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She looked at me, eyes wide glistening with tears. She didn’t believe me. She looked away again. I somehow pitied the bread she was shredding to soaked crumbles of sogginess.
“They made it work, though, my parents. A beautiful mix. They brought me up in England, so that wasn’t difficult for my mum. But my dad made sure that I was exposed to the Indian side as well. He didn’t drop his culture.” She was proud. I could see that. She was proud that she was English and Indian.
“Have you visited?”
“India?” At my nod, she continued, “No,” she sighed, “I would love to someday.” She continued in a hurry, “Not to visit any family that might be there. If they didn’t want my dad, if they couldn’t even be bothered to express their grief… other than a message to say their son was long dead to them.” She clenched her hands, the bread a puddle in her palm. She took a deep breath, trying to pull back tears to where they had come from, puffing her chest out to put on a strong front. “But I would love to get to know more about the culture. I think it’s beautiful. My dad would put on this beautiful music.” She looked at me wistfully, “I never understood the words, but it sounded so beautiful and melancholic. They have so much more,” she continued, “the food, the fashion …”
She made me feel strange things. Like I had lost something precious to me, and I couldn’t figure out what. She looked small and fragile and innocent seated there, and I wanted to protect her and comfort her when I was the epitome of what was bad. Still, that didn’t stop me.
So, I did the only thing I knew. Reaching for her waist, I hauled her over to my lap, breadcrumbs and all. I drank her up like a man in a desert. I fucked her mouth with my tongue while ripping open my shirt. I latched on to her nipples, sucking and tugging them and left them red and wet.
I was mad. Madly, I tried to get this pain out of her the only way I knew how.
Setting her down on the counter, I felt her clit.
Thank fuck she was wet.
I reached into the back pocket of my worn jeans to get a condom, my hand almost shaking. I had to come outside her in the shower because it had slipped my mind that I didn’t have a condom on. Now elation sparked inside me at my foresight because I didn’t think I would last the long way back to our bedroom.
I clad myself and dived in, trying to physically drive the sadness away. I didn’t really know why it bothered me so much. It made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t do uncomfortable. I grabbed her face while pumping into her. Passion had replaced everything else that was in her eyes. I came so hard I blew my load inside faster than any blast. I shook from the effort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DIVYA
Passion was a strange thing. You rarely missed it when you never had it. But once you’ve tasted it, experienced it, and knew what it could do to you, you couldn’t live without it. You ached for it. You wanted that feeling again and again. All the veins in your body hummed for it. All day and every day you spend, on your toes, waiting till you can enjoy it again. That moment when your body shot up in heat like a rocket on a launch.
It was a strange thing, this passion. It made me look at my marriage through rose-tinted glasses. It made me believe it was for real. When my husband came home and dragged me to the nearest room to bury himself inside me, it made me feel things. When he found me in between meetings, not caring if he was late for the next one, just so he could lick me like his favourite gelato, it made my heart tick just a bit faster.
Passion was not real. It was really an illusion. Hiding the sad and ugly world behind it.
I knew that. But for the last few days of my marriage, I had chosen to believe in the illusion rather than to uncover the truth.
We lived in our own story. Side characters going in and out. But our story, Antonio's and mine, together with Cora, was all that mattered. Stolen glances and discreet touches ended up in heavy thrusts in private rooms. If you asked me, this was not a bad way to live your illusion.
I watched him eat. We had an international menu in the household, mainly Italian but often French, Spanish, English… I had even cooked a curry once, not that anyone would call me a cook, but everyone had liked it or pretended to. Even Armando, who was as prim and proper as they got, had asked me a few days later if I could make it again. Today it was steak on the menu. According to Antonio it was a symbol of Florence, a city he claimed he knew well and promised to take me to in the throes of passion.
I watched him swallow the juicy steak and wash it down with some red wine. His movements rushed heat through my body. His lips chewing the meat, his Adam’s apple going up and down, his wrist around the wine glass…. Heaviness landed in between my legs.
He had come home and found me immediately. It was a good thing I had already put Cora to bed because the first thing he did was drag me into the shower with him and fuck me senseless. No man had ever made me feel like him. Like I was the flame to his candle.
I hadn’t liked it in the beginning, but I was now happy that the rest of the staff slept far away from us. He turned me into an animal, emitting strange sounds that even I didn’t understand. Besides, his filthy words were better kept for my ears only.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised in question. “Done already?”
At my nod, he frowned. “You don’t eat enough.”
His arrogance should have extinguished the flame I held for him. It didn’t.
“I do.” I defended myself because I couldn’t let this man run all over me.
He reached for my hand, softly stroking his gruff thumb against the soft skin of my pulse. It was the simplest touch, but it made my insides clench. “I just want you to have enough energy, tesoro… for later,” he murmured sending goose bumps rushing up and down my body. A touch and a word and this man made me a bundle of nerves.
I flushed, pulling my hands away before I jumped him to cool the burn in between my legs.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Good.”
