Till Death (2 page)

I believe, with all of the rules involved in my life, that my heart should have some. It shouldn’t be allowed to care for a man who is incapable of loving it back. It shouldn’t be allowed to care for a man who puts my father’s well being at risk. And it shouldn’t be allowed to put me in the position of choosing between the two; it shouldn’t fall for more than one man at one time.

My heart, like the rest of my body, doesn’t like to follow rules.

I have no reason to care for Nathan. Outside of sex, he is cold, distant, business-like—a dictator who has constructed this world of rules that I hate. It is the glimpses that have done me in. Nathan in Napa, his soft words, loving glances, thoughtful gestures and carefree smile. The glimpse of compassion when he asks about my father, a hint of sadness in his tone that reminds me of his lack of family. Those glimpses have devastated the walls that I built between my heart and his, rendered me weak, wishy-washy, confusing my mind and soul.

And the sex. The long, hot fucks that have occurred in every part of the house, no matter who is around, or because of who is around—the raw need which he displays, the fever that burns in his eyes, the possession of his gorgeous face—every session is a new study in two addicts who cannot get enough of each other. I am at the point of needing his body, craving its domination, the slick slide of his cock in and out, his terse orders as he demands and my body provides.

I have so many questions about him. Why he is so cold. Why he will never allow me in his bed. Why he only reaches for me when he needs sexual satisfaction. Has he ever been in a relationship? Ever been the happy, carefree man that he so convincingly portrays in person?

I used to ask Drew those questions, never receiving a response, only stony silence. Now, due to our affair, I have no one to ask.

Affair. It sounds so dirty.
I am a cheating wife.
I hear the words and recognize them as truth, but still manage to deny it. Somehow, my mind justifies this twisted fucked up triangle. I don’t even know if it can be considered a triangle, the three points of us all so badly contorted, our emotions and lives too gnarled to have something so simple as a point.

I think of Drew, in his lonely corner of the triangle, and feel such confusion. The whispered words of Rick play in my mind. “They knew everything about you.”
They
. Drew included. He is the one who always provides my documentation. He is the one, while I sat and tried to decide whether to sign my life away, urged me forward, spelling out my pathetic life and dire financial situation.

I have shared a bed with the man, cupped his face, had him comfort me, kiss me, fuck me. Yet he has never shared why I am here, why they walked into the Crystal Palace and spoke my name. He has never answered my questions, hinted into my situation, or looked the other way so that I could bend a rule. He is my jailor as much as Nathan. He, like Nathan, seems entitled to sample from my body - but offers nothing in return.

Nathan
has spent the day at home, working in his office, my eyes watching the glass walls, seeing him at his desk. Visitors came at noon, two men, who went over documents and then left, Nathan returning to his seat, his hands running through his hair, frustration marring that beautiful face.

I feel like a voyeur, watching him from the air conditioned perfection of my home, marveling at how I still find him sexy, his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves, the darkness on his face when he speaks on the phone.

I am getting turned on, a ridiculous side effect of boredom and Nathan’s presence, and I decide to swim. I pull on my skimpiest bathing suit and step outside.

He is a sickness
. I decide that on lap twelve. A virus that I cannot combat.  Despite his incredible talent at being an asshole, I want his touch, want his approval. I want a cure but fear I would hesitate to take the medication.

I come up for air and see him, standing at the edge of the water, his hands on his hips. “Get out.”

I struggle with my limbs, swimming to the edge, pushing up and over the side, and stand, dripping wet before him. His eyes take in my bikini, the thin cords that run to small triangles, my breasts practically bare before him. He steps closer, his eyes flicking upward and meeting mine.

We stare at each other, brown eyes to blue, our connection unwavering as he lowers both hands to my breasts, sliding his palms under the wet fabric and squeezing. My eyes close slightly, pleasure sweeping through me, and he rubs rough thumbs over my nipples. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

I respond, opening my eyes and looking up, his blue depths studying me, noting the hitch in my breath when he squeezes, the slight drop of my bottom lip as need grows.

“I was working,” he says roughly. “Working when you stepped outside. Do you have any idea how hard I get when I see your body?”

He waits for a response, my mouth moving without sound. I clear my throat, almost whispering the words. “No sir.”

“Feel it. Now.”

My hands move quickly, jumping into to action, anxious for what awaits them. Wet hands on expensive fabric, unzipping and unbuttoning, reaching in and grabbing impressive, hard heat. Rock hard. Ready.

He bats my hands away, pulling at the strings of my top and letting it fall on the pool deck, the sun hitting my swollen breasts, the nipples hard and aching from his touch, then steps back, looking my body up and down. “Go in my office and get on your knees. You’re going to finish what you started.”

I move quickly, his presence behind me, my skin tightening as I move into the air-conditioned house. My feet cover the distance, turning corners and then stepping onto the plush carpet of his office, my wet feet sinking.

“Before the chair. Kneel.” 

His order comes from behind me, and I do as I am told, my knees hitting the carpet, his steps coming beside me, my eyes looking up to find him staring down at me. 

“Perfect,” he said hoarsely, sitting down and reaching in his pants, pulling out his cock and laying it out before me. “Swallow it. Deep.”

He keeps his eyes on me, watching as I run my hands over its length, wetting my lips and inching closer, trying to keep my eyes on his but pulled to the magnificent sight before me. It twitches beneath my hands, and he pulls on the back of my head, eager to have it in my mouth.

When I close my mouth on it, sliding my lips over his head, the veins in his cock swollen under my fingers, he groans. A long, slow groan of release, satisfaction. He cradles my hair in his hands, his head tilted, watching me suck, watching my eyes close as I gag, the width and depth of him too great to take.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Do you know how often I think about you at work? Think about you just like this, behind my desk? I get fucking hard thinking about you.” He pushes my head harder, sitting up slightly and watching the slide of his cock intently.

His cell buzzes, on the desk, and he reaches for it, his eyes never leaving mine. He answers the phone, pulling at my head, his eyes ordering me to continue.

I love the taste of his skin. How hard he grows in my mouth, the moments when I taste the sweet drops of his arousal. There is nothing that turns me on more than having him before me, his hands urging me on, his most sensitive organ twitching underneath my tongue. I work my hand over his length, pulling him from my mouth and moving below, taking his balls into my mouth, and rolling them along my tongue, his words pausing in their speech, a brief hitch in his tone.

I smile, skimming my teeth lightly over the skin, watching his eyes close briefly, his mouth struggle to return to the conversation, his words halting when they come. I return to his cock, sucking with renewed energy, my hands and my mouth working in a wet, sexual tandem.

He stands, pulling my head back slowly, dark eyes watching as inch after inch of his cock leaves my mouth, my cheeks hollowing from the suction, my tongue teasing and flicking as he pulls me off. “John. My wife needs me. I’ll call you back.” He ends the call and tosses the phone aside, pulling me to my feet in one quick movement.

“Bend over. In my chair. Right fucking now.”

He yanks at the strings of my bikini bottom, pulling it away before I am in place, my knees hitting his chair a moment later. It is a wide leather chair, worn and sitting low, my knees putting me at the perfect height for his entrance. He pushes a finger inside, swearing when he feels my readiness. “Is that from this?” he asks, thrusting inside, my insides tightening around him, anxious for every inch of his entry. “Does it turn you on to suck my cock?”

I nod, knowing that it won’t be enough. Knowing that he will want more, will want to hear my voice. I want the reaction my silence will bring. He slaps me, the hard, rough impact against my skin causing me to jump, to moan, the possessiveness of the contact causing a curl of pleasure to shoot through my body. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” I gasp. “Please. Spank me again.”

He waits, fucking me hard, the percussion of our skin quick, the anticipation of his touch causing my legs to tighten, my core to grip him tightly. It is building, my mountain of lust, my body shaking and breaking around his stiff rod, each thrust perfectly timed, the entire act too erotic for me to take. Being fucked like a whore, I am learning, turns me the fuck on.  Then it comes, hard, open hand slaps, against my skin, his fingers gripping after each contact is made, each stinging stroke taking me closer and closer until

Ecstasy. My body breaking into a thousand splinters of pleasure, a series of gasps spilling out, my back arching and pushing against his hard pelvis, our bodies joined as I am torn apart in a sea of desire.

The Bahamas plans are moving along. Drew has booked us flights; our departure scheduled a week from now. Last week, a travel agency rep came to the house, took my passport photo, and presented me with an application to sign. Drew oversaw the process, checking the application thoroughly before making a copy and handing them the original.

This morning, I held a brunch at the house with two society ladies, women that Nathan insists I befriend. I smiled, sipped iced tea and served catered food, and we made polite chit chat for eighty agonizing minutes. It felt strange, sitting in the dining room that I pretend to own, playing house for women that I have no interest in knowing.

They finally stand, hugs and air kisses all around, promising to get together soon, flowery bullshit stacked upon flowery bullshit. I feel ten pounds lighter when they finally leave, when I wave cheerfully and shut the door with a smile. I sit in the window seat, watching them walk down the white steps, willing them to hurry-the-fuck-up, to get into their car and off of this property, so that I will be alone with Drew. Today is a quiet day—no Beth, no landscapers, no housekeepers. It will be just him and me, and I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity. Not just to seduce, but in hopes of getting access to the house, my fingers itching to explore Nathan’s office.

He walks in slowly, glancing out the window, his eyes watching as they get in their car and start the slow process of preparing to leave. “Why are you still in here?”

I fight to keep the smile on my face. “Nathan is always so concerned with appearances. I thought it might be odd for me to run to the guest house before they pull out.”

He nods, avoiding looking my way. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come into your room the other night.” His words are soft, almost whispered, even though the cameras are off—the security system only activated at night and by his control.

I say nothing, swallowing, and look out the front window, seeing the two women engaged in a conversation of some sort, adjusting controls and taking their dear sweet time in pulling out.
He’s sorry
. This might throw a wrench in my plan for the day. He should be sorry. He has put me in a terrible position, he has put my agreement with Nathan in jeopardy, risked my father in the meantime. But this sudden change of conscience is terrible in its timing.

The car in the driveway moves, going forward around the large circle and heading towards the entry gates, out of sight of my perch. I stand, moving to him and looking up into his face, my hand stealing around his neck and pulling his face down, forcing him to look at me. “Drew, please stop talking.”

His eyes reluctantly meet mine, moving from my eyes to my mouth and back to my eyes. Then he pushes, a hurried gesture, hard on my shoulders, and steps back. “No.”

My heart sinks, my plan thwarted.

“Not here. It’s too visible.” He steps to the window, standing to the far left of it, where he can see the clear driveway, the closed gates. Then he turns, striding toward the back, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with him.

Sex the first time was hurried, him demanding permission with his body, my own response hesitant, terrified of the giant cliff that we were taking a step off of. This time I hold nothing back, letting his hunger devouring me, his hands placing me where and how he wants it. And this time, he is the one who seems unsure of the wisdom of our actions.

Impact. He pushes me against the wall, his hands fumbling with my shorts, jerking them down so he can lift and wrap my legs around his body. His mouth, breathing hard, whispers words that contradict his motions. “Are you sure? We shouldn’t…” Then he groans as my bare legs pull him tight, his body supporting me against the wall, my arms wrapping around his neck and pulling his mouth to mine. I yank at his shirt while we kiss, pulling the fabric up, our mouths separating for a brief moment as it is pulled over his head. His hands move beneath me, unzipping, yanking, ripping open a condom, an initial bump of bare cock against the curve of my skin.

Thrusts. Our bodies on the bed, my legs spread before him, his hips moving in strong, slow fucks that are increasing in rhythm. It is a beautiful site, his eyes blazing with possession, his chest tightening, the slide of his cock as it thrusts in and out, his gaze dropping to watch it, his mouth slightly open in lust. His hands grip my thighs, holding my legs against his chest, and he releases any control, starting a furious pace that has my body shaking, intensity building.

Orgasms. Mine while he is behind me, his balls drilling a steady beat on my clit, his hands squeezing my ass, holding me still while he sets the pace, brings me to completion. His while I am beneath him, his arms framing my head while he thrusts inside of me, his mouth brushing mine, the pace increasing until he grunts, shudders, and then whispers my name, lowering his body to mine, giving one final full thrust that takes him completely inside of me.

***

I hear the rush of water as he opens my shower door and steps in. I sit up, moving quickly and silently out to the pool deck, then into the main house. To be safe, I am giving myself less than five minutes, my feet running as soon as my bare soles touch the cool tile. I trace the path Drew led me down one week earlier, the path to Nathan’s office.

I skid around the edge of his desk, my hand gripping the wooden edge, tugging on handles and drawer pulls until one slides open. Files. There has to be something on me, a folder of my history, or a diagram of their evil plan. I skim over the folder titles.

Three minutes.

The drawer seems to be filled with mostly family-related items, ‘Dumont’ present on most of the tabs.

Dumont Family History.

Dumont Estate.

Dumont Trust.

Files for names I am not familiar with, his parents, most likely. Then, I see my name, and time slows.

Jennifer Dumont. 

The title is written as painstakingly neat as the rest of the tabs, my place among his family files as an equal. I almost missed the file, its thin depth lying against the one before it, shielded by a tag with similar placement. I reach forward and pull it out.

Two minutes.

My heart sinks as the file slides out, too quickly and easily, its weight too light to hold many secrets.  It feels, in fact, empty. I open it slowly, and my eyes fall on a single piece of paper. It is a piece of Nathan’s letterhead, a half-page card that is familiar enough to my eyes, the embossed letters of his name across the top. On it, in the painstakingly neat writing of my husband, is one short message. I read it quickly, then stop, my heart thudding heavily in my chest—slow, loud thumps that rattle my thinking. Then I read it again.

I loved Jennifer more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.

One minute.