by A. M. Geever
“You told me in no uncertain terms that there is no ‘this’ anymore.”
His hands traveled to the small of her back. She barely stopped herself from pushing her pelvis against his.
“Mario,” she pleaded, breathless. She looked into his eyes, deep and fathomless, for the first time.
“Just say the word and I’ll stop.”
He undid the top three buttons of her shirt, then the clasp at the front of her bra. Her breasts spilled out from the sheer, nearly translucent fabric. He cupped them gently in his hands before pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers so hard tears sprang to her eyes.
The room slipped out of focus. She could hear the children shouting nearby as they played. She thought she could hear Emily laugh and the low murmur of Connor’s voice. But they weren’t at this end of the house.
Mario latched on to her nipple, teasing with his teeth and tongue. Her breath hissed out as a jolt of raw need raced through her body. His strong hands felt blazing where they held her waist. Had she worn this top and almost see-through bra hoping this might happen? She couldn’t remember if he had bothered to lock the door.
He unzipped her cargo pants, shoving them down past her knees. She heard the rip of fabric as he tore her panties and pushed them aside.
An urgent voice in her head shouted: Get out of here! But the voice seemed far away, and Mario was so near. His hand traveled down, stopping just short of exploring the folds of her sex. He looked into Miranda’s eyes, a dare in his own.
“Just tell me to stop.”
She tried to say it. She tried to say stop, go away, leave me alone, but deep down, she was not sure she wanted to. His fingers continued their caresses and she trembled, on fire where he touched her. A delicious heat snaked up from her center along her spine, leaving sensuous ripples in their wake.
All I have to do is tell him to stop, she thought, frantic. Just push him away and walk out that door. She thought of Connor, of Emily. The toys of Mario’s children cluttered the room. His eyes held hers like a magnet.
“Don’t stop.”
She pushed against his hand as his fingers slid inside her. When his thumb made lazy circles around her clit, she groaned with pleasure.
“Fighting it only makes this better, Miri. You’re so wet. You never could lie.”
His tongue crashed between her lips to claim them. His kiss was possessive, lips scorching and burning along her jaw as he made his way up to her ear.
She pulled him back to her mouth. Aching need consumed her. Her hands burrowed under his shirt, over the muscles of his stomach and chest. He helped her pull the shirt over his head, then pushed her back and dropped to his knees. One pant leg stuck on her combat boot, he pulled it down and inside out. He ran his hands halfway up the inside of her thighs and pushed just enough that her ass crested the edge of the sink. She settled her boot-clad feet on his shoulders, too turned on to care how heavy and awkward they were. His hands slid down the inside of her thighs. When he reached her knees, he spread them wide, putting her on brazen display.
Jesus Christ, what am I doing?
Heat radiated from his parted lips, but he made no move to touch her. Desire and frustration rolled off her in waves.
“Mario, go down on me, please. Please.”
He moved fractionally closer and blew on her swollen flesh. Goose bumps prickled up her abdomen and breasts. When he nuzzled her inner thigh, she began to cry from frustration.
Stop this, you idiot! Stop! Get away!
She writhed, trying to move closer so he could not resist.
“Please, Mario, please. I’m begging you.”
Her heart filled with self-loathing for being unable to stop herself, for the pathetic, uneven voice that helped him humiliate her. She hated what he’d done, hated what he represented. And she was begging for his touch like a beaten-down dog. Her body felt like it would dissolve into a million quivering pieces.
He pulled away and looked up at her, hunger and triumph in his dark eyes, like he knew this would happen. Like it was inevitable.
“You’re mine,” he said. “You always will be.”
Miranda’s entire existence narrowed to the intersection of her blazing flesh and Mario’s mouth. She sunk into the lush pleasure rushing through her. Mario no longer blocked the door—he had not even bothered to close it! Connor could walk by at any moment and what would he see? The man they were supposed to destroy nestled between her legs while she trembled like a teenager about to have her first orgasm.
Oh my God, what would he think of me?
The thought of discovery—of such humiliating disgrace—pushed her over the precipice. She teetered for a stretched-out moment of exquisite agony before exploding in Mario’s mouth. He held her tightly against him as she rode the waves of her climax, biting her lip to muffle her cries. Just when she thought it might never stop, her whole body released, catching her in a lazy downward drift that left her trembling and panting on the edge of the sink.
Mario turned her so brusquely she squeaked in surprise. She heard a metal zzzzzzzzpt before he pushed her over the sink and entered her with a shove. A startled sigh escaped her as he grabbed her hips and began to move inside her, his breath ragged and uneven. He tugged her shirt off her arm, sending the remaining buttons pinging against the marble basin. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She cried out as her back arched painfully. He dug his fingers into her hair above the barrette that held her ponytail in place and yanked it, hard. The barrette snapped open. Her hair not clenched in his fist tumbled down in a shimmering auburn wave.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes, Miranda. Watch me fuck you.”
She whimpered and moaned. Her lust-flushed face glowed with a fine sheen of sweat. Her treacherous body moved in time with his, an inexorable tension building within her. She watched his reflection wrap her hair around his hand like reins as he rode his frenzied passion.
She bucked against him as she came again. He let go of her hair, covering her mouth to stifle her cries. He lowered his head, caught her bare shoulder between his teeth to muffle the strangled cry of his own release. He pressed deep inside her one last time before his jaw relaxed. The angry red marks of his teeth were stark against her pale skin.
Miranda sprawled over the sink while he pulled away and fastened his jeans. There were even toys here, next to the spigot. But they had not been there a moment ago; she was sure of it. How could she have missed them? Miranda pushed herself up, disoriented and confused. This room, the toys, what she had just done. Everything felt wrong.
She started to turn away, but Mario pinned her against the sink. He pushed the shirt barely clinging to her left shoulder aside. His hands slid around her. One caressed her breast, the other rested on the tiny swell of her stomach just below her belly button.
“Do you still think there’s no ‘this’?” he panted in her ear.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she whispered, waves of humiliation threatening to drown her. “You can never change what you did.”
She locked eyes with him in the mirror, her visage still clouded with lust and her heart overflowing with shame. Long auburn locks draped over her breast below the shoulder he had bitten. The still erect nipple peeked out from the silken strands. A defiant gleam filled her stormy eyes. Her lips curled in a sneer at odds with her flushed, pink face.
“I hate you.”
He only smiled in answer, then turned her around and raised his hand to her chin. He tipped her mouth to his. Unlike before, this kiss was soft, even tender. He gently explored her mouth and she responded, arousal beginning to stir once more.
Ashamed, Miranda tried to pull away, but he caught her face in his hands and stroked her cheek with his thumb.
He said, “I know you believe that, Miri, but I still want you. I still need you. And you still need me, no matter how much you deny it. We’ll never be finished with each other.”
He stepped back, then stooped to retrieve hi
s discarded shirt and left without a backward glance.
Miranda began to cry, then sob. She doubled over, tears splattering on her knees, and realized she was going to be sick. She stumbled on the cargo pants still stuck on her boot, barely making it to the toilet in time. When she quit retching, she sunk back and rested her sweaty forehead on the cold toilet basin. Part of her wished Mario would come back.
What if I get pregnant? What the fuck is wrong with me?
It took a few minutes before she felt she could stand up without getting sick again. She went to the sink and rinsed her mouth and face. Mario’s words echoed through her mind as she began to untwist and refasten her disheveled clothes. She had managed to avoid him for so long, for almost five years, and now this. She felt like an addict, like a junkie who had blown years of sobriety for a fix.
I’m losing my mind… He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. How could he when he knows I despise him?
But even as the thought formed, she knew it for a lie. Her hatred was intense but had never been as total as she claimed, as she knew it should be. Beneath it, something else, something unspeakably shameful, refused to die. She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
He chose the dark side with such ease.
That was what stung.
Still.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouted, unleashing her fury at her reflection. “Why did you do this?”
Miranda shut her eyes, unable to stand the sight of herself, and crumpled to the floor.
“What the hell have I done?”
19
Miranda woke with a start, heart hammering in her chest. Her cheeks were sticky with tears. Delilah yipped in alarm as she fumbled in the darkness, almost knocking over a lamp before switching it on. She was in her bed. That meant she was at home. She pulled at the collar of her t-shirt. Relief that there were no teeth marks flooded through her. It had been a dream. A horrible dream, but nothing more.
The sexual afterglow of her dream state encounter hummed beneath the subsiding panic. She had read once that the human body is unable to distinguish the sensory input of dreams from waking life, which is why they seem so real. Her body’s current state of panicked arousal seemed a powerful affirmation. Miranda had not had a dream about being with Mario in a very long time.
He was cruel in her dreams…controlling her, owning her, proving her wrong. The waking world had never been like that. She groaned as she lay back against the pillow.
What was I thinking, going to their house when I knew he would be there?
He had reappeared as they were leaving, timing it so he caught her alone. Connor and Emily were already out the door helping a very drunk Karen, who weaved crazily while insisting she did not need their help. Miranda was almost at the door when he called to her.
“Miranda, wait.”
She turned to find Mario standing in the foyer near the table at the foot of the curved staircase. He looked awkward and out of place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a far cry from his usual Lord of the Manor airs. The idea of engaging in another verbal sparring match depressed her.
“I don’t have the energy for this. Coming here was a mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I want— I need to tell you. I’m sorry about earlier, what I said.”
She was taken aback, not sure she had heard him correctly. He came closer but stopped well short of her.
“I uh, I got… He’s in love with you.”
“Connor?” She spoke without thinking. If she had taken the time to think, she would not have spoken at all.
“Yeah, Connor,” Mario replied bitterly, looking away. “He’s in love with you and I…lost my temper, when you brought up Sonalto. But mostly—” He stopped and raised his eyes to hers. He looked desperate. “Mostly I was jealous.”
What did he expect her to say to that? And why tell her this, why apologize, why now? She searched his face, confused, like he had popped out of thin air in front of her. But it wasn’t Mario Santorello, Petty Despot, standing in front of her. It was Mario, the man she had loved before he ruined everything.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
A sad half-smile crossed his face. “Seeing you today, seeing him… I miss you so much, Miri.”
Mario’s voice trailed off. He had closed the distance between them while he spoke. She could smell the sweet tang of bourbon on his breath. Tentatively, he raised his hand and touched her cheek, feather-light.
“I miss us,” he whispered.
The unreality of the conversation made Miranda feel light-headed. She felt like she had on that fateful night. It was as if the two of them existed in a bubble out of time from the rest of the world.
“I miss us too.”
The words were out of her mouth before she realized it. Her Mario stood before her, and he still loved her. She could see it in his stormy eyes.
She had bolted for the door.
Miranda began to relax, and Delilah snuggled back down into her nest of blankets. I wish I could settle as easy as you, little dog. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool and the distance between the bed and the dresser seemed greater than usual. She had taken a Percocet earlier, crushing the pill so that when it kicked in, it felt like being hit by a freight train. A freight train washed down with a glass of red wine in the hope of falling into a dreamless sleep. She looked down at her arms, crisscrossed with new cuts.
She stood up but felt wobbly, so sat back down. I’m still high as a kite, she realized with a giggle. If this was a zombie movie, this is where I’d buy the farm. That made her laugh out loud, being a farmer and all. She stood again, prepared for the wobbles this time, and walked over to the dresser. The top drawer held her underthings as well as a wooden box made of cherry. She ran her fingers over the satin smooth surface, finished with Danish oil so that nothing came between the wood and her fingers.
Mario had made it as a present for her twenty-second birthday.
Miranda returned to the bed and sat cross-legged, settling the box in front of her. She slid the lid along the carved grooves to reveal crinkled letters and dog-eared photographs, pieces of sea glass and small stones with colors that had caught her eye, or shapes that felt good in her hand. There was a lock of Michael’s hair tied in a thin blue ribbon that Emily had given her the day she stood as his godmother.
She rifled through the contents until she found the picture, the first she had printed after the ZA. Younger versions of herself, Emily, Mario, Doug, and Karen grinned at her. Happier faces from a simpler time, at least interpersonally. It had been taken near the end of the first year. Mario and Emily had not been married that long.
Miranda had met him three months earlier. She arrived at The Hut first, which was out of character. Usually she was fifteen minutes late at least. The Hut had been a student bar before the ZA. It was on the edge of the SCU campus and because it had been secured by undergrads trapped in their watering hole, was behind SCU’s original wall fortifications. In those days you could get homebrew beer, moonshine, and very bad bathtub gin. Good booze—real booze—the stuff scavenged from warehouses, vineyards, and distilleries, was hoarded as a universally accepted currency but a libation rarely imbibed.
She saw Emily walk through the door with a man.
That must be the guy.
“Miranda!” Emily called. As she came closer and the glare of the late afternoon light was blocked by the closing door, Miranda saw that she was smiling. Emily had not done that in a long time.
“Hey,” Miranda answered, hugging Emily tight.
“I’m so glad you’re safe, Miri. I can’t believe you go on those scavenging missions. You’re insane to go out there!”
Miranda shrugged. She had no good comeback to that.
“So,” Emily continued, stepping back from Miranda to include her companion in the circle, “Miranda, this is Mario.
Mario, this is my good friend, Miranda Tucci.”
“Hi,” Mario said, reaching forward to shake her hand, “it’s nice to meet you.”
Wow, Miranda thought, he is something else.
The slow smile that curved Mario’s lips reminded her of the fluid grace of a stretching cat. Light-brown eyes hooded by a half-formed squint danced with good humor, as if he and she were in on a joke. He had dimples—of course—to go along with the smile, like an actor plucked from central casting. His nose was straight above a strong, square chin and his short dark hair had a slight wave that reminded Miranda of her brother Matthew. She swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat.
Mario grasped Miranda’s hand in his and a shock snapped against her palm. From his look of surprise, she could tell he had felt it, too—less pinchy than static electricity but more intense. She almost jerked away but did not want to let go of his hand. The way it fit around hers felt right.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she finally said.
Mario had barely excused himself to get some drinks when Emily blurted out, “What do you think?”
The last time Miranda had seen Emily, she had been withdrawn and depressed, flinching at any loud noise and rarely speaking, let alone gushing. Now, she vibrated with excitement.
“I’ve only said hello, but he seems nice. He’s a total dish, Em.”
“He is, Miranda. You’re going to love him.” Emily sighed.
“Sounds like you do already,” Miranda teased.
“I really like Mario,” Emily answered, then stopped and looked at Miranda, uncertain. “This is going to sound terrible, Miri, but I feel safe when I’m with him. That’s what I love. Does that make me a horrible person?”
Two months ago, Miranda thought Emily was always going to be a basket case. She just could not adjust to how the world had changed. And then she reconnected with Mario Santorello, who had taken charge of the group of survivors Emily had been among at the very beginning. When Emily went to SCU, he stayed behind to help fortify the GeneSys building and they lost touch, until now.