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I reach between her legs where my cum slides down the inside of her thighs. I drag my fingers through it, feeling her warmth, my finger briefly slipping inside her lips to stroke against her swollen clit, still seeking attention.
Then I lift my hand, wiping my fingers across her face, smearing our combined fluids across her lips, against her teeth and tongue as her mouth sags open, needing to ruin her, crush her, deface her.
Something to bring her down to my level. To silence the scorn as my wife’s voice replays on a loop in my brain.
She stares at me, jaw quivering, her tongue slipping out to lick my cum from her lips. I reach between her legs again and her eyes lock to mine, her chest hitches.
I mean to repeat the action but as my fingers sink inside her, the desire to please her takes over, offering a far greater reward.
My mouth finds hers, devouring her lips, tasting her, tastingmeon them. My hand tangles in her hair, taking hold but not harshly, not dragging strands out by the roots, not tugging enough to hurt.
I kiss her and can’t stop, like the taste of us on her tongue is an elixir, immediately intoxicating, instantly addictive. I kiss her and my fingers move inside her folds, sliding back and forth, finding a rhythm that matches to the subtle thrust of her hips, picking up speed as her breath becomes shallow, then slowing, drawing out each sensation until she glides over the edge, muscles pulling and twitching and convulsing. Until she comes with an elongated sigh I catch in my mouth, a piece of her I steal as mine.
This time, when I raise my hand, it’s to wipe her against my mouth, sucking my fingers, tasting her sweet and salty scent against my tongue.
When they’re sucked clean, I wrap my arms around her back, pulling her against me, exulting in the soft press of her breasts against my chest, the tender comfort of her slight body, warm against mine, so tiny and frail against my strength that I feel gigantic. Unstoppable.
“Something’s wrong,” she murmurs, her consonants so slushy I take a moment to translate the sounds to words. “My legs don’t work.”
I draw back, frowning.
Too late, I see her eyes aren’t wide, it’s that her pupils have blown out, consuming her irises until there’s barely a shred of colour. Even in the dim light, her face is pale.
Her arms are around me, but they’re boneless. When I shift, they drop to dangle by her side. Her legs give way, folding under her.
I catch her, pinning her against the wall again to help keep her upright. I tug her dress over her naked breasts, trying to get the straps to stay over her shoulders, torn too ragged to obey.
Fuck.
What the fuck have I just done?
There’s the shuffle of shoes on concrete and my heart picks up speed. I lift Emilia, trying to make her appear conscious, alert. An impossible task. She slips like liquid through my hands.
The bartender steps into sight, head tilted. I imagine how the scene looks to him. Imagine the snap of cuffs, the stark cell, the harsh queries from police.
My uncle will hear the news.
Another fuck up. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t kill me.
The man walks two paces into the alleyway, and I stiffen, expecting an accusation. Instead, he seems unperturbed. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got her.” She’s collapsed, but her slight build makes her easily manoeuvrable. I sling an arm around her waist, laying her arm across my shoulders and holding it steady with my other hand.
He steps closer, close enough to make the skin of my neck crawl. “You can set her down,” he says in a voice as thick and dark as oil. “I don’t mind seconds.”
A ball of ice forms in my centre, spreading until my blood cools to sludge in my veins. I think of the glass, the umbrella, the waving away of her offer to pay for the drink.
The drink and whatever he laced it with.
The bartender looks at me with the lazy smile, the nod of recognition he gives me every night I come here and in the past few weeks, I’ve come to this club a lot.
He looks at me as though we’re thesame.
Emilia stirs, eyes fluttering open, head tilting back until they stare into mine with her blown pupils, a vague twitch curling her lips.
Then they close as she passes out again. They stay that way as I lift her over my shoulder.
The bartender moves to block me, and I stare, waiting, not saying a word because I don’t trust myself to speak and if he forces me to, if I have to respond, then it’ll be with my fists and my feet and the knife I have tucked into my back pocket.
