AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I have no one who will help me.
David taps the divider between the seats and the driver. “Take her home,” he says gruffly, and then he steps out of the car without another word, shutting the door hard. I’m left in the dim interior, shaking, still clutching the edge of the seat as the car starts to pull away.
I’m being sent home alone, and I don’t know if that’s better or worse than going home with David. I’m glad that I don’t have to spend another minute with him, that I can sit here and grapple with the fact that it feels as if my heart is cracking apart alone, because I don’t know if I could have stood it with him here.
I don’t know how this man, who has so often treated me with dismissal and occasionally cruelty, can break my heart over and over. I don’t know how I can keep falling for the moments when he’s kind, when he makes me think that there could be some other side to him. And I don’t know how I’m going to bear to keep doing this, over and over again.
The tears start to fall on the drive home, sliding down my face as I sit there trembling, with no reason to hold them back any longer. I don’t care what the driver thinks of me, or David’s security, if I even see them when I get home. There’s no staff to hide my emotions from, nothing but that empty old house, even more full of secrets than I first realized.
I barely look at the driver when he opens the car door for me, pushing my way past him with my skirt gathered up in my hand, stumbling tearfully up the stairs to our bedroom. Every breath ends on a gasping sob, and I toss the fur stole over a chair, yanking at the zipper of my dress, desperate to be out of it. To be rid ofallof this, every bit of this awful night. I snatch the pins out of my hair, scattering them across the top of my vanity. I feel all the anger and fear well up inside of me, exploding as I grab my jewelry box and fling it at the full-length mirror next to the bed. It shatters, spilling shards of glass over the wooden floor, and I stare down at them with my chest heaving as I stand in the pool of fabric that was my dress.
I hope David cuts himself on them when he comes home,I think darkly, tears still streaking down my face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror, mascara and eyeliner trailing down my cheeks, and I know David will be upset if he comes home and sees me like this.
I can’t bring myself to care.
I grab the dress off of the floor, stalking to the closet and throwing the doors open, and I see all my things hanging there, all the clothing my mother insisted I buy for my new life, all the trappings of a marriage I don’t even want. I grab at them, at the boxes and bags, flinging them across the floor in another swell of anger as I scream over and over, knowing no one will hear me. No one will care.
And I can’t help but wonder, as I stand there crying, if David’s first wife stood here and thought the same thing. If she wanted to beg for help and couldn’t.
Numbly, I walk to the bed naked, crawling under the covers. I curl up into a ball as I turn off the light, seeing the moonlight glitter over the shards of glass on the floor, and I close my eyes.
When David comes home, I want to be asleep.
—
Unfortunately, I sleep too lightly to not wake up when I hear his footsteps. I drifted off, dozing through dream after dream of what I found in the attic, of David chasing me through the house, of having our baby only for him to refuse to believe that it’s his, only to be jolted awake by the sound of his shoes on the wooden floor.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing as even as I can. He doesn’t flip on a light, and I can hear from the unsteady cadence of his walk that he must be at least a little drunk. My chest tightens, and I hear him curse under his breath as he stops at the edge of where the broken glass is. I can feel him standing there, looking at me.
And then I hear the sounds of him walking to the other side of the bed, getting undressed. The slither of his clothes to the floor, the thump of his shoes and belt hitting the wood, and fear and anticipation knot themselves together in my belly, wondering what comes next.
I don’t move, don’t give him any inclination that I might be awake. I lie there, still breathing carefully, as I feel the weight of his body in the bed next to mine, the warmth of his bare skin. I catch a whiff of alcohol from his breath, and I know then that hehasbeen drinking—and likely a lot.
His hand touches my hip. Not roughly, the way I was expecting, but almost gingerly, as if he’s trying not to wake me. It occurs to me to wonderwhyhe’s drunk—I’ve never seen him drink past the point of a light buzz, not even in Ibiza. He’d been so cold back at the mansion during our argument, as if it hadn’t affected him at all. It’s hard for me to believe that he was so upset about it that he would get drunk at an important event, one where the perception of others matters so much.
His hand slides up to my waist, and it takes everything in me to keep my breath from catching at his touch. Even now, the feeling of his hand gliding over my skin sends a flush of warmth through me, the beginning of a pleasurable ache building between my legs. I hear him groan low in his throat behind me, moving closer as his hand slides up to cup my breast, and my pulse speeds up. I hope he can’t feel it, that he thinks I’m still sleeping. I wonder if he’ll care if I am or not.
His thumb flicks over my nipple, and I nearly gasp. Something about the effort of trying to remain quiet and not react, trying to pretend that I’m asleep, makes this even more arousing. I feel him brush against the small of my back as his fingers roll over my nipple once more, and I realize that he’s hard. It doesn’t surprise me, but what does is the flush of arousal that washes through me, my body tightening, wet with need, as his hand slides down to rest over the flat of my stomach.
It’s a reminder of Ibiza—not David touching me in my sleep, but all those days and nights when I learned things about myself that I never would have imagined or dared to fantasize about. When I discovered that, it turned me on to be ordered down to my knees, for him to ignore me while I sucked his cock, to be humiliated by how much I wanted him in spite of his arrogance and his demands.
I expect to feel him nudging between my thighs, for him to slip my panties aside and take what he wants. Instead, I feel him let out a heavy breath behind me, his hand going very still on my breast as he realizes—or thinks, at least—that I’m not going to wake up.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and I feel him roll over onto his back, a sudden space between us. There’s a moment’s silence, and then I feel him shift, and hear the shift of fabric, and his breathing quicken. I don’t realize what’s happening at first, until he lets out a low, muted groan, and I hear the soft sound of flesh on flesh.
I freeze, wondering if I’m imagining what’s happening. I find it hard to believe that David would choose to pleasure himself instead of simply taking what he wants—me, in this case. But he doesn’t move to touch me again, or wake me. Instead, I hear the sound of something wet, and then of him quickening his pace, a sound that spurs a sudden ache between my thighs. I almost roll over, wanting to see the image of him half-naked in bed with his hand wrapped around his cock, thrusting into his own fist instead of me to ease his need.
But if I do, he’ll fuck me instead. And after what happened tonight, I don’t know if I can bear it right now.
It doesn’t take long. I don’t know if he’s simply that aroused or if the idea of pleasuring himself in the bed next to me as I sleep turns him on, but I hear him groan again a moment later, a strangled sound that I recognize. I feel him tense next to me, and I can imagine him spurting over his hand, his thumb rubbing at that spot that I know so well, prolonging his pleasure as he comes all over his fingers instead of inside of me.
If I reached down and touched myself right now, I could do the same. I squeeze my thighs together, knowing that if I do, I’ll think of him. I can’t bear that, either. Not when he confuses me so much. Not when I found out only a few hours ago for certain that my husband is lying to me.
He gets up from the bed, padding quietly to the bathroom. I lie there with my eyes closed, still feigning sleep, until I feel him lie down again and hear his breathing go soft and even.
Then, and only then, I let the tears gathering in my eyes slip down my cheeks.
I always knew that the life I was destined for would be a difficult one. But I had no idea just how very frightening it could be.
