Rage

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lara

Seven weeks later

I roll over, cursing the blare of the damnable alarm clock. It’s only Tuesday; which means four more days of oppressive patriarchal corporate bullshit before I can relax into the weekend again. It’s not the job I mind, per se. It’s more the male dominated workspace that goes with being client liaison at a global financial institution.

Like I said—bullshit.

I roll back, smiling at the sleeping form of the woman next to me. My gorgeous wife, peaceful in her slumber, her shock of purple hair vivid against the cream pillowslip. As usual, the alarm hasn’t even begun to disturb her sleep. But that’s okay, because that means I get to do one of my very favorite things.

I trail my hand down her side, never once taking my eyes off her face. Kath always sleeps naked, at my behest, because then I get to fully enjoy the pleasure that comes in waking her up with my body.

My fingers ghost over the curves of her supple figure, the taut skin smooth under my touch. I bring my hand to a halt on her hip, thumb tracing a line down the crease, the juncture of her thigh and hip always one of my favorite places to linger.

I move down under the cover, exerting slight pressure as I do so. She rolls under me, with me, sighing in her sleep, legs falling akimbo, inviting me to love her at will.

I keep one hand where it is, bringing the other under and around her thigh to hold her leg open for me. A moment passes, time enough for me to glory in the sight laid before me; my stunning wife, her short-trimmed curls adorning swollen pink pussy lips, glistening with her juices in the muted morning light.

I part her folds, running a long lick from hole to clit, loving the way she thrusts her hips, the small moan that leaves her mouth audible even under the light coverlet. My touches are light, teasing, just the right kind of sensation for her to enjoy it. My lover has never been one for fast, hard fucking or intense stimulation, preferring instead this gentle, building overload of pleasure.

She’s the opposite of me, in many ways; I’m all for the tentacle dildos, all the fucking way please, and bring it the fuck on with that intensity of vibrators and stimulating toy play.

But Kath? She can tolerate a gentle fingering from me, but the thought of full penetration brings her anxiety to a startling forefront. It’s a sensory thing of hers, a real issue that she’s always had, and any kind of attempt to desensitize her has always resulted in her tensing up and shutting down.

But because of that, she’s never been with a guy; not once, not ever… Not even in the dregs of high school years when you simply had to lose your V-card or be branded the frigid lesbian.

Well, case in point, because that latter description is wholly true, but Bobby motherfucking Carter didn’t give a shit when he forced himself on me after a football game one night in senior high.

But not her; not my Katherine. She’s all fucking mine, and she always has been.

No-one else gets to see the way her body reacts to my touch, the way she rolls her pelvis up to meet my mouth when I suckle on her clit. Just the way she is doing now. My fingers are digging into the top of her thigh, likely hard enough to leave bruises as I pin her to the bed and to me, eagerly lapping at her soft womanhood.

She’s starting to wake now, so I stop my ministrations, unhooking my arm to ease myself up her body. Crawling upward, I bring a rosy pink nipple into my mouth on the way, my gaze fixed on her sleep-wakened pupils, a lazy smile on her face as she realizes I’ve been making love to her in slumber.

Her hands come around me, tangling bed-warmed fingers into my long blonde tresses, simultaneously trying to bring me up to kiss her and clutch me to her breast.

“Fuck, Lar…”

She’s breathless with desire, gravel-streaked voice barely sounding my name—but this is how I adore her, how I worship at her altar; bringing her pleasure is the greatest pleasure to me.

Her warm, wet pussy grinds against my stomach, desperately seeking friction. But then I did leave her wanting. So, I help, bringing one palm down to clutch at her mound, allowing her to ride the juncture between thumb and forefinger to bring some much-needed relief. My other hand snakes around the back of her neck as I claim her mouth, knowing she can taste herself all over me—a fact which only heightens both our desires.

As she crests again, pushing herself into my hand, I allow the tip of one finger to penetrate, just a shallow dip. But she immediately tenses up at the contact, so I withdraw.

She breaks the kiss, eyes screwed tight, a pained look crossing her sweet face. “I’m sorry, I-I can’t. Not today, Lar…”

“It’s okay, my darling. Whatever you need, you know that,” I murmur. I bring our mouths together one more time, knowing I really need to get a move on if I want to climb in the shower before work.

I slip away from my lover and from the bed, hearing the satisfied sigh as she rolls over and settles back to her peaceful rest again. She needs it at the moment; besides the commissions she’s had coming in from the gallery installation, she’s working on some new project. I adore her commitment, spending all her waking hours holed up in the bright, open studio at the back of our city apartment.

I love her drive, her passion to create, and I can’t wait to see what she’s accomplished while burning her candle right down like this. She's been so tired these past couple weeks, but I know she won’t stop until she’s got down the vision in her mind’s eye. Then again, I’ll never ask before she’s ready to show me.

I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to warm slightly before stepping into the cubicle. A brief interlude with the detachable shower head and a handy deodorant bottle are all I need to get myself off. Well, that and my lover’s taste, which I lick from the palm of the hand she rode, greedy to consume all of her.

There’s little time to spare after I’m done getting dressed, so I catch up on social feeds while eating a crunch bar. The box is finished, but I have to heave a sigh as I look at the already overflowing recycling pile. Ignoring Kathy’s note to say she’ll take it out later, I decide to take the whole box-full down on my way out to the car.

I quickly pack up my laptop bag, grabbing my reusable coffee mug and my winter coat and make my way haltingly down the stairs, hampered only slightly by the plastic tub we use for our recycling waste. It’s tucked under my other arm, and piled to the brim with discarded Amazon packaging and food cartons. I figure I can leave it by the dumpster and pick it up on the way home. Or maybe even text Kathy to bring it up when she wakes.

I upend the box over the large opening, paying little attention to the tumbling cardboard. Except…

what was that?

I’m sure it wasn’t anything. I’m just imagining things.

But as I peek over the rim, I can see that I wasn’t.

There’s a flattened-out box on top. One that I know only too well. One that sends a finger of horror creeping up the back of my neck.

A box for a pregnancy test. It’s pink as all fuck, it’s not like I can mistake it. But… Why the fuck is there one of those in our trash? I guess it must have been there a while. Unless…

unless she intentionally buried it

No, she wouldn’t do that. Why would she?

because she doesn’t want you to know

But… Why—what on earth would compel her to do that?

she cheated. she’s cheating on you with a man, and she didn’t want you to find out

She wouldn’t. She—she couldn’t, she’s never even been?—

but maybe she was curious. maybe she wanted to see what it felt like for real

I choke down the hurt of that thought. She’s never expressed any kind of need… Never even broached the subject in all these years, can’t abide the feeling?—

maybe you’re not enough for her any more…

Betrayal. Utter despair and brutal betrayal are all I can see and hear and feel, standing there, staring at the box for…

Well, it feels like centuries, but it can’t be. It must only be a matter of mere minutes, but every second that ticks by, every beat of my heart, every pulse of blood through my veins makes the rage cloud thicker.

I can’t. I fucking can’t.

I cannot do this today.

I’m barely coherent as I storm back inside, the recycling tub forgotten, discarded on the ground. The slam of the door, the thump of my feet hitting the stairwell, mere background noise to the swelling roar of pure, unadulterated anger I feel as I crash back into our bedroom, throwing the packet at the still sleeping lump.

“What the fuck is this, Katherine?!”

I screech the words, full volume, full pelt, no thought, just blind irritation drawing red on the edges of my vision. My heart is racing, so loud and so fast I fear it might jump out of my rib cage, the thundering pace akin to having done a full-scale workout.

But all I’ve done is run up the stairs to demand an answer.

She’s waking up still, bleary eyed and drowsy, no comprehension at all of why I’m uncontrollably bristling at a rectangular piece of cardboard. But when she notices—when she notices, she panics, and I’m right back to yelling again.

“You fucking hid this from me? What the fuck, Kath?”

“Please, Lara, let me?—”

“Let you what? Tell me you’re cheating? That you got knocked up by a fucking—some fucking guy you’ve been seeing?” I breathe in through my nose, watching her scramble around, pulling up the duvets, pulling on a t-shirt. Hiding herself from me.

Hiding from my accusations? Or from the truth?

“I thought you loved me, Kathy, I thought…” My tears are brimming now, threatening to match the ones coursing down her cheeks, pattering wet splashes on the fabric. She makes no move to wipe them, but I swipe my own with an arm. “I thought we were good together. How could you do this to me? Cheat on me?”

“I didn’t cheat on you, Lara! I never could…”

I can see the truth of that on her face, the wide-eyed panic at the accusation, shock evident in every fiber of her whole being. And, in truth, I know that Kathy would never—could never—lie to me like that. She’s not capable of deception; she’s an open book of anxious innocence and gentle nature. But that still begs the question of what this box is doing in our trash.

I sink to my knees at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on the pink packaging. “So, then what is this? How? Why do you need a pregnancy test, Katherine?”

“Lar, I… I can’t. I just want to forget, don’t make me… Please.” I climb up on the bed, aching to hold her close, to drive away these demons causing her to have full body shakes. She’s wringing her fingers, barely holding herself together. Whatever this is—whatever has happened to my dear heart, it’s something bad… Devastating, even.

And she’s holding all of this inside herself? My heart is breaking, knowing that whatever is going on, whatever she’s feeling right now, she didn’t even feel like she could confide in me .

I’ve always been her safe place to shelter through the storm. Always.

“Kath, please.” I grip her hands in mine, bringing them to my chest. “You need to talk to me, darling. I’m here for you, always. I’m listening—please let me.”

“I was… I was attacked, okay?” She breaks then, raw anguished sobs of rage and pain escaping through the fingers covering her mouth. “I was attacked by a guy one night.”

What the fuck?

My breath catches at her words. And suddenly, I’m not even close to crying anymore. I’m still boiling, a burning rage of fire that’s billowing up inside. But my spoken voice is deadly, calm. Murderous.

“Tell me everything.”