20. Marisol
20
MARISOL
Unknown
I know who that guy is. You need to message me back ASAP
Calvin said he called you too. I’m gonna call the police if I don’t hear from you by tomorrow
Salvatore wiped my phone, but he didn’t remove the SIM card, so I’m still receiving messages, all marked as “unknown”. It’s not hard to guess who they’re from. Calvin and Jeremy sent me a couple of messages to see how I was doing, but Grant’s bombarded me with nearly a hundred texts and calls over the past week.
For someone who couldn’t figure out why I was upset when he forgot my birthday last year, he’s sure showing a wide range of emotions now. Denial, anger, bargaining, regret…
I’d be flattered if it wasn’t so blatantly clear that he’s trying to save his ass at work and that he’s jealous, even if he has no right to be. His newest strategy to provoke a response is threatening to reveal the criminal identity of my mysterious boyfriend. I’m half-tempted to log into his work email to see if Terrence left him an ultimatum to track down the hacker or get canned because I’ve never seen him this driven before.
Even though Grant’s freaking out, I don’t feel as warm and fuzzy as I’d expect. Instead, a little worm of guilt wiggles through my chest. I know it’s ridiculous because Grant absolutely deserves to suffer after the way he treated me, but… I promised his mom I’d take care of him and letting him get fired is breaking that oath even if he was a god-awful boyfriend.
I turn off my phone and tuck it away, but the guilt lingers.
As if he senses my discomfort, Salvatore shifts and drags me closer to him. I run a hand through his wavy hair, and we both exhale at the same time.
Even when he sleeps, it’s like he can’t help but keep me tethered to his side. I can’t say I hate it—I like feeling needed. And I like that each time my thoughts roam back to Junior or Grant, I can stroke a hand over Salvatore’s strong body curled protectively around me, and I feel invincible.
He’s slept for so long that I had plenty of time to pick out all the components for a bad-ass computer setup and catch a nap myself, tucked up against his bare chest and enjoying the pressure of his morning wood against my belly.
Dom came by once, peeking his head through the door. We made eye contact as I stroked Salvatore’s sleeping head over my thighs. Dom raised an eyebrow but said nothing and locked the door before shutting it again. We haven’t been disturbed since.
I trace over the long strips of scar tissue on his back, shrouded by dark tattoos. Talons, a cross and rosary, and something that might be a poem or a song in Italian. I thought I’d be able to decipher some of them while he slept, but instead, I’m left with more questions.
I’m a pro at becoming the type of woman my partners want me to be. I’ve been a cool girl who loved pizza and beer and hanging with the boys. An art snob who dissected foreign films and had long, boring discussions about aspect ratios. And with Grant, I was a mommy who cleaned, did his work, and comforted him when he had a rough day, while making sure never to weigh him down with my own problems.
And Salvatore? He seems to like it when I tease him and boss him around. Maybe he wants a feisty brat… but then he was incredibly protective of me yesterday. He might prefer a sweet damsel in distress.
After he confessed his obsession with me, and I defied him in the dining room, he said I was perfect . The memory sets off a swarm of butterflies in my belly.
In the car, he said he loved me.
My ring catches the daylight peeking in through the thick curtains behind us. It’s more ostentatious than I would’ve picked for myself—which makes it perfect to receive as a gift. It’s the type of ring that makes me want to write Mrs. Marisol Luporini all over my notebook with little hearts over the i’s. It’s the kind of ring that’s coming off of me when it’s pried out of my cold, dead hands.
I slip out from under Salvatore’s arm and pad to the nightstand, pausing for a few breaths to see if he’ll wake up.
Yesterday, I saw more items in the drawer underneath my gifts. An old Bible and a squat black box.
The box had a lock… which means it’ll have some answers inside.
I pull out the Bible first and place it on the carpet without bothering to disguise the thump .
Years of observing my mom taught me the trick to doing something you’re not supposed to is—if you get caught, you act as though you have zero shame.
When we moved into Dad’s new neighborhood after he filed a restraining order against her, it was because she thought it was only natural that a father would want to be close to his daughter.
When I got caught stealing underwear because mine all had holes in them, no one was more surprised than I that they’d fallen into the bottom of my bag, and besides, who’d want undies so ugly in the first place?
If Salvatore wakes up to find me rifling through his things, I’ll be shocked a husband would feel the need to hide anything from his wife. And anyway, he said I could go through them, even if he didn’t explicitly give me permission to open the box.
I stifle a snicker when I see the simple combination lock. It has to be a joke. An actual child could break into this.
I start to turn the first dial, looking for a notch in the smooth metal behind the numbers that indicate their configuration.
Six.
Two.
Seven.
Click.
I shake my head with a smile. It’s almost more attention-grabbing to use such an easy lock than not to use one at all .
Hmm.
I glance at Salvatore. From this angle on the floor, I can just make out his back rising and falling with each deep breath.
Did he leave this there for me? He knew I’d see it and be tempted.
Only now it crosses my mind that I could’ve just asked him for the code, and he probably would’ve given it to me. But since I already have it open, I’m taking a peek inside. I lift up the lid.
It’s filled with trash. Very familiar -looking trash.
I remove each item and place it on the carpet in a row.
A pomegranate lip balm.
A rumpled stack of notepad paper with chicken-scratch notes I’d written about Grant’s work problems.
A cheap pen I’d all but destroyed with my teeth.
A mini R2-D2 I crocheted a few months ago and assumed Buck had eaten or hidden.
The last item, a half-eaten bag of sour gummy worms, I keep in hand.
I look back over Salvatore’s stolen treasures as I pull out a fistful of gummies and eat them. They’re a little stiff but still delicious.
I pop off the lid of the lip balm and run my thumb over the top. He’s used so much of it that there’s only a sliver left. Has he ever threatened someone in one of his all-black outfits with pomegranate-scented lips?
It’s a strangely… attractive thought. Like he so badly needs to feel close to me that he’ll wear my lip balm and eat my candy.
I stuff another gummy worm into my mouth, return all of my things back to the box, and close the lid.
The exterior of the Bible doesn’t tell me anything new. I split it open and shove my face in the center. Musty old pages followed by something faint… and floral… like perfume. I grimace.
Was this an old girlfriend of Salvatore’s? His one true love that got away, and now I’m here as the replacement? I glance back at my ring, the bright shine now mocking me. If that’s true, then I’ll uncover what he liked about her and become a better version.
I tear through the book’s delicate pages, looking for more clues. A few elegantly written notes jump out at me, but they hardly make any sense. One page has several words circled: land, mountain, woody, trees, grapes… all words related to nature. I’ve only gone to church twice, but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t something the priest asked of them. Some pages have seemingly random words crossed out while others have drawings that weave through the paragraphs. It’s the pages with Italian words added in with the shaky penmanship of a child that make me pause. I trace over those with my fingertips.
The writing of a childhood friend? A sibling? He mentioned a brother, but not his name… I sigh. Salvatore’s like a giant black box with no seams or entry points. How am I supposed to figure him out when he’s so damn mysterious all the time?
With a snap, I close the Bible and set it back in the nightstand with the lockbox.
I steal another glance at Salvatore. Still asleep. I blow out a long stream of air and push myself into a standing position, my wrists and shoulders whining. I waver. I want to wake him up. I want to ask him about the lockbox and the Bible, and I really want to flash him my boobs, because we still haven’t had sex, and it’s making me nervous. How much willpower can one man have? It’s unnatural.
I pace around the room until I’m nearly clawing the walls with anxious, bored energy. After a lifetime of moving and an unstable mom, I should be more comfortable with uncertainty, but it’s maddening. I don’t understand my role here, and my little perusal of his nightstand revealed nothing.
My stomach gives off a long, angry growl. I shove away thoughts of leaving the room. That’s one thing I can do for him, even if it’s laughable. I’ll survive off gummy worms and lip balm if that’s what it takes to stand guard over him. He came back for me. I won’t leave him until he wakes up.
When he starts to stir, I’ve already decided what I’m going to do.
I’d hoped I’d be in the bathroom when he woke, but his amber eyes flick open and zero in on me without warning. For a moment, I’m snared. Then I wink at him and sway my hips as I walk to the bathroom, imagining the burn of his gaze on my back and ignoring the way the bathroom’s imposing steel door feels like the lid of a coffin, ready to snap shut and lock me inside at any moment.
Even though he won’t be able to see me from this angle, once I start the shower, I take my time slipping off my shirt and panties, warming to the thought of what I’m about to do.
I step inside, noting with mild amusement the presence of a cheap, pink bottle of cherry blossom body wash. I squirt a little into my palm. I wonder when I’ll find the glass jar of my old toenail clippings and chewing gum.
I work down from my face, lingering as I rub the soap over my chest. In the corner of my eye, Salvatore enters the bathroom and stops.
I drop more body wash into my palm and take my time sudsing it up before rubbing it over my breasts in broad, generous strokes. My entire body relaxes into my touch. My eyes shutter closed, and I turn so I can lean against the cold tiles, just out of reach of the water spray.
“Enjoy yourself?”
“Very much so,” I say, and stifle a moan as I press my breasts together.
His voice floats closer. “I meant with my things in the nightstand.”
I chuckle and open my eyes. “You mean my ?—”
My mouth goes completely dry.
Salvatore stands there, close enough to touch if it weren’t for the glass, watching me with a wry twist to his mouth. In just black boxers, his entire body is on full display. His dark, unkempt hair and the beginnings of a beard give him a predatory look. Shadowed tattoos weave over his muscular chest, bisected by the whitish sheen of more scars—but none long and meticulous like the ones on his back. He’s so fucking beautiful. He makes me want to lick and suck and bite my way down his throat to his chest to his belly and end with burying my face against that bulge in his boxers.
I want to see if the way he ate me out was a one-time thing, or that’s just how he is, a corruptive mixture of dominance and worship.
I reach for the glass door.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “I want to watch.”
My hand drops as if burned. I swallow and squirt more soap into my hands before bringing them up to my breasts . Before, with my eyes closed, I could pretend I was touching myself just for me, but now that Salvatore’s watching me through the glass, I’m hyper-aware of my every movement. I squish the bubbles between my breasts and rub my thumbs back and forth over my nipples.
I feel like a piece of art or an exotic animal, stolen and put on display for him. I’m the woman he’s purchased and trapped in a glass box, meant only for his pleasure. I’m his priceless secret.
My clit is pulsing and aching to be touched, but for once, I make myself wait, instead moving my hands freely over my belly, my breasts, and my neck.
Salvatore watches everything. His cock is rock-hard. It must be painful.
“I asked you a question,” he continues. His hand flexes, but he doesn’t touch himself. “Did you enjoy looking through my things?”
“ My things,” I correct. “And yes, I did. Saw you’re running low on lip balm—need a refill? I can break it in for you first.”
“No. The next time I taste you, I’ll get it from the source.”
I trail my hands down my belly, and Salvatore finally moves to adjust himself with a lingering touch.
“I also found an old Bible. Who did you steal that from?” I try to ask lightly, but it slips out with a jealous bite.
We watch each other for a moment.
Maybe I won’t let him touch me. I grit my teeth as I swirl my clit. Maybe I’ll make him watch me pleasure myself in his glass box, and I’ll get my answers later another way.
“I didn’t steal it. It was gifted to me by my mother.”
His jaw softens, and his playful arrogance disappears. Something twists in my belly. The mother who drank herself sick. “Is she…?”
“She’s dead.”
Guilt prickles my skin. I shift uncomfortably, hands frozen between my legs like I’ve been caught mid-act. Should I comfort him? I don’t think we’re playing this game anymore.
“Keep going,” Salvatore murmurs and draws closer. He places a palm on the glass door, the condensation blurring everything but his hand. “What else do you want to know?”
“The handwriting inside,” I say before thinking. “That was yours?”
At this point, I would normally break out my vibrator or another toy, but my fingers feel so good right now, better than normal while I have my private audience, and he’s spilling his secrets. Sparks spread through my body, and I slow down so I don’t finish too quickly.
“Faster,” Salvatore urges, his voice a broken whisper.
This is messed up. I should stop. But instead, I tighten the figure-eight pattern over my clit before dipping two fingers inside myself, moaning with relief at the full sensation and sliding a little further down the shower wall.
“It was. Or Matteo’s. My mom played word games to entertain us at church for hours.” Salvatore pauses. His voice takes on a bitter edge. “It was the only place we could go where my dad would give us a respite from his training.”
I pump my fingers in and out and circle my clit with my other hand as I consider Salvatore through hooded eyes.
He wants to be seen—so maybe that’s my role, to be the person in his life who’ll pry his chest open and draw out the secrets inside.
I could be that woman for him—hell, I couldn’t be a different woman if I tried.
Maybe we could be good for each other.
I’m so close to the edge now, I can feel the walls of my pussy clamping onto my fingers. I just need a little extra stimulation. I want him to break already and touch me.
“Are you satisfied?” he asks hoarsely, his face almost touching the glass.
“No,” I murmur. I throw him a look of silent challenge.
Something almost like anger, or impatience maybe, crosses his face and he shoves his boxers to the ground—oh my god —and yanks the door open.
I stay rooted to my spot even as arousal and fear spike through me. I meet his burning intensity with a smirk. He came to me. I win.
Salvatore closes the distance between us in a single step before snaring my waist and hauling me against him so that my back is crushed against his chest and his cock is pinned against my ass. He cups his hand over mine and stuffs two of his fingers and one of mine inside me. The burning stretch is so good , but I can’t help but rear back from the sudden intrusion. He’s got me though, pressed steadily against his chest as his cock tries to drill a hole into my back. Just as suddenly, he pulls his fingers out and rubs over my clit, using my own hand like a tool to masturbate myself with.
He’s not the watcher beyond the glass anymore. He’s my provoked captor, taking his frustrations and desires out on me. I clench hard and then cry out as a wave of pleasure tears through me, but Salvatore doesn’t stop. He keeps rubbing and circling over my hand on my clit until I’m bucking against him, forced to rub myself, wet bodies slipping together, and crying out I can’t I can’t.
When I finally slump against him, body spent, he releases me.
“Now?” he asks, warm voice caressing my cheek. “Are you satisfied now, passerotta?”
I smile lazily at the steam rising up in front of the wall of dark green tiles. “Yes.”
Another brushing of a velvety murmur against my face. “The officiant is waiting downstairs. Are you going to marry me?”
I weave my fingers through his hair and tilt my head up to capture his mouth with my own. Soft lips—is that pomegranate?—meet mine before his wicked tongue flicks into my mouth. I open for him, tongue meeting tongue for a few delicious moments, letting the moment draw long enough that he might snap again. I break away.
“Yes. I’ll marry you.”
Water pours out in a soft shush shush. I don’t remember what I came in here for, just what I want right now. I want him to fulfill his promises.
“Are you going to fuck me, Sal?”
Despite the thick, humid air wrapping me in a sleepy embrace, I’m all tight awareness as he stirs beneath me.
“Do you remember what I told you?” he rumbles. I search my memories but come up blank. It doesn’t matter—he doesn’t make me wait long. “I said I won’t touch you until you’re dripping wet and begging for it.”
I’m at the top of a cliff, looking down while my stomach swooshes and a breeze curls against my back.
“You want me to beg?”
He adjusts his cock so that it slips between my legs, rubbing against my pussy, but not entering. He wraps his hand around the length of my hair and tugs until my neck is bared to the spray of warm water and my back arches against him. A flush of arousal runs through me as his teeth meet my exposed neck.
“I should make you wait,” he says, half to himself. “Make you go through a fraction of what I’ve gone through having to watch you all this time.”
“No,” I murmur mindlessly. “Please.”
I squirm, but between his grip on my hair and his arm barred across my belly, I’m locked against him. I push my ass back, forcing some kind of friction, but it’s not enough.
“ Please fuck me, Sal. I want… want your cock inside me.”
He bites at my shoulder and groans, his cock dragging between my thighs.
“I want you to use me,” I say. “I want your cum filling me up and running down my legs.”
Salvatore jerks us to the side and lowers us onto the integrated stone bench. He leans back so the head of his cock teases my entrance, but he doesn’t push in. He’s still in control. He releases my hair so he can massage my breasts, and it’s as much of a relief as it is torture.
What else is he looking for? I bear down to try to take him inside me, but he drops both hands to the underside of my thighs, forcing me up, just out of reach. I whine in frustration.
“Make me yours.” I’m barely aware of what I’m saying, only the glide of his cock through my folds, but not in me. I need him inside me. “I… I want you to own me. Please .”
My awareness expands to the ten points of pain digging into my thighs. He’s slipping. His cock catches against my entrance and notches there, pressing, pushing.
“Please, what?”
“Please, sir .”
He lets me drop.
His cock fills me up in a single stroke, and I cry out in surprise and pleasure and relief. I’m stretched wide over him, ecstasy radiating from our point of connection.
“Thank you. Thank you, sir,” I moan.
Salvatore groans appreciatively underneath me.
“That’s right. Good girl, using your manners. You can take a little more, can’t you?”
My eyes fly open. What does he mean, more ?
His hands grip my waist and steadily ease me down, forcing me to take more of his length, while I gasp and water droplets spray my face. Once he’s seated fully inside me, he reaches forward to circle my clit. A small piece of tension I didn’t realize I was holding melts away.
“This is where you belong, Marisol,” he murmurs in my ear. “On top of your husband’s cock, every night. Satisfied, filled up, used.”
“Yes, Sal—sir. Please, sir, I want more.”
I tremble in his arms. Raw need amps up in me again, even with him strumming my clit. I need to move. To feel him thrust into me, shaping one to the other.
He groans and snaps his hips upward once, twice.
“Next time you try to leave, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk.”
A shiver wracks through me. He means it.
Salvatore seizes my waist and sets a punishing pace, driving himself into me over and over again, and he never stops rubbing me like he’s as determined to force me to come as he is to fill me with his. To bind us together.
I’m close already. I want to feel him release inside me. I want to own him too. I clench around him. I hope it hurts.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks.
“You. S-Salvatore. I belong to you, oh fuck , sir.” I’m about to…
“Don’t come.”
I suck in a breath. “Please, sir. I c-can’t.”
“You can. Hold it.”
My pussy’s already pulsing. Tears prick my eyes. I try to push his hand away, but he doesn’t stop rubbing me. I grit my teeth and writhe in his arms. If he doesn’t say it soon, I’m going to lose?—
“Come.”
My orgasm rushes through me like a fierce torrent breaking through a dam—overwhelming, powerful, inevitable. I shake and clutch at Salvatore’s arms as he wrings out every drop of pleasure from me. He pumps into me one last time and crushes us together as his cock spurts stream after stream of cum into me, prolonging the aftershocks of my orgasm into a euphoric infinity.
As I float down from my high, Salvatore spins me around and kisses me gently.
“Satisfied?”
My laugh sounds dazed.
Am I satisfied?
I’m sore and spent. I still don’t know what kind of training he did as a kid or what those scars on his back were from or what’s behind his other locked doors.
But I know he likes it when I call him sir . And I know I can make him lose some of that control he likes to hold on to so tightly.
“Yes, sir,” I say and grin when he tucks his face into my neck and groans.
“Let’s go get married.”