10. Deirdre
Deirdre
I feel so heavy that I can’t even tell if I’m actually waking up or not.
For a long time, I’m caught in some state of half-sleep, aware of the bed beneath me and the blankets on top but unable to move or open my eyes or even think.
Just the anticipation of needing to move feels like a monumental effort, so I give up and lie there for a while.
But, little by little, thoughts work their way in, even though I’m not aware of myself actually thinking them. Thoughts in the shape of questions like, Why does this bed smell different than it usually does? And why does the mattress feel firmer?
The answers to the questions penetrate the syrup of my mind slowly, and then all at once.
I’m in Elio’s bed. The bed he put me into last night.
The bed we shared after I rubbed myself all over him and then he fucked me. Again.
It’s as if remembering that fact has a physical echo, because I’m now painfully aware of the tenderness between my legs.
I groan, muscles feeling rubbery, and drag myself into a seated position, sagging backwards against the bed’s headboard.
I stare blankly into the room for a while, taking in this new angle, this arrangement of a place I’m not used to waking up in.
Something tells me I’m about to get used to it.
I don’t have my phone with me, but a heavy loll of my head to the side brings a clock on the bedside table into view. It’s past noon. I can’t believe I slept that long. But I guess after all the insanity of last night, I really needed it.
Apparently Elio didn’t, though. The man is nowhere to be found in the bedroom, and without the door on the bathroom I can see that he isn’t in there either.
I sigh heavily, raking my fingers through tangled hair.
When my fingertips graze my scalp, I remember him washing my hair so thoroughly, both tender and possessive.
And now he’s just fucking gone.
Lovely.
Not that I expect or even want him hanging around the morning after or anything, but…
But it’s hard not to feel abandoned. And I hate that I even feel that at all.
I don’t need Elio sitting there staring at me in my sleep waiting for me to wake up so he can say, “Good morning.” If anything, I should be grateful for his absence. It will give me some time to fucking think without him unspooling all my senses.
Beside the clock on the bedside table there’s also a tray of food. Rosa must have been here. Strange. Usually, she’s not very quiet, and she doesn’t care if I’m still sleeping when she comes in wielding her vacuum and duster like swords. Things must be different now that I’m sleeping in Elio’s bed.
No. Not sleeping. Just… Slept. Once. One night only.
Oh God.
If I’m going to even attempt to work through all the knots of what I’m feeling and thinking, I’m going to need some energy.
I eye the tray and select a crusty slice of bread then slather a chocolate spread on top.
I don’t have much of an appetite, but the food is heavenly, and I eat a hearty portion before pouring myself a cup of tea from the pot.
It’s gone cold, but I still drink it down appreciatively.
I’m more thirsty that I’d realized, so the coolness actually feels quite nice.
That combined with the little thrill of caffeine starting to hit my system has me feeling halfway human again as I finish off my chocolate bread.
Once I’m done my breakfast, or brunch, I suppose, considering the time, I ease my feet over the side of the bed and hop down. I suppress a grunt of discomfort when the force of my feet hitting the floor reverberates up to the sore place between my legs.
After such a long sleep and chugging the tea, I have to go pee.
Elio’s bathroom is much closer, but I eschew it in favour of the one I’ve been using up until now.
It’s strange. When I first got here, I was so adamant about not calling that bedroom or bathroom or bed mine.
It wasn’t my bed or room because it was the one Elio had forced me into.
But now, I call it mine, simply to contrast it with Elio’s. Last night I slept in Elio’s bed. In Elio’s room. Not mine.
So I head for my bathroom now, glancing around just to make fully sure that Elio isn’t hiding in some corner I’m not aware of. But nope. It really is just me in here.
Which is fine. Absolutely fine.
I pee, wincing as I gently pat myself dry. I’m not actively bleeding right now, and I consider that a small miracle considering what I put my flesh through last night. What Elio put it through. The pain of plunging right back into the channel he tore.
Still made you come again, though.
I swat away that internal voice, not sure if it’s mine or if its Elio’s. I wash my hands vigorously, scrubbing my skin like I can scrub away the past twenty-four hours. No, the past freaking month.
When I turn off the tap, I glance up at myself in the mirror and sigh.
Not only did I not use any conditioner last night, which is pretty much a requirement for my frizz-prone hair, but all the, erm, activities, then sleeping on it while still damp, has left it completely wonky.
The front sections are spiralling away from my face in spastic curls, while the sides and back are all disjointed, crumpled waves that look more like bent pieces of orange paper than human hair.
Oh well. I need to have a shower anyway, after what happened with Elio in his bed last night.
I leave my underwear and pad on the floor, but then think better of it and toss it all in the trash before Elio can do something fucking weird with it.
I end up throwing in the torn pyjama shirt too, because with all that ripped silk it looks like a bit of a lost cause now.
It makes me a little sad seeing that cheery, pretty yellow fabric shoved down into the trash, like somebody’s throwing away sunshine.
But I steel myself against those sorts of feelings.
Elio’s the one who ripped it. If anyone should feel bad, it's him.
And I already know he won’t.
Without letting myself dwell on it any longer, I grab the bottles from where Elio left them beside the bathtub and return them to the shower.
I turn the tap almost as hot as it will go, gasping at the delicious, punishing sting of heat against my skin.
I move my legs apart, letting the scalding water stream between them, and let out a choking sob at the sensation.
For a while, I just stand there with my eyes closed, shivering and soaked under the hot spray.
After a while, though, I start to get lightheaded, the steam choking the space so much that it’s uncomfortable to breathe.
And while part of me craves the itchy oblivion of oxygen deprivation, I also want to keep my wits about me right now.
Plus, Elio said I shouldn’t do that on my own anymore. Because it isn’t safe. And I can’t deny the fact that he’s probably right.
Not that that matters , I tell myself quickly. He may be the underboss of the Titone empire but he is not the boss of me.
I hate how hollow, how defensive that proclamation feels.
I turn the tap’s temperature down a little bit, and the cooler water helps to clear my head a bit.
I wash my hair, then work in what feels like an entire fistful of conditioner to help counteract the roughing-up my strands went through last night.
While the conditioner soaks in, I wash my body, gingerly between my legs and harshly everywhere else.
I wash my face too, then rinse everything until I feel, well, not exactly cleansed, but at least a little better.
I wrap a fluffy towel around myself and brush my teeth at the sink.
Then, I carefully detangle my hair with a wide tooth comb.
But I have to stop, because the pleasant tugs against my scalp keep making me think of Elio last night.
The way his fingers dug the most irritatingly gorgeous circles against my scalp.
It’s actually alarming the way he can both take control of me and take care of me at the exact same fucking time.
Tossing my soaked, half-combed hair over my shoulders, I head for my closet and choose the first comfy outfit in reach – some black leggings and an uber-soft, cream-coloured sweater that I think must be cashmere or something equally luxurious and expensive.
The thought of wearing a bulky pad against my clean but stinging pussy is not appealing in the least, so I go with a thin panty-liner in my underwear then pull on the rest of the outfit.
When I’m all dressed and I emerge into my bedroom once again, Rosa is there with her cart of cleaning supplies.
She doesn’t look any happier to see me than she usually does, but she actually says, “Good morning,” to me, which is a first.
And for another first?
She follows it up with a moodily deferential, “Signora Titone.”
Signora… What?!
“Did… Did you just call me Mrs. Titone?” I ask her as she tugs on cleaning gloves with the competent deftness of a surgeon.
“ Sì, sì . Signore Titone tell me.”
“But… We’re not married!” I squeak, cringing internally at the high register of my voice.
But I can’t help it. Elio making grand claims of our impending marriage is one thing.
It’s entirely another to hear other people acknowledging it like it’s already truth.
Like it’s already come to pass and not only did I have no say but I also had no idea.
I have to fight the urge to look down at my left hand and make sure there’s no mysterious ring perched there, even though I know there isn’t.
Rosa doesn’t seem impressed by my proclamation about not being married to her boss. In fact, she doesn’t acknowledge it at all, she just gets to work stripping the bedding from my bed.
I know it’s pointless, but I can’t seem to stop myself from hovering beside her as she works, twisting my wet hair anxiously between my fingertips.