nineteen
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, surprised Eliza’s up so early. She usually sleeps in. Then again, she went to bed early last night, turning in after our bath. I lay awake all night, tormented by guilt, unable to shut off my thoughts and find peace in sleep.
Eliza picks up the coffee pot and pours some into one of the tiny teacups we got for our wedding. “I’ll get a maid today,” she says, gesturing around the kitchen, which I cleaned up sometime in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t bear to lie beside her any longer.
“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.
Of course she doesn’t. I fucking overpowered her last night, took what was mine with no regard for her wellbeing. I should have been more careful, at least gentle. I knew something wasn’t right with her, that she must have some trauma, something behind her behavior. But I let her bratty attitude get to me, thought I could fuck it out of her.
“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. When we got in bed last night, I stayed on my side, with an ocean of space between us. I wanted to hold her again, but I didn’t ask. I know I don’t have that right anymore.
So instead of holding her, 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. I’ll never do that again.
If I’d kept my promise to myself, felt nothing for her, it might be easier. I wouldn’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. So I guess celibacy is my penance for what I did to her. If I was a better man, I’d wait forever with nothing but patience and understanding. I want to be that man. But in truth, I want to fuck my wife. Once was not enough. I want her every night. And not the way I did last night. Not the way it would be if she agreed to it, like she did afterwards, when I tried to go down on her.
I don’t want 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. I want to make her lose control and cum for me like she did in Bora Bora, before I knew.
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 took that from her, and I have no right to expect her to ever give it willingly after that violation.
“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 into 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 said she doesn’t like touch. What does that include? I let her set the terms, standing there while she hugs me. 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, so she can pull away if she wants. “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 swear I can still taste her, that single lick I got last night.
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 again. 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, 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 want to fucking die.
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 edge of the table. She’s staring at me like… Well, like I’m the asshole who forced her to take my cock the last time it was hard.
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.
“It wasn’t abadthing,” she says. “I was just surprised. Don’t be embarrassed.”