by Selena
I had that inside my mouth. Warmth shimmers through my lower belly, and my mouth puckers with saliva just looking at the shape of it. Even when it’s not hard, I can see he’s big. And not just big, but nice looking, all smooth and straight and well-groomed. I wish the light was on, that I could see more. I know I shouldn’t, that I’m spying, but it makes my heart race in a familiar, exciting way. It’s all I can do not to let out a sigh of disappointment when he pulls on a pair of sweats, wincing when he drags them up over his injured thigh.
A minute later, he sinks onto the edge of the bed and strokes my hair back with his good hand. “Eliza?” he whispers. “You awake?”
I don’t move, don’t answer. I let my lids relax closed so he won’t see a glint between my lashes. My heart is beating so loud in my ears I think he’ll hear it, that he’ll know I’m awake, that I was watching, that butterflies are swarming in my belly and warmth coiling beneath it.
He leans down and presses his lips gently to my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry about everything.”
Without waiting for an answer, he gets up and walks out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
seventeen
King
I’m standing in the kitchen looking out over the neighborhood when I hear footsteps behind me. The August sun is murky in the east, the heat visible over the buildings even at eight in the morning, but I turn away, spinning around fast enough that my coffee sloshes out of the mug.
“You’re jumpy this morning,” Eliza says, giving me a little smirk. She picks up the coffee pot and pours some into one of the tiny teacups we got for our wedding.
“Someone tried to kill me yesterday,” I say, grabbing a hand towel to wipe up the drops I spilled on the floor.
“I’ll get a maid today,” Eliza says, gesturing around the kitchen, which I cleaned up last night after she went to bed.
“Is that why you’re up so early?”
“You’re working today?” she asks, watching me adjust my tie. It’s too hot for this shit even with the air on. There’s not enough AC in the Bronx to cool a penthouse apartment on a day like today.
“Do you need me for something?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her voice light. “It’s just… You’re shot.”
“I work every day,” I point out. “Did you want me to help you interview for the maid position?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she says. “I’m meeting Bianca for lunch, anyway. I need to ask her about something.”
I watch her swallow a mouthful of coffee, her cognac eyes meeting mine over the rim of the cup. She smiles shyly, and a twist of guilt tugs inside me. After she stitched me up last night, I cleaned up and then turned in, staying on my side of the king bed, with an ocean of space between us. I wanted to hold her, but I didn’t know how she’d react to that after I basically accused her of trying to kill me.
So instead of holding her like I have for the past week, I lay there alone, thinking about what she said about me finding a woman on the side. I know my frustration with not getting laid is getting to me, but I’m not about to hire a prostitute like it’s the same as hiring a maid. Not when my wife sleeps next to me. But I can’t push her to do something she doesn’t want, either. I shouldn’t want her for more than what a whore could give me, for more than fulfilling a basic need. I shouldn’t need more. But I do.
And the fucked up part is, I’m never going to get it. Not from her. But I can’t even conceive of taking a mistress because my wife has been abused. If I was a better man, I’d wait forever with nothing but patience and understanding. I’m trying. I want to be that man. But in truth, I’m frustrated as hell. I want to fuck my wife. And not the way it would be now, with her lying there stiff as a board and shaking, letting me get off on her like she’s a blowup doll. I want her to want me. I want her to grab me when I walk in the door and start ripping my clothes off. I want to throw her down and ravish her, make her cum with my name on her lips and my cock so deep inside her she can’t remember her own.
And then I feel like a piece of shit for wanting those things from a girl who’s had those things stolen from her. I’m a selfish bastard for thinking it, but those things have been taken from me now, too. I can’t even make my wife feel good. I can’t kill the sick bastards who took those experiences from us, either, because she’s protecting them. If it’s not her dad, then who? And why is she protecting them?
“What?” she asks, jerking me back to reality. I realize I’ve been staring right through her for two minutes straight.
“Have fun today,” I say. I set my cup in the sink and turn away, but her arms snake around me before I can take a step.
She drops her cup in the sink, the coffee splattering against the stainless steel as she squeezes me hard, like she thinks she could crush me with her tiny arms. She presses her cheek to my back. “Be careful,” she says quietly.
I pry her arms loose and turn to face her, wrapping my arms around her gently. “I will.”
She stands on tiptoes, lifting her face to mine and looping an arm behind my neck. She pulls me down for a kiss, and I’m so surprised I don’t even react for a second. She’s about to drop back onto her heels when I grip her tighter against me, cradling her head in my palm and kissing her harder. I want her so much I think I’ll explode from a single kiss, and I have to rein myself in to keep from backing her against the table, spreading her legs, and devouring her.
I kiss her gently instead, my lips pressing against her soft ones, and fuck, she’s so soft, so delicate, it makes me ache. I want to hold her like a fragile flower, never bruise her petals. When she opens her lips, I almost don’t want to taste her deeper. It will only make it worse.
But I’m weak, and I slide my tongue between her lips, taking everything she’ll give me. She shivers against me, and I pull her closer even though she’s already flush against me. I can feel her soft tits pressing into my abs with each breath she takes, can feel her pulse fluttering like a moth trapped against a windowpane when my thumb caresses the side of her throat. She makes a soft sound of pleasure into my mouth, halfway between a moan and a whimper, and I come undone. Before my brain catches up, I’ve slid my hand down over her curves, cupping her ass and grinding my hips against hers.
She breaks off, her eyes flying wide. “You’re hard,” she whispers.
I curse and jerk away from her so fast she stumbles back, catching herself on the wall that separates the kitchen and dining area. She’s staring at me like… Well, like I’m the asshole who just ground my cock up against her after she told me she didn’t like to be touched, that she’d been molested, that she didn’t want me that way.
I sink back against the counter and rake both hands through my hair and grip handfuls of it, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to get my raging hard-on under control. I should never have let myself kiss her back. I should have known she makes me lose my fucking mind when she touches me. She deserves someone else, someone better, someone who can control himself and doesn’t act like the horny teenager he is.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting that. It wasn’t a bad thing. I was just surprised. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“I’m not fucking embarrassed,” I say, lifting my head. Ashamed, yes. Not embarrassed.
“You’re not?”
“And why would you be surprised?” I go on, too pissed at myself to hold back. “I haven’t had sex in months, and I sleep next to you every night, and you’re about the most beautiful, desirable, irresistible woman I’ve ever seen, and I can’t have you. So yeah, kissing you makes me hard, and if that makes me a fucking monster, then that’s what I am.”
She stares at me another minute, the air so still between us that I can hear the honk of a car on the street below, a dog barking, someone yelling. “You still want me?” she asks at last. “In that way? How?”
“Did you not hear the part about how you married a monster?” I ask, pushing away from th
e counter.
“It’s just… After what I told you, I didn’t think you’d see me like that. You were looking at me like I was damaged goods. Something to be pitied. Not…”
“Not fucked?” I ask.
She swallows, dropping her gaze.
“That happened to you, but it’s not you,” I say. “It doesn’t change how much I want you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t see you like that, as sexy, and I know that. You don’t want to be anyone’s sex object. I know seeing you that way makes me no better than the people who did that to you, so I guess I’m not.”
She just stares at me with those clear, whiskey eyes all wide and shocked, like she’s just realizing what she’s stuck with for the rest of her life. I can’t stand it any longer, so I turn away and go to our bedroom. I grab my gun, check the chamber and the safety, and shove it into my belt. When I turn, Eliza is lingering in the doorway.
I don’t want to push her aside, but I can’t be here with her. I thought I could be a better man, that I could do this job and still be a good man, but now I know that being a good man has nothing to do with this job. I thought the sum total of a man’s worth was whether he chooses right or wrong more often, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a single moment, a single choice. The choice to hurt a little girl. The choice to stay even knowing you can’t be anything other than what you are, or to walk away before you hurt someone who’s already been hurt more than anyone should.
We stand there staring at each other for a long minute. My chest tightens, my throat, my hold on myself. I lost myself for a minute, lost sight of what I had to do.
“Say something,” she says softly, an edge of pleading in her voice.
“I’m going to work,” I say. “When I get home, you should be gone.”
“What?” she asks, her eyes widening with shock and… Hurt.
I swallow before forcing the words out. No one ever said doing the right thing was easy. Usually, it’s the opposite.
“You should go home,” I say.
“I am home.”
“Back to your father. If he’s not the one who hurt you, that’s where you’ll be safest. You shouldn’t be here. I’m not safe.”
“You’re wrong,” she says, stepping into the room.
I move away, edging toward the door. But then I stop. I won’t run like a coward. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I could be the man you deserve. You deserve someone who thinks only of you, not himself. But I’m not that man.”
“I never asked for a saint,” she says. “And don’t tell me what I deserve.”
“You deserve love,” I say simply.
“And you can’t do that?” she asks. It’s the hope in her voice, her eyes, that destroys me. I promised I’d never hurt her by letting her love me. I let this go way too far. It’s time to stop it before I hurt her more. Because I will. I press my lips together, my sternum aching like I just took a punch to it, and I shake my head.
It’s not what I want. What I want to do is close the distance between us, sweep her into my arms, and kiss her. But then what? Then I’ll want more, and she’ll feel bad that she can’t give it, and I’ll resent her and hate myself more. I’ve fucked up so many times, but I don’t want to be the same man I was six months ago. I want to learn from my mistakes, to see more clearly. I couldn’t save my sister. I couldn’t save Eliza from what happened to her before we met. But I can save her now. I can save her from myself.
“Tell your father you want an annulment,” I say. “We never consummated the marriage, so it should be easy enough. Tell him I can’t get it up or whatever you have to say to get out of it. Al owes me, so he’ll be okay with it. He’ll find someone else, someone better for you, so the families will still be united. And it’ll be like this never happened.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but then she closes it. She blinks a few times, swallows, then nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
It’s the last thing in the world I want, but it’s what she needs.
I stand there for a minute, not knowing what to do, how to say goodbye. Or maybe the truth is that I don’t want to say goodbye at all. I’ve never cared about a girl the way I care about her.
At last, I hold out a hand. “It’s been an honor being your husband.”
She stares at my hand, then turns her face up to mine, her eyes flashing. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You want me to shake your hand?”
I drop my hand, not sure what else to do.
“You know what?” she says. “Fuck you, King. This isn’t about what I deserve. This is about the fact that you can’t handle what I told you, and you’re weak like all men, and you can’t survive without having someone to stick your dick in. I told you to get a mistress. It’s not my fault you’re too proud.”
My own temper starts to rise, but I hold it down. This is my fucking fault for falling for her. I wasn’t supposed to care. But I got so caught up in how I could protect her that I didn’t protect my own heart, and now I’m fucking paying for it. My one consolation is that she shows very few signs of returning those feelings. I can handle the pain if I know I did right by her.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re right about everything.”
“Ugh,” she says. “You’re impossible.”
“Goodbye, Eliza.” I twist off my wedding ring and set it gently on her vanity.
Then I turn and walk out of the bedroom. I hear a shoe hit the wall, and she yells after me, “Don’t worry, I’ll be gone when you get home, and you won’t have to deal with my shit ever again!”
I wince, every instinct telling me to turn around, to go back and tell her it’s going to be okay, that it isn’t her fault, that it’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that I fail, and it’s better to just get it over with now than wait until she cares. I close my eyes and take a breath. “That would probably be best,” I mutter before opening the apartment door and walking out.
eighteen
Eliza
After King leaves, I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Things were just starting to get better between us. I thought we really had a moment last night, when he let me take care of him. But apparently, that just made him feel weak, and now he’s run off to probably find some slut who will want to fuck him all the time and make him feel like a man again.
I roll over and shove my face in a pillow and scream in frustration. Because I know that’s totally unfair. A girl who wants to fuck him isn’t a slut, she’s normal. I mean, look at the guy. What girl wouldn’t want to fuck him all day, every day? Even I halfway want to fuck him, and I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone. I mean, I’ve never even gotten wet for a guy before him.
Sure, I made out with a bunch of guys in high school, but it wasn’t about getting turned on. It was sort of for the rush of saying no, of knowing I was the one in control this time. Kissing boys let me explore that while knowing I was safe, that if anyone ever didn’t want to stop, I had a safety net in the form of a two-hundred-pound bodyguard with a gun.
But King… God, what is wrong with me? I had someone good, someone who was trying to help me, and I fucked it all up. No wonder he wants out of this. He deserves someone who wants to fuck him, someone who lets him fuck her, not a frigid mental case like me. I know that. That’s why I let him walk out like that.
And maybe I knew he would. Some part of me has been waiting for it all along. Not so I could be free—in truth, what do I need with freedom? To party and get drunk?—but because I knew that he wouldn’t stay. If my own mother wouldn’t stay, why would anyone else?
I roll off the bed and storm around the apartment throwing shit until I feel better. If King wants me gone, fine. I’ll leave his fucking ass just like he wants. Of course that’s what he wants. He wants someone like Lizzie, who knows what she’s doing, who owns her body and her sexuality and drowns him in it. So let him go find her. I’m fucking done.
I pack my bags, throwing everything in without folding it. I leave
my wedding dress in the closet. Let him look at it for the rest of his life the way I had to look at his ring today.
I’m startled by a knock, and when I look at the time, I realize it’s already time for my lunch date with Bianca. I sigh and open the door.
She comes strutting in with her bag swinging on her wrist and her heels clicking on the floor, only to pull up short. “Damn,” she says. “Did a hurricane come through here last night or were you and that delicious man of yours fucking on every surface of the apartment?”
I snort. “Hardly. We got in a fight.”
“Makeup sex, then?” she asks, wiggling her brows. “How is he, anyway?”
“Ask me tomorrow, and I might have a better answer for you.”
“That bad?” she asks, looking delighted. “Oooh, let’s burn his clothes.”
“Tempting,” I say. “But I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asks. “What happened? Did you fuck up?”
I look at her eager face, just waiting for the juicy gossip, and I know I can’t tell her. Bianca isn’t the kind of friend you tell your darkest secrets. And even though I didn’t mean to tell King, I did. And somehow, that made us better friends. Or so I thought. In truth, it just scared him away. I expected him to think I was tainted, even to pity me so much he couldn’t think of me in a sexy way because every time he tried, he just thought about me being molested and lost his desire. I didn’t think he’d still want me. And stupid me, I had to open my big mouth and bring it up.
God, I’m a fucking idiot.
But there’s no way I can tell Bianca any of that.
I can’t tell her that I’ve changed my mind, that being on my own isn’t the best thing in the world. I’ve had a tiny taste of it today, and all it tastes like is loneliness and regret. I told myself that’s what I wanted, to be a young widow, free of all obligations, but it was just an excuse to keep people at bay, to keep anyone from getting close enough to know the truth. Now that someone knows it… In a way, I was relieved. For a moment, I didn’t have to carry the burden on my own. For a moment, someone knew even the worst parts of me, and he helped me hold up the sky.