14. Instruments Of Torture
14
INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE
Dahlia
The Past
“ C u?ada, I know nerdy architecture stuff is kind of your thing,” Lettie says. “But this is mind-numbingly boring.”
I set my half-finished champagne on the floor beside me as I slump down onto the nearest bench. “Tell me about it.”
The showing was spectacular. The photographer—Joelle Cotillard—has an eye for detail. What she managed to capture with her camera was pure artistry. Excavated two-thousand-year-old Roman tiles found at a construction site in Italy, the ruins of a 13th-century monastery in Monaco, the intimate details of the cloisters of Notre Dame before the fire. Each photograph came with a dedicated page in the event program, outlining the history of the piece as well as highlighting its unique architectural details. However, I find little joy in the evening as my thoughts are consumed by the conversation I had with Alejandro earlier.
He didn’t concede to my attending class next week but I don’t recall asking for his permission either. My injury is temporary and he’s lording it over me for some reason. How am I okay to take a weekend trip but not to attend class? The only difference between the two is he can surveille me all hours of the day on a weekend trip. On campus? Not so much.
I can’t figure out why that is. I know he trusts me and I haven’t given him reason to think I was hiding something from him. He also doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. Unfortunately, the green monster in this relationship is me.
So what is it? What’s wrong with him?
We wander around the gallery a little while longer but my foot begins to hurt and Lettie calls Pedro to bring the car around. We drive home in silence and Alejandro isn’t back yet so after showering and slipping into a pair of pajamas, I join Lettie in the living room to watch a movie.
“Here.” She hands me a pair of cucumbers and I almost bite into one when she swats my shoulder. “For your eyes!”
“Oh…” I tilt my head back and put them on.
“My friend in Seoul sent me a whole box of these. You’re looking a little sallow under the eyes.” Plastic crumples and a bag rips and zips. A second later, something cold and gooey coats my face.
I gasp from the sudden shift in temperature. “ Leticia! ”
“Stay still or the mask is going to fall off!”
“Ugh!” the cucumbers fall from my eyes but I catch them just in time. Before she can protest, I pop them into my mouth. “Give me a heads-up next time.”
She smooths her fingers over my cheeks and along my jaw, making sure the sheet mask covers every inch of skin. Then she adjusts her fuzzy headband and applies a sheet mask, only hers is soaked through with what looks like a watered-down version of green clay. Mine doesn’t dry down in the same way hers eventually does.
Lately, we’ve been watching Destilando Amor and right now, Gaviota is wondering why Rodrigo hasn’t shown up after they agreed to run away together. Poor thing doesn’t even know his slimy—albeit hot—cousin is about to turn Rodrigo against her by claiming they had an affair.
Lettie contents herself with her beauty kits. She picks up my right hand and dabs a bit of lotion on my cuticles. After a few minutes, she starts pushing them back and squints her eyes, deep in concentration.
“You’re in desperate need of a fill in. This is disgraceful.”
I frown and look down at my left hand. “This set isn’t even a month old.”
She gapes at me, horrified. “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that.”
Probably best I don’t tell her that before I had a rich boyfriend, I used to go six weeks between fill ins.
“How’s your grandfather?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Stubborn as a mule. I’m so glad I’m home.” She pulls out a file and starts touching up the shape of my nails. “I love him to death but my God is it boring up there. Griselda is great and she takes good care of him. I’m of much better use down here.”
“It’s been kind of lonely without you.” I smile. “I missed my buddy.”
Her nose crinkles. “Don’t make this awkward.”
My jaw drops and a shocked laugh leaves me. “What?”
“I already said I’m coming home. We don’t have to get into our feelings about it.”
I grin at her. “Did you miss me?”
She heaves a heavy sigh. “Your ends look like shit. When was the last time you got a trim?”
I laugh openly this time and pull her into a bear hug, squeezing tight. She groans in protest, writhing against me for dear life.
“Let go! This is child abuse!”
I kiss her cheek and then the top of her head. She practically wails in protest.
“I am going to kill myself.”
“I love you too, you little brat.”
I finally let go, and she scrambles into a sitting position, adjusting her robe and the fuzzy headband keeping her hair out of her face. She straightens her back and picks up the nail file to resume her handiwork, but not before she gives me a very fast, very fleeting, peck on the cheek.
“I’m not saying it back,” she grumbles quickly and files down on my pinky finger with renewed vigor.
Lettie and I are far enough apart in age for her to be the baby sister I’ve always wanted, despite enjoying an unprecedented amount of freedom and independence for being nineteen years old. Most of it due to the fact she was raised by two older brothers who were kids themselves when they became responsible for her. I know Lettie spent a few years in Mexico with their aunt where she finished what would be her high school years at a private, international boarding school but other than that, Alejandro played an active role in her upbringing. I wonder if she ever craves more structure, more direction in her life. Maybe she gravitates toward me because unlike her brothers, I don’t typically tolerate her bullshit.
Unless it’s about my hair. I hate how she’s always right—I really do need a trim.
A t breakfast the next morning, I have a plan.
By the time I head downstairs, it’s well after eight which means Do?a Ana, Dimitrio, and the rest of the security team have already vacated the kitchen and started their day. Diego is most likely with them as he isn’t sitting with Alejandro at the breakfast table when I arrive, and Lettie is probably just waking up. I swear she’s half-feline—she needs a minimum of ten hours of sleep. Twelve if she’s to be in a good mood the next day.
Alejandro glances up from his newspaper and offers me a smile. It isn’t the coy, slightly seductive grin he gives when he’s in a good mood. He smiles like the effort pains him and an invisible weight tugs at the corners of his mouth until he’s frowning again, almost unconsciously. He’s wearing his reading glasses which means he must’ve woken up with a migraine because he avoids using them if he can. Karina does the same thing.
“How was last night?”
I waltz over as elegantly as I can given the monstrosity on my right foot. When I’m within reach, he moves as if to get up from his seat but I descend onto his lap, wrapping both arms around his neck as I lean in for a kiss.
He lets out a sound of surprise and I tangle my fingers in his hair, moaning into his mouth as I deepen the kiss. His hands fall to my waist and he repositions me so I’m more comfortably situated on his lap. Before he can slide his hands under the hem of my nightgown, I pull away and give him a saccharine smile.
“It was fun.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “You want something, don’t you?”
“Correct.”
“Yes. Now get on the table.”
He stands and in one swift movement, deposits me on the edge of the table. I spread my legs and he moves against me, aligning our hips so I can feel his hardening erection push against my aching core. I’ve craved this kind of closeness between us for weeks, wished for the return of the intimacy we once shared. When Alejandro pulls away, he does so completely; mentally, emotionally, and physically. The worst part is I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it nor do I think it’s intentional. I want to beat down on the walls he’s using to protect himself until he lets me in. If it takes completely bulldozing his defenses, I don’t care. I’m determined to get through to him.
I press a finger against his mouth before he can kiss me. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“ Dahlia. ” His voice is strained with desire, and the blood in my veins boils with need.
“We never finished our conversation yesterday.”
He looks at me and his eyes shift between brown and green.
“I wasn’t asking for your permission to attend class next week. I was telling you that I am.” I brush my mouth against his and tease him with my proximity. He tries to kiss me but I pull away. “However, I’m willing to compromise. You can send as many men to watch over me as you’d like. I’ll even let Pedro stand outside the classroom door. Given he behaves himself.”
“That’s not?—”
“Take the win, Alex. Because I’m doing this whether you want me to or not.” My hand drops to his waist and I unbuckle his belt. He’s practically straining against his slacks when I grip him by the base, stroking softly to alleviate the pressure. “If you want me to give you space, to stop asking questions, I will. I’ll wait until you’re ready to come to me yourself.”
I glide my fingers along the shaft and tighten my grip, letting my nails graze the sensitive skin there. He grunts and clenches his jaw.
“But you’re not keeping me prisoner in this house. So either tell me what’s going on or let me attend class in peace. Your choice.”
“I can’t…believe…” He struggles to keep his composure when my fingers run all the way down to the tip and move in slow circles. “You’re using sex as an instrument of torture.”
I smile at my own ingenuity. “I know. It’s so fun, isn’t it?”
“ Fine, ” he grinds out.
“Sorry, what was that?” I wrap my hand around him completely and pump hard and fast. “I didn’t hear?—”
It happens in an instant.
He seizes me by the waist and flips me onto my stomach, clearing the table as he goes. I gasp when his hand wraps around the back of my neck and he lays me flat against the breakfast table.
“Grip the edge,” he orders quietly.
Heart pounding in my chest, I do as he says. I extend my arms and grip the edge of the table, but just barely. My fingertips keep slipping.
I can feel the shape of him against me and the riotous beating of his own heart between my shoulders blades as he leans forward and pushes my hair aside. He kisses along my shoulder and then up the side of my neck where he stops just below my ear.
“I want Pedro glued to your hip. Understood?” Alejandro slips his hand under the hem of my nightgown where his fingers dance across the skin of my thighs. The rough brush of his gloves is almost…thrilling. It feels forbidden to have such a rough touch somewhere as soft and delicate as the heat between my legs. As if reading my thoughts, he pushes his thumb against my clit and rubs, creating friction between my skin and the cotton underwear.
I whimper and he rubs again. More insistent, more deliberate.
“You don’t leave this house without him.”
“I promise,” I rasp. “I promise, I won’t.”
I arch my back into him, craving more of his touch, but he pulls his hands away. Instead, he drags them up the length of my body, over my abdomen, and grips my breasts in his palms. The delicious scrape of his gloves against my sensitive nipples sends my mind spiraling out of control. He rubs, pinches, caresses, all the while thrusting against me from behind, allowing me to feel every hard, thick inch of him without actually entering me.
Fuck.
This is what I get for weaponizing sex.
“Ask me nicely,” he says and there’s a bit of humor in his voice as he pinches my nipples hard enough to draw a throaty moan from my lips. “I love it when you make those sounds.”
I have two options. Walk away or sacrifice my pride and dignity by asking for what I want. Which is to be fucked senseless on our kitchen table. I want the damn thing to be split in half by the time he’s done with me.
I clench my jaw and stand my ground. I wouldn’t have had to stoop this low if he wasn’t being so difficult in the first place!
He leans down. Whispers in my ear. “Either you ask nicely or I’ll fuck you loud enough for the whole house to hear.”
My whole body burns with a blush.
Sometimes, I forget we live with other people. The house is massive and we rarely, if ever, cross paths with anyone. At least, not on purpose and not downstairs. Usually it’s either up in the main foyer or the living room which functions more like a family room. It never occurred to me we could be heard or found out…
It is as terrifying as it is thrilling.
After a second, I hear him laugh.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my panties and drags them down my legs. I clench my thighs together in response. “Let me in.”
I refuse. If he wants me, he’s going to have to work a little harder. Especially since he ruined my plan?—
Without warning, he lifts my hips, yanks me to the edge of the table, and pistons into me with a single, brutal thrust. I cry out and scramble for purchase against the tabletop, reaching for the edge so I can hold on for balance, but he continues his relentless assault, holding me at an angle where not even my feet touch the ground. He pounds into me like I’m nothing more than an instrument for his pleasure, skin and bone without feeling. The raw, intimate sounds of flesh meeting flesh fill the room, mingling with breathy moans.
It's humiliating. Exhilarating. The rush of being found out clashes with the fear of being seen in such a vulnerable position.
He keeps one strong arm wrapped around my waist as he grips my hair, winding the length of it around his left hand, and yanks my head back. “Do you get off on making my life difficult?”
I practically choke out my response when he pushes into me so deeply, I swear to God he reaches my womb. “It’s good foreplay.”
He groans and mutters something unintelligible in Spanish against my ear. The sounds he makes when he’s inside of me are just filthy. “My God…you feel fucking incredible.”
Neither of us lasts very long after that. He pistons into me, never once letting up, each hard, powerful thrust of his hips more painful than pleasurable but I take every inch he gives me without complaint because I’d rather than die than stop.
Orgasm rips through us both, almost simultaneously. It’s so intense we both lose our balance and the table is there to catch us. I grip the edge as he eases out of me and I can feel the hot stream of his release trickle down my thigh.
After a moment, I whisper, “Alex?”
He kisses the back of my neck in acknowledgment.
“I love you. I just wanted you to know that.”
He sighs and presses a kiss against my temple. “Yo también, mi amor. Yo también te amo.”
Something occurs to me.
“Alex?” I say. “Just how well did the sex work on you?”
“Well enough for a few diamonds if you were smart.”
I break out into a smile and turn to face him. “How about a car?”
“ Y ou’re joking right?”
I’m so giddy I could do a heel kick. “It’s perfect. ”
“You had the option of any luxury vehicle in existence and you chose this ?” Alejandro can’t contain his own distaste. “What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t care. She’s beautiful and I love her.”
“Not a single person in the whole region drives a Subaru—it practically screams foreigner.”
I spin on the balls of my feet to face him. “Would you stop being so judgy and just give the man your credit card?”
He gives me a pinched look as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He gives the sale’s clerk his ID and credit card and the man steps away to scan them at his desk. “Are you sure you don’t want a different car? There’s a Mercedes dealership down the road.”
“No.”
“How about a Dacia Sandero? It’s very popular here and they have styles you’d like.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “What’s wrong with the car I chose?”
“Want me to give a list?” His hazel gaze sweeps over the vehicle. “It’s massive, bulky, and going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It’ll make it easier for you to find me,” I counter smugly.
“It looks like something a forty-year-old soccer mom from Ohio has parked in her driveway.”
“I happen to think forty-year-old soccer moms from Ohio are lovely.”
“Do you even know how to drive?”
“I have a license.”
His concern deepens. “Not what I asked.”
“If I can drive my ninety-two-year-old granduncle’s 1968 Ford pickup across Highway 344 at night without any mirrors or functioning headlights, then I can drive anything.”
“You learned to drive in Puerto Rico?”
“Obviously,” I reply. “Where else?”
Alejandro blows air between his lips. The sale’s clerk returns with paperwork to sign and he only glances at it briefly before scribbling his name at the bottom. He hands the clipboard to me and points with the tip of his pen. “Sign here.”
“What is this? Wait, Alex,” he starts walking away, “I don’t speak Catalan!”
“There are Spanish translations at the bottom. Practice.”
“Where are you going?”
“To make a phone call.” He lifts his cell to his ear and points. “My insurance is about to go through the roof.”
I purse my lips at him. “Ha-ha,” I grumble and settle into a nearby seat. “Very funny…”
If I thought Spanish was difficult, the mere sight of Catalan in writing almost gives me a stroke.
Alejandro’s hyper-focused on me mastering Spanish before dipping my toes into Catalan because while the latter may be the primary language of the region, Spanish is spoken more broadly. However, I’m starting to debate on whether or not I should pick up an introductory class at BIS this semester. I can’t read or pronounce any of the street names for the life of me and if I’m going to be living here for the foreseeable future, I need to make an effort to better immerse myself in the culture and way of life. Language is a huge part of that.
Alejandro won’t always be around to translate or make life easier. Plus I hate still feeling like a tourist when I’ve lived here almost a year now. I’ll never be a native but at the very least, I can make a wholehearted attempt at not being an obnoxious American expat.
After skimming through the papers and picking out what little makes sense to me, I eventually sign where Alejandro instructed me to and call it a day. I notice it’s been a while since he stepped away and the second I lift my head to look around, I spot him through the windows, standing on the curb. Diego has a morose look on his face and Dimitrio removes his sunglasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. Alejandro is speaking to them and although I can’t hear what he’s saying, I can tell by the tension in his back and the firm set of his mouth that he’s fuming. At one point Diego snaps back, equally as heated, and this time Alejandro is loud enough for his muffled voice to echo inside.
It's impossible to make out what he’s saying, especially after Dimitrio grabs his arm and makes eye contact with me through the glass. Alejandro turns around and upon seeing me, immediately snaps back around to face his brother. They exchange words and Alejandro spins on the balls of his feet, storming back inside.
My hands tremble as I rise to my feet and clutch the clipboard against my chest. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” He takes the clipboard from me and scans the paperwork to make sure it’s in order before handing it back to me. “I have to take care of something but Diego’s going to stay behind.”
My chest tightens. “What? But I thought?—”
“I’ll be out late so have dinner without me.”
He leans forward to kiss me, and I pull away. He lifts a hand as if to reach for me but I can’t stand the thought of being touched by him. I step back so quickly that I trip over my boot and stumble into my chair, eventually catching my balance on the armrest. To save myself any further embarrassment, I sit down and turn my back to him.
I was so foolish to think we had stumbled into a tentative peace this morning. We spoke for a little while and had breakfast before we left for the dealership. On the ride here he seemed fine and even asked if I wanted to go out afterward. It’s beautiful today—sunny, blue, and cloudless.
“Dee, I’m sorry. This is important.”
“ Everything is more important than me.”
Everything.