by Nadia Lee
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
I wrap my still soggy hair in a fresh towel and step into the living room, where a table is set for two. A stiff white cotton cloth covers the round surface, a small centerpiece made with stargazer lilies in the middle. Two chairs are set facing each other; in front of them are two plates with covers and small bowls filled with fresh berries. On the side are a small basket of lightly toasted bread, warmed butter and small jars filled with various French jams, plus elegant pitchers of apple juice and water and a brushed stainless steel insulated carafe that undoubtedly has coffee inside. It’s entirely too fancy for a breakfast. It reminds me of our honeymoon, where everything was perfect and romantic, and a shard of pain pierces through me.
He squints at me. “What happened to your bruises and cuts?”
“Makeup.” I wave one hand at the food. “I really didn’t want anything.”
“I ordered extra just in case. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.” His voice is inscrutable. It only adds to my unhappiness. I still can’t believe that only a week ago, I thought I could have it all.
In a gallant—and practiced—gesture, he pulls out a chair for me. I sit and let him settle me up against the table, all the while wondering who else he’s seated like this. It’s a petty and ludicrous thought, but I can’t help it when my feelings are all over the place. I didn’t care earlier, because at first I didn’t want to, and later because I thought we were trying to have a genuine relationship based on affection and caring if not love—it would’ve been small-minded of me to be jealous of his previous women. It’s heartrending to realize I was the only one who thought his being nice to me actually meant something, but it’s too late. I’m already emotionally entangled, and won’t be able to extricate myself without a lot of effort.
Watching him take the seat across from me, I realize there is a distinct disadvantage to my being in a robe with my wet hair wrapped in a towel while Elliot looks magnificent as usual, his presence born from natural confidence and a self-made success that’s bigger than life. I wish I’d taken the time to make myself more presentable. Even if I could never be like him, at least I wouldn’t look so…small and pathetic.
Then I shake myself inwardly for even thinking that. Everything that’s happened between us in the last seven days told me everything I needed to know about where I stand in Elliot’s esteem.
Wordlessly, he serves me coffee. I dump lots of sugar in, hoping that the extra energy along with some caffeine will jolt my brain into gear. He drinks his, watching me over the rim of a white cup, its delicate handle looking almost too fragile for his hand.
The breakfast is a three-egg omelet with two different types of cheese and lightly sautéed mushrooms. Is it Elliot making a gesture? I had the same omelets on our honeymoon in St. Cecilia.
He watches me expectantly, and I take a small bite. It’s surprisingly good, and I find myself ravenous all of sudden, despite the tension coiled inside me.
The silence stretches, sitting heavily between us. Only the sound of clinking silverware and china breaks it. Every time I raise my eyes, I see Elliot studying me as though I’m some exotic specimen under a microscope. I’m not certain why he looks at me like that, what he wants to discover. He’s already made up his mind about me, hasn’t he?
My plate polished clean, I finally place my fork on the table and lean back with a fresh cup of coffee.
Elliot clears his throat. “Tell me about how you met Grayson.”
I freeze, then slowly sit up straight, spine stiff and shoulders pulled back. “Why do you care? Didn’t whoever you hired to figure everything out tell you?”
“Not everything.”
I look away for a moment. Perversely enough, now I’m reluctant to tell him. Maybe it’s because I’m resentful of the way he’s shut me out. Or maybe I just don’t want to bare another piece of myself, only to be found wanting.
“Well…give him some more money. I’m sure he can tell you,” I murmur.
“I don’t want him to tell me.”
“Why not? I’m certain a third party’s recounting of the meeting will carry more weight than mine.” Elliot’s jaw tightens, but the reaction gives me no pleasure. I tap the top of the coffee cup. “It’s been a week since you found out.” A week since I wanted to talk, but you didn’t.
He blinks as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing, then his eyebrows pinch together. “You really don’t want to talk about it?”
“I don’t see the point.”
“The point is not to live in this…tension.”
“We have less than a year left to go,” I say instead. “We can be polite.”
He laughs dryly. “Polite. Jesus.” All signs of mirth abruptly vanish from his face. “Do you want sex to be polite? Is it politeness that makes you wet?”
Heat sears my cheeks. Whatever I was planning to say disappears from my mind.
“Does being polite make you scream when I fuck you? Is it politeness that makes your tight little cunt spasm around my dick night after night?”
I concentrate on my coffee cup, my hands unsteady. “Don’t be crude. You know I want you—your body.” I need to start framing everything into something clinical and unemotional. If I do it often enough, I might be able to convince myself Elliot and I have nothing worth crying over.
Elliot stops, then drags a hand roughly through his hair. “It’s not politeness that makes me hard every time I see you. It’s not politeness that makes me want to kick myself in the ass for letting you out of my sight last night. It’s certainly not politeness that makes me want to kill whoever pushed you down those stairs.”
My mouth parts. I didn’t know he felt that way about my accident…or anything about me. He’s been so…careful not to betray himself around me in the last few days.
“I’m trying to give you a chance to talk. You said you wanted to make me understand. I’m willing to listen now.” His voice is surprisingly gentle, like that time back on St. Cecilia. “You and I both know our current situation can’t last.”
As gentle as his voice is, something unyielding lies underneath. He’s not going to give up unless I tell him what he wants to know.
I vacillate. But really, what’s the point of not saying anything except to be perverse? He’s already given an inch when he admitted he cared more than he let on. I can bend a bit in return.
“Well…all right. Grayson and I met in Las Vegas, a little over a year ago,” I begin. “He came to see me at the diner where I worked. It would’ve been impossible for him to track me down otherwise, since Nonny and I were living in a shelter.” I exhale, trying to find enough control to get through the rest of the story. Even now I wonder how I could’ve had such poor judgment. “He claimed to work for an insurance company, said there was some kind of allowance payout for me, about a thousand dollars a month. Because I hadn’t collected anything the previous year, he said I could get a little extra, although not in a lump sum. I signed on the dotted lines he pushed my way to get the money.”
“But it was only a thousand dollars a month,” Elliot points out, his tone incredulous.
I give him a sad smile. If I ever need proof of how different we are, I only have to listen to him talk about money. “Elliot, it was a life-altering amount to me. We couldn’t stay at the shelter anymore.”
I don’t think I’ve said anything particularly alarming. I’ve been careful not to. But his eyes suddenly sharpen and his entire body stills, like a predator that just spotted prey and is waiting to pounce.
When I don’t continue, he asks, “What was wrong with the shelter?” in a voice so soft that I almost don’t hear it over the pounding of my heart. Memories of the place never fail to spike my anxiety.
“The supervisor…” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “He…” I search for the right word, but I can’t seem to find it. I blurt out, “He really…liked Nonny.”
Elliot waits, his eyes unblinking and focused, for me to elaborate…as
though I might’ve meant something unusually abstruse when I used the word like. When nothing comes, red slowly mottles his face. He rises to his feet, looking like some kind of ancient colossus. “What the fuck?”
The force of the word actually shirrs the water in his glass. Suddenly ashamed and uncertain, I look away.
“Did he pay for what he did?” Elliot asks in a voice so awful my skin crawls.
“No,” I whisper. “But Mr. Grayson’s money allowed us to leave. And I would’ve sold my soul to keep my sister safe.”
Chapter Eleven
Elliot
Fury swirls inside me like a dark storm, and I can’t stay still. I grip the back of my chair, trying to regain composure, but it’s no use. Giving up, I push away and pace. A need for violence throbs in my veins, and I want to punch something. Preferably the disgusting scumbag at the Vegas shelter.
“And yes, you were right that it was stupid and naïve of me to believe Mr. Grayson’s story,” my wife continues. Her words are weighted with resignation, but she keeps her shoulders straight, her gaze direct. “My gut told me it wasn’t the brightest idea to trust him, but…I ignored it.”
I stop and stare at Belle. What she’s saying is really sinking into me, and I feel like vomiting. Air saws in and out of my lungs, my chest hurts like hell and my throat aches with all the blistering things I want to say but can’t. They aren’t directed at her. No, they’re for me, because I’m such a superior asshole.
Belle’s hands are trembling, and she deposits the coffee cup on the table and drops her arms so I can’t see them anymore. “I hate remembering that period of my life. Every time I do, I can’t help but think of all the ways things could’ve gone wrong for two poor girls with no education, no friends, nothing. I know from experience how bad it can be for helpless girls…”
My gut tightens like it’s been punched. I push a fist against my mouth. I’ve never felt this searing level of hate and disgust, not even for Julian, not even for Annabelle Underhill. Underneath the rage, my heart is breaking for the girl my wife was a year ago.
“But I never thought that an adult man would try to go after an underage girl. Nonny was just thirteen, and a skinny thirteen at that.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask when I regain a small measure of control over my emotions.
Her gaze snaps up to my face. “Seriously? When would I have been able to tell you? When you gave me two hundred dollars for the worst stripping ever? When you offered me three thousand for a blowjob? When you took me to that lawyer’s office for the marriage contract?”
She’s throwing the same events at me again, but unlike before, they hit home this time. My face heats at the reminder of what an ass I’ve been. Back then I didn’t know her. I treated her the way I would any woman who’d sell her body—and more—if it could get her what she wanted.
“But what about after?” I ask hoarsely. “We were supposed to start fresh. That’s what the honeymoon was about.”
“I didn’t want to ruin what we started with an ugly past, Elliot.” A bitterly ironic twist of her lips seems to say like that matters anymore.
“How can you think it’s just an ‘ugly past’ that needs to stay buried? Is that how you felt about Annabelle Underhill too?” As soon as the words leave my lips, I know I’ve screwed up.
“She’s your ex, she came to your home and she obviously wants you back. I don’t know how you can argue she has nothing to do with me.”
I bite back an expletive directed at myself. What is it about this woman that twists me, drives me crazy? Women don’t do this to me. Women are diversions, a bit of fun, not people who keep my emotions running high and erratic, like a train about to derail.
My wife sighs, lifts a hand as though to fix her hair, then drops it when it hits the towel. “You knowing about what happened to me and Nonny in Vegas wouldn’t have changed anything. It had already happened, and it would’ve only disgust—upset you. And I honestly didn’t think Mr. Grayson was going to be a problem. Not one that would concern you, anyway. If I had, I would have told you earlier.”
Even through the turbulent feelings churning inside me, I catch something in her voice—a clue to what’s going on inside her head. “I wouldn’t have been disgusted with you, Belle,” I say, keeping my voice quiet. I’m trying very hard not to vent the emotions roiling inside me. They push against my ribs, the pressure almost unbearable.
She drops her gaze. “It’s not important anymore.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “They say it’s best not to know how sausages are made because if you know you won’t enjoy them anymore. People’s pasts are like that too. You don’t want to know everything, Elliot.”
Then I recognize something that I haven’t thought of before. She doesn’t want me to know any more than I absolutely have to. She is assuming that I won’t stay constant. She’s experienced how quickly people, including those who claim to be her friends, can turn on her. “I’m not Traci or anybody else from your home town,” I point out.
“I know.”
I walk over and cradle her chin in my hand—carefully—then tilt her face until she looks at me directly. “Do you really?”
She doesn’t answer. And I realize with sudden clarity this is why I’ve been furious that she withheld information—because it’s proof that she would never trust me, never lean on me or…
“How can you say you love me and not make yourself even the slightest bit vulnerable to me?” The question rasps out before I can stop myself.
She blinks a couple of times, then looks away.
The evasion cuts, but it doesn’t just hurt. It infuriates.
I lift her head back to me, but Belle is nothing if not stubborn. She gazes at the tip of my nose, pointedly avoiding my eyes. Her mouth is set tight, her lips almost bloodless. She’ll stay like this forever if that’s what it takes. I recognize that as the seconds pile up.
Hell if I’ll let her.
I slant my head, covering her lips with mine. No matter what, she’s always been honest in bed. And this time is no exception.
She kisses me back, her teeth and tongue rough—almost punishing, as though she blames me for all the shit that’s gone wrong since we met. I don’t give a fuck when she cuts the inside of my lower lip. This is far better than her silent, mutinous retreat moments ago.
I lick her lips and rub my tongue against hers. Her velvet softness stokes my suddenly raging need. Her shallow, choppy breathing tells me she is into it as much as I am. I thank my lucky stars that she’s this hot and passionate. Her past… God, her past would be enough to kill this part of her if she let it.
Her fingers dig into my hair, nails scraping my scalp and pulling at the strands until it hurts, but I don’t care. I let out a triumphant growl, yank at the damp towel wrapped around her head and fling it away. Her hair falls in a loose wet coil, and I wrap my hand in it, anchoring her. She slides down her chair, and I take her in my arms, pulling her until she’s sitting in my lap, her sweet ass over my very ready dick.
Still, I pull back with a superhuman effort.
“Don’t,” she whispers harshly.
“Belle…you’re injured.”
“I’m sure we can figure out a way to manage.” She looks at my mouth.
I hesitate. I didn’t start the kiss to seduce her. I don’t want to do anything until she’s fully recovered from her ordeal.
She undoes the sash around her waist and shrugs out of her robe. The sensational slopes and curves of her body leave me breathless. It doesn’t matter how many times I have her or how long I keep her wrapped in my arms. The impact of her femininity is like a nuke going off in the center of my chest.
But the bruises… They dampen what I feel. God. I feel like an ass with a capital A for lusting after my wife when she’s black and blue.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’m fine.”
I brush my thumb over a dark purple spot on
her hip, meditating on it. “It looks worse than it feels,” she says.
Somehow I manage to make my voice firm. “We shouldn’t.”
“But I want to. Sex is the only time you’re close to me.” Her words are soft, but they’re no less powerful for that.
Feeling as though I’ve been gutted, I carry her to bed. She shivers as though she can feel the weight of my gaze like a physical caress. The need to give her the closeness she craves is overwhelming—but it’s not as simple as inserting Tab A into Slot B. I want her to break me like she did before, when she took me lovingly into her mouth and shattered me inside out. And I want to break her the same way until I have all the pieces of her, every facet of her bared to me—body and soul.
To that end, I rein in the lust raging through me. I kiss her body—every curve, every inch of her sensitive skin—and breathe in her intoxicating scent. She’s so soft, so pliable as desire overwhelms her. Her face is flush with heat, and she begs, “Don’t do this…” Her raspy whisper comes to me as I run my mouth over the sweet skin along her inner thigh.
“You want me to stop?” I murmur, letting my hot breath brush the place my lips were just seconds ago.
She shakes her head. “Stop teasing. You know I’m wet.”
White-hot lust pounds in my veins. I can smell her most intimate parts like this, feel her quiver underneath me.
Even then, I maintain control. I use my hands and mouth to take her to the brink, only to pull back. Her voice breaks, but that’s not all I’m after.
She undulates under me. “Don’t you want me?” she whispers, her words barely audible. “Please…”
“How can you doubt it?”
I grind my hard dick against her wet pussy. My jaw clenches with the control I’m exerting over my body. She feels too damn fucking good, and it’s all I can do to not drive into her with all I’ve got. But a part of me tells me I can’t let this become just another episode of hot sex. It has to mean more…count for more, even though I’m incapable of figuring out what that “more” is at the moment.