A Torment of Sin

by Charlotte E Hart

  It isn’t real.

  I’m not.

  This all around us is not, irrespective of the time we’ve shared and the feelings clawing up my throat. Actually - I turn to look at her body under the sheets - I should force her to eat more food rather than accept the scraps she barely consumed.

  I lean back in the chair instead and stare out at the moon sitting low in the sky, finally finding some element of rationality in what time of day it is at least. How many days we’ve been here now I’m not sure, but night is drawing in. Late evening I would assume by Canadian standards, and this is the first time she’s slept of her own volition. Nothing in her to stimulate anymore and nothing to knock her out. No pills to make the world seem less clear, or clearer, depending on her standpoint. She’ll hurt like hell when she wakes, and not only because of the feel of me on her.

  She’ll hurt because it’ll all come rushing back. All the actualities of life that she’s been avoiding and all the memories associated with that. I know the feeling well. And now, because of her, it’s harder than ever to not just sleep, wake, take more pills and carry on living this lie for as long as I breathe.

  The sound of her grumbling to herself makes me look back at her again and smile, relaxing now she’s not able to see anything other than terse dismissal on my face. My chin rests in my hand after a while, eyes unable to stop looking at her as she sleeps. It’s been a long time since I was able to watch a woman sleep in rest, a long time since I’ve even wanted to. But her? She’s too attractive for me to deny looking at, and too embedded in my thoughts for me to turn away from.

  Music starts somewhere in the distance, the notes well known and not fucking welcome, no matter the fact that I asked him to play it before I came back in this room. I watch her for a while as it carries on, wondering about things I shouldn’t think about, and then turn my gaze back to the heather I should be looking at. Pinks and purples, sprigs of it found somehow in this barren landscape. He probably has it here all the time, ready to help me or taunt me when enough is enough. I don’t know which version of that he’s amusing himself with now, but either way he’s done as I asked and is helping me find my way out of the situation I’ve put myself in with her.

  “Gray?”

  I turn back to her at her quiet call, and find nothing but her rolling and stretching until she’s facing me. Eyes still closed, breath even and gentle in her slumber. I watch again, as captivated with her now as I was on that concourse while she waited for me to take her somewhere different. More probably. Inexplicably more for irrational and illogical reasons

  Either way, I’ve done that now, given her something she’s never had before. It’s not all of it, but she’s enjoyed what she got – found clarity in it, or denial. Maybe Malachi will let her come back here on her own sometime now he’s met her, give her things that I can’t and show her the rest of this hedonism when she’s had some time away from it to regroup.

  Her leg creeps out of the cover, my hand print still visible on her ankle to tempt me into those sheets with her, and then the damned chain drapes listlessly in front of my eyes. I huff and turn away, irritated with my own fucking response to someone I’m supposed to have kept far away from me physically, let alone mentally. I didn’t, and now I’m conflicted and agitated and as lost as she probably feels because of my actions since we got back to this room.

  Fuck, this music is pissing me off.

  I stand and walk to my clothes, pulling on some jeans and a casual shirt quietly so I don’t wake her. And then I strap my watch into place to give me a gage on when time is done. There’s nothing else for it. I’ll roam the place, drink maybe. Find a quiet corner and fall asleep on my own so I can stop this constant longing. We’ve had our time. Used each other and given our all. Whatever else it is that is in my head needs to stop.

  The music keeps playing, as I walk out of the door and softly close it behind me. All the same song, over and over again just as I requested. He won’t mind that. He’s happy to play it. Happy to linger in the sound of him and his wife for as long as he can. I smile at that and amble the stairs absentmindedly, part of me not caring where my feet take me, as the melody carries on.

  They end up leading me to him, my shoulder resting on the door as I watch him play.

  “It worked then,” he mutters.

  “Almost.”

  “Well, you’re not still fucking her so something must have.”

  I walk into the room and push some old sheets of music out of the chair, legs giving way at the thought of fucking her again – staying and living. “Doesn’t mean I’m still not thinking about it.” The music changes suddenly, dark and sombre against the lightness of the waltz. Phantom of the Opera. I snort, he couldn’t have picked a better song if he tried. “That’s not helping, Malachi.”

  He laughs. “It wasn’t meant to. I’m not all helpful hands.”

  The music peters out as evenly as it began, and he closes the fallboard and leans on the top of the grand, head on the back of his hands. “My bitch of a wife said your little thing is well striped.”

  “She’s not my little thing. But yes, used is an accurate description.”

  “And that’s all it was?”

  “That’s all it can be.”

  He turns at that and looks me over, some emotion on his face regardless of the fallboard down. Time ticks by, as we stare at each other. I don’t know what he’s thinking, barely ever do with him. Doesn’t really matter anyway. It is what it is, and will not be anything other than that.

  “Why did you fuck her in the first place? I thought we were doing the thing.”

  “The thing isn’t safe, as we’ve discussed, and I was too weak to deny my need for her anyway.”

  “Hmm. Weak isn’t something I would ever describe you as. You’re probably one of the strongest people I know.” My brows lift, interest in the accolade, especially because it’s coming from him. “You’ve done well to avoid me until now.” I nod. That’s true enough. “I would have divorced Faith by now if I had even half your resolve.”

  “Really, why?”

  He shrugs and stands, one hand in his pocket as he walks towards the doorway and indicates that I should follow. “Let’s go get drunk instead of discussing women.” I nod. That I can do. Am fucking happy to do actually. Whether or not it’s the right thing to do is questionable, but I’m still going to do it regardless, without remorse.

  Who knows, might find some clarity in it.

  We end up in his cellar, picking up wine bottles as if the label on them means something to us. It doesn’t. They’ll all be expensive. All be imported from Europe. I grab two burgundies and a corkscrew, as contented with those bottles as any other, and tip one bottle to my lips the moment it’s open. Deep draws pull into my stomach, all of them fuelling the oblivion I want to fall into.

  “They’re my father's,” he suddenly says.

  I look at the bottles, not really giving a damn who they belong to.

  “Are they?”

  “Yes. Expensive. Drink them. Take the whole fucking rack.”

  I do, the thought of that oblivion making me lean back against the wall and then slide slowly down it to the stone beneath us. Must be nice there. I snort, eyes closing as another draw floods my stomach with more wine. It was nice there. It was warm and hazy, like a never-ending summer. I wanted to stay. Loiter and feel, die eventually. I didn’t.

  First bottle drunk and I reach for the next, lifting it just as quickly and efficiently for maximum effect. The eventual result is the bottle poised in my lap, ready for more the moment I feel able to stomach it without heaving it all out again.

  “Tell me,” he says. “Why her?”

  The back of my hand wipes across my mouth, gaze finding him across the other side of the room mirroring me. “I thought we weren’t talking about women.”

  “We’re thinking about them. Might as well talk, too. She means something to you. Why?”

  I don’t know what he wants to hear, and e
ven if I did I doubt I’d be able to articulate anything I feel about her. She’s like a storm. A fragile storm that needs cradling until the tempest passes and she settles into herself again. She was like that when I was inside her, angry yet gentle. Fiery yet brittle, as if any sharp move might shatter her.

  A sigh breathes out of me, other maddened words uttered under my breath, as I lift the bottle and drink again. If anything’s shattered her now it’s me and my proximity to her.

  And that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.

  “She just does, Malachi. No other reason than that.”

  “Bullshit. You’re in love with her.”

  My eyes lower, mind unsure if I can counter that argument in any way, shape, or form. Logic and rationale dictates I’m not, not enough time for love, but nothing here is ever logical, and nothing about the way I am with her is either.

  I lift the bottle and toast the air instead of answer, part drunk, part annoyed, and part not giving a damn if I have those feelings or not. It means nothing.

  Can’t.

  I stand in my own turmoil and move to leave, not interested in pursuing the mind examination any further. There’s nothing to investigate, analyse, or process about what has happened here. It’s done. And in the morning, we leave.

  My arm knocks the stone walls, as I begin to climb the steps back out of here, my gaze as unfocused as my judgement. Stupid dick. I look at it and chortle to myself, as I stagger into the main hall, reasonably happy to blame it rather than my own weakness around her. The fuck was that? Stupidity. Annoying. It damn well hurts, too. Feels like it’s been inside the storm, battered and wound up until it had no choice but to attack. She did that to me. Wound me up and found corners of my thoughts that no one else has been inside.

  I scowl and look around, more annoyance bedding in. It wasn’t just the fucking. Not just the sex, and the atmosphere here, and the need and envy either. No, she was inside. Is still inside me.

  “BITCH!” shouts out of me, the bottle of wine hurled at the wall.

  “That a boy,” mutters behind me. “Let it out.” I turn to find Malachi there, a bottle of something in his hand. “They all are.” He tips the bottle at me, pointing. “At least she’s not my wife. Count yourself lucky.”

  Lucky? I snarl and keep moving, part needing to get back to something near real and pretend it might be. At least he has a life and isn’t bound by responsibility and guilt. He touches, feels. Lays in someone’s arms and talks his insidious day through.

  I scowl back at him, jealous and covetous of that, and then keep walking. I should be doing it, too. I should be out there, living and enjoying the merits of my wealth with someone by my side. I kick at a vase, toppling it over in my resentment because instead I’m here, avoiding my actual reality and musing invented scenarios that do not belong to me.

  “Go back to her, Gray,” his voice calls. “The night isn’t over yet.” I halt at his words and turn to him, trying to ignore them and failing. He’s walking to his piano again, wine bottle dangling from his fingertips, as if his night is far from over. “What does it matter? Take it all before you can’t. Live it,” he drawls quietly. “Better to go too far, than not far enough.”

  Live.

  I look away from him towards the stairs, debating, and then start moving back to her without any more thought. One night. He’s right. One night and then it all goes away again and I’m wasting what I’ve got left.

  Swift legs carry me along the corridors, fingers itching for the feel of her in a bed, in luxury and quiet normality. Sheets and pillows. Hands that take their time rather than turn forceful and aggressive to deny their wants. Why her? I chuckle and haul my ass up the stairs, rounding through more hallways when I’ve managed to get myself up them. I don’t know why her. I don’t even care. She just is. She’s there and embedded and making me think irrationally about anything and everything.

  My hand twists the handle, a long breath pulled in because of the inevitability of this room and what I’m about to do, and I stall again. What we’ve already done is one thing, doing what I’m considering, aching for, is another realm entirely. How do I stop it then? Why would I? Irrespective, I push on the handle some more until the door swings wide and I’m met with the vision of her near naked on the bed, sheets and comforters thrown around and crumpled.

  The gold chain lies absently alongside her face, half of it scrunched up in her grip and wound around her fingers as if she’s been twining it. Her face seems peaceful now. No grumblings or mutterings like she was doing before I left. Maybe she’s finding solace again while she sleeps, recharging drained batteries and remembering who she’s become while she’s been here.

  I close the door behind me quietly and push deeper into the room, stopping when I reach the end of the bed so I can gaze on her some more. Dark hair spills out effortlessly, her pale form almost matching the sheets she’s resting on. I pull the end of them, inching the material from her skin to show the inscriptions of our time together more clearly.

  Everywhere seems marked in some way. Handprints, scratches, reddened patches that will bruise and linger for weeks, reminding her each day of where we have been and what we have done. Even her lips are swollen and discoloured, torn slightly at the corner from when I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  My tongue licks over my own lips, fingers pulling the sheets off her entirely, as I unstrap my watch. Time will be as time will be here.

  We’ll wake when we do and then it will be time to leave.

  Chapter 19

  Hannah

  H e’s here again. I can feel him in my dreams.

  I smile into the sounds of summer around me. Birds chirping, sun beating down on me. I don’t know where I am, but it’s so warm and relaxing that I don’t care. I’m walking. Walking slowly across somewhere to get to wherever he is. A sarong around my waist, bare feet on pure white sand that sinks under me with each step I take. A cheeky smile eventually comes into view, his hand waving in the distance as he hurries the beach between us to get to me.

  Me.

  He’s running to me.

  Confusion begins to grow inside as a presence comes into view behind him. Taller, wider, and darker. It casts a shadow that eclipses the smile in front of it, obliterating what was once there for me to see. My feet stop, body unsure what to do for the best, as the shadow gets closer and a heartbeat builds loudly somewhere.

  Thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud, thud.

  No tapping. No sound other than that thud now. It means something. It calls in waves, pulling me, and towing me into the shadows. It’ll be cold there, though.

  The sun will leave and stop heating me.

  I lift my head and back up a step, as the creep of obscurity tries to inch over my toes. It won’t, not unless I allow it. I stare, daring it to get too close, and watch it slowly crawling across the sand in search of me. Left, right. Scanning and creeping.

  Fine, it can come, but I won’t be dowsed in fear because of it. I will stand firm, fight it if I have to. Thuds or not, I’ll win this battle because I am more than it. Solid. Impenetrable.

  A fortress it will not tear down.

  Gentleness touches me. It starts rippling over my feet and ankles. Smooth and tender. I shiver and frown under it, wondering why it isn’t cold. It should be. It should have drowned out this sun, sucked the heat out of me and rendered me desolate without it. I freeze, as I watch it lick up my legs, inch by inch, until the finality of it obscuring me leaves me breathless and panting in its wake. So undemanding. Gentle yet surging, as it sweeps around my skin. And warm.

  Why so warm?

  A kiss. I can feel it on my lips, feel it teasing and taking my breath with it. Heavy. It’s heavy on me, like a weighted blanket smothering me down and keeping me warm. Down it goes. Down and down and down, the blanket slipping over me, passing my stomach, hip bones.

  I moan at the sudden sensation that assaults my skin, willing it to heighten, amplify and take me with it. So smooth on me
, creating waves of bliss to linger in and enthral into me. More power on my flesh, more heat. I can feel it flushing me, burning and beginning to scorch. I revel in it and my body starts undulating and squirming, part in need of escape and yet desperate to cling on, hold on. My fingers reach for it, grabbing at nothing but air over and over again until they finally find solidity.

  My eyes fly open at the feel of it, thoughts and blurred gaze desperately searching for the thing I’m holding, and that’s when I see Gray looking up at me from the bed. I suck in breaths at the vision, body coming back to reality because of the look of him down there. Harsh eyes between my legs, hooded and wicked, as he moves slowly and drags his tongue through me. My legs are in his curled arms, the splay of his fingers holding me in place as he carries on dragging his tongue leisurely, torturously.

  His teeth nip gently, as I let go of the sides of his head and reach for sheets to nail into instead. Anything. “You’re awake,” he mutters, still licking. “Good. We have more night left yet.”

  “I was-“

  My words die, as he sucks at my clit severely, and the flat of his tongue follows it to wind an orgasm out of me that is almost here anyway. I can feel it building with every next breath, every next swipe and roll of his mouth. My head tips back to stare up at the chandelier, glazed eyes taking in the crystal droplets as they shimmer dim light down on us.

  Too much.

  Not enough.

  I squirm and try changing the angle, unable to process sensation other than agony and tease. He doesn’t let me, just keeps up with more torture and leisurely intent. It only takes a few more seconds and I’m so desperate to let it go, it shudders through me without me making it happen. Shivers ride over me because of it, my nails bedded into the sheets and my breath panting and laboured.

  I groan as he keeps going, his tongue heavy and purposeful. More licks. More sucking. More tight muscles keeping me still as he holds me firmly and refuses to finish until he’s ready for more orgasms to end.