by Abbi Cook
My words make her eyes fly open, but I’m done talking. Pressing my mouth to hers, I kiss her hard, sliding my tongue inside to find hers. She’s warm and wet and willing, even if she doesn’t think so, and it’s all I can do to control myself and not bend her over the bed and ram my cock into her cunt.
“Please, I shouldn’t do this. I love my husband,” she whimpers into my mouth.
Tugging her head back, I look down at her beautiful face and smile. “That’s a mistake you need to fix. Trust me on that.”
“Why are you doing this?”
I see in her eyes she’s almost completely innocent and doesn’t understand why a man would seek her out with the singular focus of fucking her. It’s strange and oddly fascinating to overmatch someone so thoroughly since I haven’t been able to imagine doing anything but this from the moment I first laid eyes on her picture online.
“Because I want you. And you want me too.”
This time, she doesn’t try to plead that what’s about to happen shouldn’t or that she loves that fool of a husband. I wait, watching every tiny movement of her eyes as they stare up at me, but her fighting against me stops and she stills in my hold.
My hands slip from her hair and glide down along the column of her neck to that throbbing notch at the base. I feel her pulse beat against my thumbs, like a hypnotic gentle pounding of anticipation. She’s delicate and perfect, and I’m going to devour her like a starving man with a table of food in front of him.
“No more protests, Natalie?”
With a gentle shake of her head, she gives me her answer. Who would have thought Adam Anchoff’s obedient wife would be the willing woman in front of me now?
But instead of pushing me away, she begins to tremble, and in her blue eyes I see a combination of curiosity and fear. She doesn’t know what’s about to happen to her.
Fuck, she really is almost like a virgin. It’s been a long time since I had one of those.
I slowly slide my hand down over her breast, cupping it through her shirt and feeling her hard nipple that tells me as frightened as she is, she’s excited too. I bet if I dipped a finger inside her, I’d find she’s soaking wet already.
When I move my hand over her stomach, I feel it flutter under my touch. Such innocence, and I’m going to take it all for myself, feasting on it until there’s nothing left.
Stuffing my hand under her shirt, I move down toward her pants. A sound like a needy whimper pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to see Natalie wince as my fingertips skim the tender flesh near her hip.
No.
As much as the thought of taking every last ounce of innocence from this woman turns me on, I take a deep breath and step back away from her. With a shake of my head, I stop what I’ve fantasized about for days.
Her mouth opens, but only a tiny sob comes out. I know she doesn’t understand why I suddenly changed my mind, and to be honest, I’m not sure I understand either. It would take nothing to have her any way I desire at this moment. She’s practically a virgin standing in front of me willing to sacrifice herself to feel something she can’t get from her husband.
Yet I’m not the man she needs to have her affair with. Natalie Anchoff needs some lapdog who will say sweet things to her and bring her flowers. Someone who will treat her gently and give her the tenderness she’s never gotten from that asshole of a husband.
That’s not me. Better to leave her untouched.
“Time to go, Natalie.”
The fear and curiosity that filled her eyes just a minute ago is gone now, replaced by hurt and tears. “You don’t want me?”
I step around her and shake my head again. “You were right. This isn’t something you should do if you love your husband.”
Turning her head, she wipes the tears that have fallen onto her cheeks, proof that I have no business playing games with her. She’s too soft, too fragile for a man like me.
“I want to go back to my car, please.”
As she follows me out of my bedroom, I can’t help but wince at the regret that pinches at me. Some people deserve to be toyed with. Natalie doesn’t, and I shouldn’t have started this in the first place. Beautiful or not, she’s my target, and I can’t afford to have feelings muddle my thinking when it comes to my job.
Chapter Sixteen
Natalie
Adam angrily flips through a bunch of papers he brought home from the office while I eat the dinner of salmon and boiled potatoes I made because I know it's his favorite. Can he see the guilt written all over my face? I crane my neck to look at my reflection in the toaster to see if it’s obvious what I’ve done.
Looking down at my food, I try to convince myself it didn’t happen. I didn’t kiss Alexei. I didn’t betray my husband and my wedding vows. I didn’t almost have sex with him after going to his home.
Yes, I did. I did and I’m consumed with guilt.
Focus on Adam, Natalie. He’s obvious unhappy. Just look at the way he’s turning over those pages so roughly. Oh God! Maybe he knows already.
No. He doesn’t. He’d say something if he did. Whatever this is, it has to do with work.
I want to ask what’s wrong, but every time I've ever asked him about his work, I've gotten the same response. "You'd just be bored by it all, Natalie, so there's no point in telling you. Trust me. It's a very tedious job I do."
I want to answer every time, "I'd really like to know. Maybe talking about it with me will help you be less upset." I don't, though. I never have.
To say that goes against every fiber of my being and the truest part of my nature wouldn't be an overstatement. Most of my days are spent wondering why someone is doing this or why someone is acting like that. I've always been this way.
At least I think I've always been this way. I don't know anymore.
I called Claire a few hours ago when I had a flash of memory about something that occurred when I was twelve. I can't imagine how bizarre it is to have your sister ask you what happened fourteen years ago. After she filled in the blanks in my recollection, she asked me if I'm going to contact that therapist. I lied and told her maybe, but I doubt it.
This will get better. I know it will. It will just take some time. Anyway, I’ve got much bigger problems after what happened with Alexei.
Adam looks up from his papers and focuses his attention on me. For a moment, I’m hopeful and smile to let him know I’m here and happy to talk about whatever’s bothering him.
I watch as his gaze moves from my face to the glass of milk in front of my plate. “I made it special for you, with nutmeg just like I know you always liked it when your mother made it for you. Why aren’t you drinking it?”
Eager to show my appreciation, I quickly take a few big gulps and smile as the nutmeg hits my taste buds. “Thank you. It’s exactly like I always love it. Is everything okay with your paperwork?”
“It’s fine. Just work, like usual.”
Grimacing, Adam stands up from the table with his papers and walks away silently into the living room, leaving me to finish my dinner alone. I look over at his plate and see he ate only a few bites. Whatever's in those papers must be bad. Or maybe it's my cooking.
As I get lost in figuring out if I did something wrong with the salmon and potatoes, I hear him grumble something unintelligible from the other room. His voice sounds particularly ominous tonight. I look up and see him frowning and shaking his head while he continues to flip through his papers. I so wish I could get him to talk to me about his work. Maybe I could help. I might not have experience in real estate, but I'm well-educated and a good listener. Those could be just the traits necessary to help him with whatever's going on.
I don't say anything, though, even as I watch him sitting in his chair, his frown deepening by the minute. I hate to see him like this. He'll likely be miserable all night, or worse, he'll storm out after fixating on those papers and leave me here alone.
My stomach tightens, making me lose my appetite, so I stand up to clear the d
ishes of our half-eaten dinner. Drawn to his unhappiness, I can't look away from him except to scrape the food into the garbage. He prefers me to use the trash compactor, but I hate the noise it makes.
After I rinse off the dishes and set them aside to put into the dishwasher later, I return to the table to gather up the bowl of potatoes. Looking over at my husband, I open my mouth to ask if he would like coffee, and I'm struck like from a bolt of lightning at what’s in front of me. Suddenly, I don't see him sitting in the living room angrily reading over papers from work but another scene entirely.
I see Adam sitting in a high-backed, dark brown leather chair in a dimly lit room. I don't know where the room is located, but it looks familiar. He has a red folder full of papers in his hands, and he's reading through them. I don't know what's in them, but he looks unhappy.
My mouth goes dry from terror while I watch the scene play out in front of me. When did this happen? Where was he? I grasp at the shred of a memory trying to think of why I'm seeing this, but it disappears into nothingness, leaving me unsure what I've just witnessed.
Shaken, I stumble back against the table, knocking my glass onto the floor. It shatters at my feet, startling me. I'm overcome with emotion and burst into tears just as Adam screams my name.
"Natalie! What are you doing?" he asks as he charges into the room.
I stand frozen to the spot, but I look down and see a deep red stain on the floor near my right foot. Did I take a step and cut the bottom of my foot, or did the glass slice through my skin when it hit the floor? I don't know. I don't know anything at this moment.
Adam grabs me by the shoulders and squeezes hard, causing pain to radiate through my collarbone. I look up at him to see horror in his dark eyes.
"What are you doing? Are you okay?" he practically barks at me.
"I…I don't know. I must have knocked the glass over and it shattered when it hit the floor," I stammer out, still unsure what happened before or after the glass fell.
"Are you hurt?" he asks in a gentler voice than a moment ago.
Looking down at the floor, I point to my right foot. "I think I'm bleeding."
Adam crouches and carefully lifts my leg. After a moment, he smiles up at me and shakes his head. "It's only a scratch. You'll be fine. Stand here and I'll go get the broom. Don't move."
My hands shake as I nod my understanding of what he said, but the truth is I don't understand any of what just happened. Why when I looked at my husband sitting in the white wingback chair in our living room did I see something else entirely? Was that a flashback from another time I don't remember? Did that even happen or am I dreaming these things up?
What's happening to me? Claire's admonition to go see that therapist before something terrible happens comes rushing back, frightening me even more. How much more terrible can things get for a woman who's losing her mind?
I watch my husband sweep the shards of glass up into the dustpan and then smile at me before leaving me standing there alone again. If only I could tell him what I'm going through. That my nightmares aren't because I watched a movie one night before bed or saw something on the news one evening.
That the nightmares have begun to show up at times when I'm not sleeping. Are they flashbacks to some time I can't recollect or visions my mind is constructing for some horrible reason? I don't know, and at this moment as I stand trembling in fear at what's happening to me, I'm not sure I want to know.
He'll think I'm crazy if I tell him. I know it. My husband is a rational man who looks at the world through the keen eyes of a businessman. He doesn't give much consideration to anything he considers fanciful, which I know is what he'll call my nightmares and visions or flashbacks or whatever they are. He'll say I'm being foolish and to forget all of it.
But I can't. My mind is being held hostage by these terrible thoughts. Real or not, they've made a home in my brain, and I don't know how to get rid of them.
"Natalie, did you hear what I said?"
I look to my left and see Adam standing there waiting for me to say something. I open my mouth to answer but don't know what to say, so I just shake my head.
"I said I think you need to go rest. I'll walk you up to the room."
"No, I don't want to go to bed again. Please don't stick me in that room and leave me there, Adam. I'm not sick. I don't need to stay in bed. I think I need a little fresh air. If we could go for a ride, I know I'd feel better."
His eyebrows draw in like unforgiving dark slashes, and he shakes his head. "No. I can't leave tonight. I have to deal with issues at work. Now let's get you upstairs to bed so you can rest. You can put a Band-Aid on that scratch too."
I resist ever so slightly when he begins to guide me toward the stairs, something I've never done before, and for a moment, his expression is one of pure confusion, as if he's asking himself, "Why would she not do exactly what I want her to do?"
Because I'm tired of being treated like some invalid who needs to be hidden away inside a bedroom so he doesn't have to deal with me and what I'm going through. That I don't know exactly what it is doesn't change the fact that sticking me in bed once again isn't right.
"Come on, Natalie. We have to get you upstairs," he says sternly like I'm a child who needs a scolding because she isn't listening to what she's been told.
A feeling of defeat comes over me. What am I going to do? I can't just run out of the house, jump in the car, and drive off into the night. Even if I did, who knows when another one of those visions or whatever they are would come up in front of my eyes? I might kill myself by driving into a tree or off a bridge if that happened.
This second time, I don't fight him when he cups my elbow with his hand and presses his arm around me to direct me toward the stairs. I slowly walk toward them even as I silently pray he'll change his mind and turn me around toward the garage to go for a drive. I just know a little fresh air would do me wonders. Why doesn't he see this?
Twelve steps to the second floor and six to the bedroom—I count each one—and I'm back in my comfortable prison for another term. I don't know how long I'll have to stay confined this time.
Adam sits me down on the edge of my side of the bed and disappears for a few seconds before returning with a single bandage. Holding it out for me to take, he says, "I want you to just rest, Natalie."
No mention of calling the doctor. Some part of me wonders why he doesn't think any of what he knows I'm going through is worth my being seen by the doctor. And I haven't told him most of what I've experienced in the past few months. Another part of me is thankful he doesn't mention taking me to the doctor. I don't need to give him a chance to decide I'm crazy too, and that's what he'll do.
Nightmares and visions are the makings of a crazy woman. I can hear him saying that to Adam as they stand in the corner of the cold examination room talking between themselves as I sit on the examination table dressed in a paper gown that doesn't cover me sufficiently. The few times I've gone to see him he's been brusque and dismissive, once telling me when I fell down the stairs right after we moved into the house that I merely had a sprained ankle and there were far worse things a young woman might have to deal with.
No, it's far better to not have to go to the doctor's.
When I don't put the bandage on quickly enough, Adam takes it out of my hand and presses it to my skin on the outside of my foot. "There you go. You'll be fine. It's just a scratch."
"I don't want to stay in bed. I'm fine, Adam."
He gently pushes me back onto the pillow and smiles. "It won't be for long. I just think you've had a scary experience and you could use some time to relax. I want you to stay calm, okay?"
I look up at him and search his expression for something that might make me feel better. I find nothing, though.
"How long do I have to stay in bed?" I ask, my question morphing into a plea to not be left here again.
Hovering over me, Adam smiles. "Just tonight. I'll take care of the dishes and everything downstairs so you do
n't have to worry about a thing. Trust me, Natalie. It's for the best."
He tucks me into the bed, fussing over the covers. I look down to see his hands smoothing the sheets across my body, but when I look up at him, suddenly we aren't in our bedroom in our house but somewhere else entirely. He's looming over me with a look in his eyes so intense that I want to recoil from him. Why is he looking at me like that? I haven't done anything wrong.
Everything around us turns to darkness so all I can see is him over me. I wait for some hint of kindness to fill his eyes, but even as he smiles, I don't see it when he looks at me. Frightened, I close my eyes to push away the intensity I see in him.
"That's it. Close your eyes, Natalie. Get some sleep and I'll be up to check on you in a little while."
The bedroom door closes and tears begin to stream down my face. I'm going insane. What was that? Why did everything around us go dark as he looked down at me so ominously? I don't remember a time when my husband ever appeared that way, yet it felt as real as anything else I'm experiencing.
I wipe my cheeks to dry them and take a deep breath. Is this real? Is anything my mind telling me real?
What does it all mean? I struggle to think of when my mind may be traveling back to and why. My husband has never been anything but a loving and caring man. I don't remember ever thinking of him as harsh or cruel. Much older than I, he's always protected me like I'm something dear to him.
So why has my mind constructed a world where I've begun to fear him?
I rack my brain and can't think of a time when I would have seen him sitting in a chair like I saw downstairs. We've never owned a dark brown leather chair. We've never owned any leather furniture. Maybe it wasn't leather. Maybe it was merely a dark upholstered chair.
Closing my eyes, I try to remember as best I can the scene that played out in front of me before the glass fell and shattered. Light from somewhere nearby reflected off the chair in a dull line of white on the arm. I can see it.
My eyes open as I think again of any time I would have seen him sitting in a dark brown leather chair of any kind. I try to remember even as it seems my mind has dark spots where memories should exist but don't. It doesn't matter. I can't think of any time he sat in a chair like that.