by Box Set
He reaches for the button on my trousers. I tense, my hands landing automatically on his to stop him. I know there’s nothing I can do, but I’m feeling protective. I don’t know what he plans, but the pit of my stomach tells me it’s horrible. I whimper as he pulls the buttons apart and tugs the fabric down my hips, dragging each of the pant legs off my feet with impatient jerks. He makes quick, efficient work of my bra and panties, leaving me shivering, naked and in tears.
For the first time in our marriage, Andres has treated me as though I don’t matter. As though my physical body is nothing to him. I’ve never failed to turn him on before, yet he’s acting as though I am just a thing, a nuisance getting in between him and a shower.
He turns his back to me and starts removing his own clothing. “Why are you doing this?” I ask timidly. When he ignores me, I clarify, “I mean why the shower? You obviously can’t stand being near me right now. Why are we showering together? L-like we used to?”
He turns around suddenly, a snarl on his lips. I back up so quickly, my hip strikes the vanity with enough force to tear a cry from me. Seemingly without thought, he grabs my arm and steadies me. “Don’t fucking question me, Luna.”
Heart pounding, fear coursing through my veins, I nod. When he releases my arm, I bring my hands up between us, a gesture of peace and a way to put a barrier between us, even a feeble one. His eye drops to the ring on my finger and he reaches for my hand, grabbing hold of it in a tight grip.
My wedding ring is big and beautiful. Some might call it gaudy, but to me it is perfect. It symbolizes everything Andres and I have together, everything he’s given to me. So when he wrenches it from my finger, nearly breaking the knuckle as he drags it from me, my devastation is complete. The fog I’ve been in since this ordeal began lifts and I’m driven to my knees before the man that put the ring on my finger.
Sobs of animal-like pain erupt from my throat. I have given up everything. I walked away from a beautiful mansion with hand-picked furnishings. I walked away from bottomless amounts of cash, unlimited credit cards and trips all over the world. But worst of all, I walked away from a man that I still love with every fibre of my being. A man that touches every part of me and satisfies my physical body as well as my soul. I did this for my children; their health, their safety and their future. And I failed to save them. Now I have nothing, no children, no husband and no ring. Having the last symbolic part of my marriage torn away from me breaks my heart in a way nothing else can.
He puts the ring in his pocket and finishes undressing. Then he grabs me by the hair and shakes me. “Stop it,” he says coldly and thrusts me, still crying, into the shower.
The cool water hits my body, shocking me. I swipe at the tears and try to take calming breaths, shivering under the cold spray. Gradually the sobs die away and the tightness in my chest begins to ease. I cross my arms over my chest, my fingers wrapped around each bicep and I drop my head, allowing the water to rain down over my head. Even cold, it’s better than nothing. This is what I do when whenever the world feels like it’s closing in, like it’s becoming too much for me. I stand in the shower and allow it to wash away my burdens. I cry out my misery and loneliness where only the water can hear. Only Andres knows my secret. He knows that I seek the comfort of water when I’m sad. Did he do this on purpose? Bring me to the shower when I was at my lowest point because he knew it would bring me comfort?
I’m reminded of my mother’s death three years ago, the helpless misery I felt as I watched her fade as cancer ate away at her. Each day I would make the trek home from the hospital and climb into the shower, bow my head and cry out my agony and rage. Sometimes my Andres would come sit on the toilet or stand behind me in the shower. He would never say anything. He would simply stay and watch over me, a silent sentinel, there if I needed him.
Just as I begin to soften, begin to hope that he’s brought me here to save our marriage, he takes hold of me and spins me around. My head snaps up. I look into his icy, bleak eyes and I remember why he’s brought me here, for one reason, he’s brought me here for death. This shower means nothing to him. He reads my mind, picking my thoughts through the expressions he’s spent years lovingly memorizing.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice hard and tired.
“Please, Andres,” I implore, bringing my hand up to his chest, caressing him the way I used to. “We can talk this through.”
He slaps my arm away with such force that I feel something give, something snap in my arm. I scream and grab myself, but he takes hold of both my wrists, swinging me around, picking me up and slamming my back against the wall. He thrusts his leg between mine. I can feel his erection heavy against my thigh. His breath is hot on my neck. I turn my head to see his eyes blazing into mine.
“You could’ve talked to me a week ago, Luna,” he says, his voice quiet, despite the anger I feel thrumming through his muscles. “Instead you chose another, far deadlier path. You stole my entire existence and ran like a fucking thief in the night. For that you will pay.”
Before I can respond he takes my lips with his in a brutal kiss. This is not a kiss of passion or love, this is a kiss of pain and revenge, of a man who thinks he has been wronged. This is the worst kiss of my life. He seeks entrance with his tongue and I refuse him. He releases one of my wrists, reaches up and grips my jaw, forcing my mouth open. One of my lips grinds against a tooth, cutting. Blood fills my mouth and I cry out, but the sound is swallowed by his vicious kiss.
I am now weeping uncontrollably in his arms as our kiss goes on and on. I lay against the shower tiles, exhausted and helpless, nothing but a ragdoll. Finally, he moves his face away from mine. I feel a trickle of blood drip down my chin. He shoves his head against my neck and turns his face away as though he doesn’t want to look at me anymore. He reaches between my thighs and thrusts a finger inside me, his hand both familiar yet rough in a way he’s never been.
My body responds on a primal level, recognizing my husband, the man who has brought me to countless orgasms. But my mind rebels, frightened of this new person who holds me against my will. I’m terrified of my uncertain fate. I can’t reconcile the man holding me, fucking me with rough strokes of his long fingers.
“Ahhh,” I moan. “Please stop! I can’t do this, Andres. Not like this… please!”
“Shut up, Luna,” he growls, turning his mouth against my ear. “If I want to fuck my wife, I’ll fuck my wife.”
“But you’re gonna kill me!” I cry out, tears escaping my eyelids even as I feel my traitorous body responding to him, becoming wet, making the glide of his fingers so unbearably good. I can feel myself begin to peak in a way only my Andres can coax from me.
He pulls his fingers out and I start to relax, hoping he’s done, that maybe he was just messing around, trying to humiliate me a little. Instead he lifts my leg around his hip, grips my throat and shoves his cock into me so hard my back hits the tiled wall with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs. I gasp and cling to him, dragging my nails down his tattooed biceps as I go weak in his arms.
“If I want to punish my wife,” he shouts savagely, throwing his head back, spraying water in an arc. “Then I will do whatever the fuck I want with her.”
“Andres!” I cry hoarsely, my voice begging.
He doesn’t hear me through his fierce grunts, the raining of the water and the slapping of our bodies. His fingers tighten around my neck and I can no longer utter a single sound. I begin to see black dots and I fight to stay conscious as he takes his pleasure from my body. Tears slip from my eyes, but still I can feel the heat gathering low in my abdomen, beckoning me toward that incredible, mind-blowing bliss.
My bruised shoulders take each strike against the shower wall while he continues to take me higher and higher with jolting thrusts. We’ve never had sex like this, so rough, so raw, so primal. My hands fall limply from his arms and I lay submissively against the wall taking each hit as pleasure snakes through me like a raging inferno.
J
ust as I slip into the black void of unconsciousness, my body spasms helplessly in the grip of a deep, dark orgasm unlike anything I’ve experienced.
I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake up in bed, Andres’ naked shoulders hovering over me. I blink a few times to bring him into focus. He’s holding my arm, the one that he injured in the shower. For just a second I think I see a flash of guilt cross his sharply handsome features, before he shutters the expression, replacing it with the bleak coldness I have come to expect when the men are working. He gets off the bed and tosses a blanket carelessly over me.
“Don’t make more of this than it is, Luna,” he says. “We both know how this interlude has to end. You stay here and I go home to our children.”
I stay here. As in… I stay here… in the ground.
He walks away, leaving me huddled under the covers of the bed, alone, and once more terrified for my life.
11
Andres
Her dark brown, almost black glittering eyes stare up at me like open wounds. She doesn’t want to die, she doesn’t want me to torture or hurt her. But she made her choice. There’s no going back for either of us.
I place her arm gently on the bed, cover her and turn away, leaving the room. I need space from her for a few minutes. Now that I have my wife at my mercy, I’m at war with myself. I want to punish her, fuck her… fuck her up. Break her, hurt her, tear her apart with my bare hands. But even the small amount of damage I’ve done makes me sick to my soul. Brings back the demons I’ve spent years chasing away.
I stalk into the living room, stare around for a moment, consider throwing myself into the chair while I wait for her to rise. To come to me with her weak explanations and excuses. But I know I can’t be this close to her right now. I’m at risk of finishing it. Of killing her before she gives me what I need. Restitution for destroying my entire world. I will have my pound of flesh before I escort her into hell.
I slam through the door and out into the mid-morning sun. The bright intensity is soothing. We are on a private piece of property off the coast of Spain. I purchased it several years ago when I needed a place that no one else knew about. This is where I come when the darkness of my work gets to me. When I know I can’t take it home to my family. I haven’t been here in two years though, not since the last time I willingly injected poison into my veins. Not since I cleaned up.
I never thought I’d be bringing Luna here. This place, my hellhole, my sanctuary. I thought maybe one day I’d return and burn it to the ground. Probably still will. Only my wife’s body will go up in flames with it.
The conjured image makes me sick. Like a mirage, the vision of Luna twisted and pale in death doesn’t solidify. It fades and shimmers into the blue sparkling ocean that I’m gazing at. In its place is a Luna that’s healthy and whole, laughing with our children. She’s wearing the designer clothes she recently purchased in Los Angeles, big golden hoop earrings in her ears, her ring back on her finger.
I touch my pocket, feeling the shape of her ring, fingering the sharp edge of her diamond through the rough material of my jeans. I can almost smell her, surrounded by a cloud of her favourite perfume, Coco Channel. That pink bottle, I don’t remember what it’s called.
I stand outside, staring at nothing until I’m calmer. I don’t know how long it takes. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. Sometimes I lose time like that. Disassociate and send myself somewhere else until I’m ready to deal again. It’s how I’ve been coping since the drug is no longer an option.
When I feel ready to face her again, I turn and head back to the house. She’s standing in the kitchen when I walk in, looking confused and delightfully disoriented, the way that she does after a heavy nap. Too fucking cute for her own good. I must’ve been standing outside for a while then. She jumps when I slam the door and turns to look at me, those big, dark eyes wide on my face. Her hair is a riot of honey brown tangles half down her back and half over her shoulder. She’s dug through the bag I packed for her because she’s wearing the simple pink cotton T-shirt and grey leggings I picked up for her.
A slow burn starts in the pit of my stomach and blood begins to rush through me, headed straight for my dick. She’s always made me feel this way, right from the very first moment. Just a glimpse and I want to taste those pouting lips, fuck that delicious body. Our years of marriage have taught me that I’m insatiable where Luna’s concerned. There will never be enough time for us.
Annoyed at the direction of my thoughts I snap, “Make us something to eat.”
Her lips open to form a perfect ‘O’, which doesn’t help the lustful direction of my thoughts. I can practically read her thoughts as she gazes doubtfully around the kitchen. I sit in one of the hard-backed chairs and slouch with my arms crossed over my chest. I sure as shit am not going to help her. She chose this path, she can walk it for as long as I’m willing to allow. She may as well provide some amusement for me while we’re forced into this situation.
She heads first for the fridge, only to find it completely empty expect for an old box of baking soda. The freezer yields similar results. She sighs and closes it softly. Tilting her head to the side she starts going through cupboards, taking stock of everything inside. It surprises me when she finds the pantry and begins rummaging through, mumbling to herself over the limited possibilities. Finally, she settles on a can of soup, a can of brown beans and a juice mix.
She sets each item out on the counter, checks that the oven is gas powered so she can use it, then turns it on. She retraces her steps toward the cupboard that holds the pots and pans. I sit up a little straighter in my chair as she looks for a can opener, finds it and sets to work. She creates a simple lunch for us, but her movements are quick and efficient. All I’ve ever seen her do in our state-of-the-art designer kitchen at home is create meal plans with our expensive imported Parisian chef and make tea. This is a Luna I’ve never seen before.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I demand suspiciously as she stirs the soup heating on the stove.
She snorts and tosses me a quick look over her shoulder. “Opening a can is hardly cooking, Andres.”
“Never seen you do even this much,” I grunt.
She shrugs, turns down the heat on the now boiling soup and moves to the sink to make the juice crystals. “I had to feed myself and mama when she came home exhausted from working double shifts at the factory,” she explains, measuring water into the plastic container. She finds a long plastic spoon in one of the drawers and begins stirring. “I didn’t exactly learn how to cook gourmet or anything, but I could make simple, filling meals. I had to pull my weight around the house when I lived at home. Jobs were few and far between in that town, so it meant a lot that mama was bringing home a pay check. Cooking and cleaning for us was the least I could do.”
I remember the tiny shack of a house that I found Luna and her mother living in when I went to retrieve my future wife. I’d been arrogantly disgusted by the modest abode. I’d wanted to burn it down so she’d never have a place to go back to, but her mother had been sentimentally attached. Instead, I’d taken great pains to show Luna how much better her life would be with me. I’d driven away with her and hadn’t allowed her to ever look back.
Now, I remember that Luna had asked for help for her mother. Someone to cook and clean for her. I’d been delighted to give my woman anything her heart desired. But Luna’s mama had been a stubborn woman. She’d refused the offer, turning her nose up at a gift from a Los Zetas. I hadn’t cared either way, except that her refusal had rankled and I’d limited Luna’s access to her mother for a while. Seeing her bustling around the kitchen, talking softly of her mama, I feel a slice of guilt over my actions.
Luna places a steaming bowl of soup in front of me, a plate of baked beans and a glass of juice. When she drifts toward the sink I realize that, instead of eating, she intends to wash the dishes. “Sit,” I snap at her back, causing her to jump. “Eat.”
The metal spoon she’s holding clatters i
n the sink and she turns to look at me. For a long moment I wonder if she’ll defy me and refuse to sit down. I bring my arms up and set them on the table, preparing to go get her and force her compliance. I fully intend to sit her down and force the food down her throat. I don’t give a shit about her comfort, I want her to know I’m serious. She will do everything I command, when I command it, without hesitation.
She pauses a second too long. I bring my fist down on the table, causing soup to spill from my bowl, and shout, “Sit the fuck down!”
She jumps, a squeak of fear erupting from her throat. She quickly pours herself a bowl of soup and sits, her legs collapsing beneath her so her ass hits the wooden seat with teeth-jarring force. I smile in dark amusement. This disheveled woman with rings of exhaustion beneath her eyes, no makeup, no jewellery, simple clothing and hair in wild disarray is a side of my wife I’ve never seen. I wish she was ugly, but I find her just as attractive as ever. Perhaps more so. This Luna is vulnerable, approachable. She looks like she’s been freshly fucked. She looks like she’s begging to be fucked again; so sweet, so innocent. So in need of another good, hard fucking.
I give my head a slight shake and put my spoon in the bowl, tasting the surprisingly good soup. It’s basic canned chicken gumbo, but she’s added some kind of seasoning to spruce it up. The beans go oddly well with it and fill my empty belly. I finish my plate, help myself to the leftovers and eat until I’m satisfied. I drain my glass of juice, enjoying the sweet, slightly tart taste.
Only after I’ve set the glass on the table do I remember that I’ve hurt her arm. I open my mouth to ask about the injury, but I stop myself. I don’t want to give her the impression that I care more than I should, give her hope. She can’t build the expectation that our interlude here will end in any way other than her death.