Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I turn the handle, grateful it’s not locked. But from the dim light in the hallway, I can see he’s not here. His bed is still made. He hasn’t slept in it. The clock by the bed tells me it’s past three in the morning. Is he still up?
I turn and head down the stairs to his office. It’s the only other place I can think he’d be. And I’m right. I know it before I even reach his door not only from the light coming from beneath it but from the melody streaming out. Something dark I recognize. Mozart’s Requiem. My father loved Mozart, and I remember this piece especially well. The haunting tune, the escalating soprano.
Without thinking, I let my feet carry me to his door, and this time, I don’t knock. I push it open, and Santiago’s gaze snaps up from what he’s doing. The volume is so high I can’t hear myself think, but from the candles on his desk, I can see how red his eyes are. It makes me wonder how much of the bottle of scotch that sits half-empty he consumed after dinner tonight. I don’t know all that he’s carrying, but it’s heavy. I see it. And I feel doubly guilty about pushing him earlier.
I walk inside and close the door behind me. I don’t say a word as I go to him. He drops the pencil into the notebook and lets it close as he pushes his seat back when I come around the desk. I pull my nightgown off. I’m not wearing anything underneath but the rosary, and I stand before him and let him look at me with his sanguine eyes and his sad skull face.
Something about the look in it breaks my heart a little. What was so terrible that he’s gone from the man driving the sports car too fast through dark, winding streets to this one? This broken man.
I drop to my knees between his legs, and he leans back when I reach to undo his belt, then his trousers. I take him out and look up at his sorrowful face.
He puts his hand on my head as if giving me his blessing, and when I lean forward and close my mouth around him, I hear a choked sound come from deep inside his chest. His hand soon turns to a fist in my hair as he takes over, moving fast, pushing deeper, both hands on me now as I taste the first salty drops before he pulls me off, the pop strangely loud as the suction of my mouth is broken. He lifts me, laying me on his desk, and the leatherbound book digs into my shoulder before he shoves it to the floor.
He spreads me open and looks at me like a starved man before a feast, and when he dips his head between my legs, I arch my back and close my eyes, fisting handfuls of his hair as he licks hungrily. He brings me just to the edge of orgasm before straightening. Tugging me closer, he locks eyes on mine when he thrusts into me, leaning closer to me as I claw at his shoulders. I pull at his hair, wanting him closer still, deeper because it’s not enough. It’s not enough. He’s still too far, and I need him.
“Ivy,” he grunts, these final thrusts punishing. And then he stills, and I watch him, watch his beautiful face as he comes. Something inside me flutters and twists, and it’s bittersweet, this. Our lovemaking. Our violent, raw lovemaking.
And I think in time he will break me whether he wants to hurt me or not.
26
Santiago
I'm still inside my wife, touching her and breathing her in. I can't seem to stop. My head dips to her neck, lips trailing over the tender flesh. How did she know I needed her tonight? Why does she come to me like she needs this too?
Already, I can feel myself hardening inside her again. Perhaps it is just her and this cloyingly sweet intoxication I seem to find myself indulging in far too often. Or perhaps it is because I know this could be the night I finally claim her in the most primal of ways.
"You've been here for three months now," I murmur against her skin. "Did you know that?"
She stills beneath me, her palms flattening against my back.
"I have?"
"I did some digging in Chambers’ practice," I tell her. "Scoured through his drug inventory. On the day of your visit with him, there was only one injectable used. That shot you had was a progesterone shot. It was only effective for eight weeks."
When I pause to look down at her, Ivy curls her fingers against me, her expression soft, eyes wild.
I brush the hair away from her face, staring into her eyes so deeply it feels as though we are tethered together by some unbreakable cord.