just stand there like an idiot, unable to move a single muscle.
Since I can't stand the idea of looking at Stefano, as he touches me, I close my eyes, and I wait. It feels like an eternity, yet the touch doesn't come.
Something wet splatters across my face before a heavy thud makes me open my eyes again.
Dom isn't even breathing heavily as he looks at me, the fireplace poker still in his hands. The tip is bloody, bits and pieces of organic material clinging to it.
Stefano's lying on the floor, twitching and groaning, the back of his head smashed in.
"You think he's dead?" My husband sounds calm as ever.
"No."
"Turn around and cover your ears, darling." His voice is soft, yet I obey him faster than when he uses his strictest master voice.
The sound is muffled, but I can hear him bringing the poker down two more times. My knees buckle, and I can't keep upright anymore. Luckily for me, my husband has the reflexes of a cat and catches me before I hit the ground.
12
Sitting at the kitchen table, my fingers cling to my hot cup of coffee. Finally, I'm able to feel my feet again. Dom didn't want me to help him, but I insisted.
"I'm still not sure that the snow will keep the animals awa
y."
Dom shrugs and pulls back the other chair. "The body will be frozen soon, and I don't think that Bambi will come along to chew on a popsicle. And as soon as the weather holds, we will take him somewhere else."
"Thank you for believing me." I put my hand on his as he sits down, squeezing.
"Always, darling. I'm pissed at myself that I didn't notice anything. Are you ready to tell me?" He cocks his eyebrow to make sure that I understand that it's not really a question.
"Yes." I clear my throat. "Those Polaroids you threw out when I was still 17."
Dom nods. "I remember."
"Stefano went through your trash and took them. He kept them all those years until he couldn't take living in your shadow anymore. He threatened to publish them and make everyone believe that you had sex with a minor. My hair was blue at that time, and there was this press release with a picture of all of us. I had the exact same hair, and the date was printed on the press release. I didn't want your career to take a hit because I had been a stupid teenager. I put Stefano off as long as I could, but he wanted to fuck me. That night I finally concluded that I had to get rid of him. I gave you the sedatives so you wouldn't notice me sneaking out. But Stefano was afraid I could pull one over him and messed my whole plan up. He showed up at our home, demanding that I leave with him right now. We fought in the kitchen, and he grabbed the knife, coming at me. That was when you stumbled down the stairs. Stefano basically said, 'Fuck it.' and stabbed you. He wanted to make it seem like a robbery gone wrong, rape me, and inherit your money. He knocked me out when I attacked him out of worry for you. I woke up on his boat and managed to free myself. We fought again, and he hit me on the head with an anchor. I must have gone overboard, and apparently we were somewhere near Whimbrel Point, Canada."
"That fucking bastard. I can't believe it. After all I've done for him. You should have seen the crocodile tears he spilled at my hospital bed. Damn psychopath."
"So, what do we do know?" I ask, feeling calm again, now that the threat is gone once and for all.
"You will write your best book yet. The truth about Amber Alderwood. Make it sad, gripping, pull all of those heartstrings and then . . . in a couple of years you and Ramsey can try to solve the mystery of my brother's disappearance. So awful, can you imagine? Her poor husband gets his wife back only to lose his brother. Such a shame."
I can feel the smile on my face. "Okay. We need to make a list. Where do we dump the body, and what do we do with the car?"
Dom leans back, crossing his hands behind his head. "We could make it look like an accident. It's easy to drive the car against something hidden under the snow. We just leave the door open and make it seem like he had an accident and stumbled away through the snow to be lost forever."
"That's brilliant."
"Isn't that why you married me?" My husband grins.
"Among other things. I can get some paper for our list."
"Or . . . Or you can take your clothes off and hop on the table, legs spread. I need a taste of my pretty wife before I can focus on work again. We still need to catch up a bit more before we face the rest of the world."
I get up. "As long as we face it together."
"You bet. There's no fucking way I'm ever letting you out of my sight again. I would kill to keep you."
"That might be the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."
"As long as I don't scare Amber." His smile is sinister.
"Oh, Amber will run screaming from a guy like you."
"Maybe we should keep her around as well. I like me a good chase."
A thrill runs down my spine. "I love you, my sick pervert."
His eyes light up. "You remembered."
Slowly I nod and pull the shirt over my head. As I step out of the boxers, Dom grabs my hips and lifts me onto the table. He pushes my upper body back and parts my thighs.
I feel his breath on my pussy.
"I love you too, my sick little pervert," he says before he bites me hard enough to make me scream.
But this sick little pervert wouldn't have it any other way.
THE END
Copyright © 2020 Penny Wynter
Cover © Maksim Šmeljov – stock.adobe.com
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https://blackumbrellapublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.