Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
FALLON
He fucks me, taking exactly what he wants with the slow, deliberate rhythm he's perfected over three years of marriage.
Always slow—like he's making love to me instead of using my body, which somehow makes everything worse.
The tenderness is a lie that drags on forever when all I want is for this to end, for him to finish so I can retreat back into the numbness that gets me through my days.
He presses my cheek harder into the cold granite countertop with one hand while the other grips my hip with bruising pressure as he keeps sliding in and out of me with that measured, controlled pace that speaks of ownership, not passion.
Tears threaten to fall but I don't want him to see them—don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's broken me down to this.
So I hold them back with desperate control and continue counting the grout lines between the tiles over and over, the way I always do when I need to escape into my head.
Twelve across. Start again. Twelve across. Twelve across.
The repetition is meditative, almost. A mantra against reality.
"Tell me how much you like it, baby." His breath is hot and damp against my ear as he leans down over me, pressing more of his weight onto my back until I can barely breathe beneath him.
I don't respond. Can't make my throat work around the words he wants to hear.
He slows down even more—sliding out of me so slowly I feel every single inch of him, then back in with that same measured, torturous pace that makes me want to scream.
"Tell me how much you like it when I make love to you." His voice drops lower, dangerous in its softness. A warning wrapped in silk.
The words stick in my throat like broken glass.
But I know what happens if I don't give him this performance.
I've learned the cost of silence, learned the price of honest disgust or visible revulsion.
I don't like it when he's angry. Angry Daniel uses his fists instead of just his body, and my ribs are still tender from last week when I made the mistake of flinching away from his touch.
"I love it," I say, forcing myself to fake a moan that sounds hollow and unconvincing even to my own ears.
"Oh god, baby. I know. I can feel you getting close." His breath quickens with his own approaching climax, misreading my body's tension as pleasure instead of endurance.
I'm not close. I'm not even remotely there, not anywhere near the kind of sensation that leads to release.
In fact I'm so dry this is painful—nothing but friction and burning and the ache of flesh that doesn't want to accommodate him.
But I fake it anyway because that's the only way this ends, the only way he finishes and leaves me alone.
"Yes. Oh yes, I'm..." I force breath into the words, make my voice shake the way bodies do when sensation overwhelms them into something beyond control. "I'm coming."
"Oh baby. There you go."
He picks up speed then. Thank god. Finally. His rhythm breaks, becomes erratic and rough, and then he comes with a grunt against my neck and pulls out abruptly.
He grabs a hand towel from the towel bar. Wets it in the sink with quick efficiency. Wipes his dick clean with movements that speak to routine and habit, not intimacy or tenderness.
Then tosses the damp towel carelessly into the sink.
"Clean this up." He's already tucking himself back into his pajama pants, not even looking at me anymore. "And don't take forever. I have early meetings tomorrow."
He leaves me there—bent over the bathroom counter with his release sliding slowly down my inner thigh, cooling against my skin.
When he's gone, when I hear the bedroom door close behind him, the tears finally fall.
I want to shower. Want to stand under scalding water until my skin turns red and raw and the feeling of him washes completely away.
Want to scrub myself clean until there's no evidence left of what just happened in this bathroom.
But it always pisses him off if I shower after sex, always turns into an accusation and sometimes violence.
What, are you trying to wash me off of you or something?
Like I'm dirty? Like touching your husband disgusts you?
So instead I grab a clean washcloth of my own and clean up as quickly as possible before I get dressed.
Pull on the cotton sleep shorts I never got to put on earlier, before he found me getting ready for bed and decided he wanted access to my body.
I try not to think about how the soft fabric feels against skin that still burns with friction and violation.
I remove my makeup next, going through the motions with mechanical precision.
Brush my teeth until my gums bleed slightly, trying to scrub away the taste of defeat.
Go through the entire routine of my nighttime ritual while my reflection stares back at me from the mirror—hollow-eyed and unfamiliar, a stranger wearing my face.
Who are you?
I don't know anymore. Can't remember the woman I used to be before Daniel.
When I finally make myself go back into the bedroom, he's already sprawled across his side of the mattress, snoring softly. Thank god he's asleep. Thank god I don't have to perform affection or gratitude or any of the other emotions he expects from me after he uses my body.
I climb carefully into bed, staying as far over on my side as physics will allow without falling off the edge.
The mattress dips slightly under my weight.
I pull the covers up to my chin even though the room isn't cold, needing some barrier—however flimsy—between his body and mine, even if it's just expensive Egyptian cotton.
Then I let myself cry as quietly as possible into my pillow, wondering how exactly this became my life.
Stanford graduate with highest honors. All that education and intelligence and promise, and this is where I ended up—counting grout lines while my husband takes what he wants and calls it love, calls it marriage, calls it my duty.
Three years ago I thought I was choosing freedom when I married Daniel Reid. Thought I was escaping small-town Nebraska and building a life in San Diego that would finally make me feel like I belonged somewhere.
I just chose a prettier cage with granite countertops and a view.
My alarm wakes me at six. Just enough time to make breakfast and coffee for Daniel before I get ready for work.
I rub my eyes and sit up, muscles protesting the movement. Everything hurts this morning—neck stiff from sleeping tensed, body sore from last night's bathroom encounter that I'm trying very hard not to think about.
Daniel's already at the mirror putting his tie on, adjusting the knot with precision. His reflection catches mine and my stomach drops.
I'm late.
"I'll go make breakfast for you." I scramble to my feet too quickly, the room tilting slightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear—"
"Just coffee." He doesn't turn around, focused on his reflection. "I'm getting breakfast out today."
"Oh. Okay."
Relief floods through me so fast I almost feel dizzy. One less thing to mess up. One less opportunity for correction.
I pad out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The house is cold this morning. I should've grabbed my robe but going back now means walking past him again, risking questions about why I'm not moving faster.
So I just make the coffee while goosebumps rise on my arms.
His travel mug sits in the cabinet exactly where it always does. I fill it to the line he prefers—not too full or it spills in the car, not too empty or he runs out before his first meeting. Add cream. No sugar. Snap the lid on tight.
I take it to the table by the front door and set it down right beside his keys. Perfect placement. Everything in its place.
Back in the kitchen I make myself a cup and sink into one of the dining room chairs, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. I just need a few minutes to wake up before getting ready. A few minutes where I don't have to perform or anticipate or calculate.
Daniel walks into the room already shrugging into his suit jacket. "Don't worry about dinner tonight. I'm having a dinner meeting and I'll be in pretty late."
My heart does a traitorous little leap. A whole evening alone. Hours and hours with nobody watching, nobody demanding, nobody touching.
"Okay. Have a good day." The words come automatically because they're expected of me.
"You too." He leans down and kisses my cheek—a husband gesture for a husband performance—then grabs his keys and coffee and leaves.
The front door clicks shut.
I sit frozen in my chair, listening to his car start in the driveway. Listening to the engine fade as he backs out onto the street. Listening to the silence that fills the house once he's really, truly gone.
It's like a huge weight lifts off my chest. Like I can finally breathe properly again.
I finish my coffee slowly, savoring the quiet. Then head straight for the shower.
The water runs almost scalding hot. I stand under the spray and scrub every inch of skin he touched last night—shoulders, neck, breasts, between my thighs where the friction burn still stings.
I wash my hair twice. I use my favorite peach body wash until the bottle's nearly empty.
Stay under the water until my fingers prune and the mirror's completely fogged over.
When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel that's soft and clean, I feel marginally more human.
I go to my closet and flip through the hangers. Navy blouse. Grey cardigan. Beige dress. Black pants. The neutral colors blur together into a uniform of invisibility—exactly what Daniel prefers, exactly what keeps me safe and unnoticed.
My hand pauses on purple fabric.
A dress I never wear. Conservative enough for school—modest neckline, hem just above the knee—but prettier than my usual choices. The color vivid and alive instead of carefully muted.
Purple's my favorite color. Or it used to be, before I learned that standing out meant attracting attention, and attention meant Daniel's displeasure.
Kade's face flashes through my mind for a split second. The way he looked at me yesterday, like I was someone worth noticing.
I grab the purple dress before I can talk myself out of it.
I know how wrong it is that I care what he might think. Know I'm crossing lines that should never be crossed—he's my student, this entire situation is inappropriate in every possible way.
But for some odd reason, I don't care.
I spend the next half hour getting ready with more attention than usual. Makeup that actually enhances instead of just covering. Hair pulled back. Small silver earrings that catch the light.
When I finally walk out the door, keys in hand and purple dress swishing around my knees, I'm a little excited to get away from home.
Even if I'm walking straight toward something far more dangerous than staying here.