I grin, drink, and listen to whiskey slosh in the bottle as I remember that I’ve already stabbed Damian once. And his punishment was four spanks. He told me I was getting off easy, but four spanks compared to what I saw on Michela’s back is more than easy.
And I realize something.
He won’t hurt me like that. I don’t know why I think that, but I do.
The wind rustles the trees outside. I stand, go to the window, and look down at the garden. There’s a pool in the distance. It looks like it’s been covered over for years. Somehow, I don’t see this family lounging out by the pool on a hot summer day. I can’t see them relaxing together at all.
The overgrown garden has not been maintained for a long while now. I can’t see the path we took to the church from here, but the grass was overgrown there too.
My mind wanders to Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. How the house crumbled down around the family. How, as the family died off, so did the house.
I shudder, then take another drink. I drop the switchblade on the bed and walk to the closet to get dressed. I’m naked but for the robe and my hair is wet. I know I should stop with the whiskey when I stumble just as I reach the closet door. I haven’t eaten since lunch.
I set the bottle down and switch on the light in the closet. I look around at all the clothes. My clothes. He bought these things for me.
He has a weakness for you.
Does he?
I spy his sweater on the floor in the corner. I’d tossed it in there after he’d left it behind that first night. Or was it the second night? I can’t even remember.
Picking it up, I bring it to my nose. It’s soft. Cashmere wool blend. And it smells like him.
For reasons I can’t understand, I slip off my robe and put his sweater on. It’s huge on me, comes to the tops of my thighs, and I keep having to push the sleeves up. It feels good on, though. Comforting somehow. Like he’s holding me.
I inhale deeply. I like his smell. I smell like him now.
Christ.
I shake my head because maybe I have a weakness for him, too.
Taking the bottle, I go back into the bedroom. I drink some more as I rummage through the drawer of underwear. He likes lace.
I pick a bright red string with a triangle of lace at the front. There’s literally nothing to it. Setting the bottle down, I step into it, stumbling a little as I do, needing to catch myself on the dresser when I almost fall.
Does he like this? Me like this?
His.
I remember his mouth on me. I remember his body on top of mine. Heavy. Good.
I remember his cock inside me.
Am I a whore to want it again? Want him again? I should hate him.
Turning to the bed, I see the switchblade. I need to hide it. If he finds it, he’ll take it away. He’ll punish Michela again.
Her back. My God.
I’m crouched down beside the bed shoving the blade between the mattress and the box spring when a door opens. I look up to find Damian’s eyes on me as he steps through the connecting door and leans against the wall, his damaged hand in his pocket. I wonder if that’s just habit, hiding it.
I stand, my heart racing, and drop the covers back down. I must look guilty as sin from the way he looks at me. But then his gaze drops down, and I follow it and remember I’m wearing his sweater. Why did I do that?
Immediately, I start to pull at it to take it off, stumbling backward when it’s halfway over my head so I can’t see.
He chuckles.
“How much of this did you drink?” he asks as I try to get the sleeves off.
His hands are on me then, and he pulls the sweater over my head, catching me when I almost fall.
He looks down at me.
I look down at me.
Naked but for the slip of a thong.
He grins, cups my ass and pulls me to him.
“I like that one.”
I push at him. “Get away from me.”
He does, eyes sweeping over me as he picks up the whiskey to drink some.
I drop to a seat on the edge of the bed and look him over as he spots my phone. He turns to me, holding the neck of the whiskey bottle in one hand.
“Did you go into my room and take that, too?”
“Well, it didn’t grow legs and walk over here on its own.”
“Don’t do it again.”
I lie back, suddenly so exhausted I can’t sit up.
“I told you to eat. You can’t drink this stuff on an empty stomach.”
I look up at the pretty canopy over the bed, then at him as he comes to stand by my legs which are dangling off the bed. There’s only one word I can use to describe the look in his eyes as his fingers caress my thigh. Lustful.
“Your sister’s back,” I say.
His face tightens, that lust gone. He drinks a sip from the whiskey, then sets the bottle down and looks me over.
“Don’t worry about my sister’s back.”
“Did you really do that?”
His eyebrows furrow, and I realize my mistake. I get up on my elbows and look at him. I should fix it. He shouldn’t know I talked to her.
“My father would only take her back if she agreed to two things. One was to change Bennie’s name. She’d named him after his father. And rightfully so. But his name is now Benedict Di Santo. My father’s name.”
“Why did she agree?”
“Because she’s weak. Get on your stomach.”
I swallow. I know what he wants. I want it too.
He and I are weak too. Weak for each other.
But I push on. “The second thing was what you did to her?”
He studies me, then nods.
At least he doesn’t lie.
I shudder, looking down at his hands. Big and powerful. Able to cause that kind of damage. That kind of pain.
“Are you afraid of me?”
I bite my lip. Am I? I was at first. I still am now, in a way.
“Will you really let me go?”
“I gave you my word. Now answer my question.”
“Yes.”
His face is rigid, body tense.
“And no. Am I being naïve to think you won’t hurt me like that, Damian?” I pause, then add, “You said truth in bed so tell me the truth whatever it is.”
He relaxes a little. “You’re stretching that in bed part.”
“I answered your question. Answer mine.”
“I won’t hurt you like that. I shouldn’t have hurt her like that.”
I hear remorse in his words. I think about the dagger just underneath me, beneath this mattress. I think about Michela and about the evidence of what Damian is capable of, and I still believe him.
His eyes graze over me. That lust of earlier is a hunger now.
“Get on your stomach, Cristina.”
My belly quivers, heat pulses between my legs, and my nipples harden. I watch him unbutton his shirt and pull it out of his pants. Lines of muscle cut across his belly.
I meet his eyes. They’ve gone dark. I roll onto my stomach, my elbows on the bed. I look at the closed door as I think about what he did the last time I was in this position. But this feels different. He’s not angry.
He tugs the string of the panties. I shudder as he peels them down over my hips, my legs. Off my feet. I look back when he spreads my legs apart and stands between them. I watch him look at me, watch him crouch down behind me and open me.
I don’t know what this is. I should pull away and make him take it from me. But I want his eyes on me. And his hands on me. And his mouth on me. And him inside me.