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Her nose scrunches up as she purses her lips.
"Yes, you were drugged and that blurs the lines," she eventually admits, still fidgeting with her hands. "But even drugged you were conscious enough to give your consent. The drug at the hacienda was different from the one you're taking now. You, yourself told me that. Then it stands to reason that it would work differently, too. And it did. It was never meant to intoxicate you. The goal was always to alter memory. And that means while you were on it, you were still you—still conscious. It's just that…"
Damn, but what a sight!
My wife, standing naked before me and trying to argue what constitutes rape and what technically doesn't.
"It's just what?" I raise my eyebrows.
She takes a deep breath.
"It made you freer."
I frown.
"Explain."
Her eyes flash at my tone. She rakes her teeth over her lower lip as she brings her hands to my chest, trailing her fingers down my body. Her touch is light, but distracting altogether.
"You were uninhibited. No longer concerned with right, or wrong. You were you, but untethered to anything that held you back before," she finally says.
"And you think that made it ok for you to fuck me while I'd have no memory of it afterwards?" I demand harshly.
Her hands suddenly still over my chest.
"No," she whispers, shaking her head. "It doesn't make it ok. I know this now, and I knew it back then."
"And you still did it."
A nod.
"I still did it."
"Why?"
"Because it was the only way I could have you," she confesses with a sad smile.
I'm stunned into silence as I can only stare at her, unable to believe the woman I'd fallen in love with and the one before me are one and the same.
I'd always felt there was a side of Noelle that hid beneath her sunny disposition and gentle nature, but I would have never believed it to be something like this.
"You were married," I point out the obvious, curious to see how she would justify that.
She shakes her head, her mouth curling at the corners.
"I didn't see myself as married," she replies with a careless roll of her shoulders. "I never saw myself married to anyone but you," she continues.
Despite the moral dilemma of the question, her answer pleases me.
"And you see nothing wrong with anything you did," I state.
I'm not yet ready to question her about Mali. Not when I'm hanging by a thread and any mention of his name could be my trigger. But that doesn't mean I don't hold that piece of information close to my heart—the fact that not only had she technically raped me, but she'd also secretly had my child.
"No," she says as she tips her chin up, confidence oozing from her voice. "I don't. I would do it again. And again. And again."
That surprises me.
"Is that why you came here?" I give a sarcastic laugh. "How did you think any of this would help your narrative when you know it was wrong and you'd do it again?"
