Chapter Eight
After a moment had passed, he grabbed me and flipped me over. His hands seized my hips and yanked me to the edge of the bed, where I could feel his clothed erection against my ass. He slipped a finger inside me. I bit my lip to contain the moan this immediately elicited. I turned and saw a smile spread across his lips as he drank in my pleasure, driving his fingers into me faster and deeper.
I could practically taste the wetness of my sex as he urged his fingers deeper inside me. He withdrew, and I heard the sound of his jeans unzipping. He grabbed my hips, and tugged me to the edge of the bed. He slapped my ass lightly, before pulling down my panties and spreading my legs again, this time pressing his cock to my entrance and quickly driving forward, causing me to gasp.
His thrusts were fast and hard, causing the bed to shift beneath me. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to keep silent as he drove deeper within me.
When I turned again and looked at his face, it was twisted in exertion. He had taken his shirt off, and sweat glistened on his broad chest. He flipped me onto my back, and I reached my hand around him, trying to feel every inch of the strong body which had filled me so completely. I dragged my fingernails against his back, and he seemed to thrust even faster in response.
Finally, long after I felt I couldn’t take any more, he stiffened and exhaled sharply. I felt his spurt of cum inside me, and my hands rested on his perfect body, my thumbs drawing small circles as he relaxed against me.
We had no protection, but it had hardly seemed to matter in the moment. My body had accepted every part of him, had drunk it in. I ran my fingers through his hair, straightening out those locks which had fallen across his face in his exertion.
He kissed my lips again, before kissing my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, and my breasts. His mouth worked a trail of kisses to my stomach, before resting his head against my ribs, the both of us now lying on the bed.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed.
I propped myself up on my elbow, and ran my finger against his cheek. “You’re beautiful too,” I said.
He smiled a little, seeming genuinely surprised by the compliment. It was true, though. He was beautiful. His hair was damp with sweat, and a gentle flush had crept over his cheeks. His crystal blue eyes were staring back at me, and I brushed his dark hair back with my fingertips.
We lay there for an hour. I could feel Vic’s sweat cool against his skin, as I stroked his hair. With every exhalation against my rib cage, I felt myself melting within. There was something so perfect about the way we fit together.
I could feel him fall asleep against me, and I breathed in deeply the scent of the dried, salty sweat on his skin, filling my lungs with the musky, amber scent. When he woke, he looked at me with those striking eyes. A long, slow smile stretched across his lips, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me tight against him.
“I’m serious about those clothes,” he said, lightly slapping my inner thigh. “You might wake up one day and find you’ve got nothing left to wear.” He ran the back of his hand over my stomach.
#
When Vic left, I cleaned myself up. The wetness of our mingled fluids had dripped down my thighs, leaving my legs sticky with the evidence of just how completely my body had submitted to his drive. I drew myself a bath, and enjoyed feeling the warm water engulf my well-used body, the water caressing every crevice, lapping over the places where Vic’s mouth had been on me, where his hands had massaged and caressed my skin.
I knew I couldn’t stay in the bath all day, though the prospect was inviting. In time, I got out and wrapped my body in a plush towel, reminding myself that there were still unanswered questions that could not wait much longer, at least as far as my own curiosity was concerned.
Finding no one on the first floor, I decided to look around for any information on Matthew. I hoped to uncover at least a full name.
There was nothing addressed to him in the small stack of mail on the foyer table. Only Edith’s and my notebooks were in the library. However, in the hallway console table’s drawer was a jump ring holding about nine skeleton keys.
Matthew was away: his car wasn’t in the driveway or parked along the street. I had heard Vic in his bedroom before I’d headed downstairs. I could still hear the flow of water through the pipes overhead, and figured he was probably in the shower.
I allowed myself a momentary pause to imagine the hot water and soap running over his perfect, naked body. I made a promise to myself to find out soon if this mental picture lived up to reality.
I made my way across the foyer barefoot, this pattern of stealing into the basement now almost habitual. I clamped my palm over the nine keys to keep them from making a sound.
I used the flashlight on my cell phone to light the way downstairs, and walked immediately to Matthew’s bedroom. I knocked on the door gently.
When there was no response, I began trying keys. I shifted each used key to the space between my pinky and ring finger and, on the fifth try, I felt the key turn.
I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. I used my flashlight to find the inside wall switch, and flooded the room with light. Adrenaline bloomed and I held my breath, ensuring that I was truly as alone as I appeared to be. Still as my surrounding were, I was unable to shake the paranoid feeling that Matthew was still there.
The bedroom was dismal, especially when compared to the opulently furnished rooms in the rest of the house. The walls were made of concrete, as was the floor. Three bare bulbs hung down from the ceiling, providing a tense, harsh light.
I had seen a little of the room earlier, but only beneath shadow. His bed was in the corner, unmade and scattered with papers. A bottle of whiskey sat on the nightstand, about a quarter empty.
The desk I had seen before was wedged against a wide table made of stainless steel. The surface was covered in scratches, and carried small bottles, scientific measuring apparatus, and even more papers.
I drew closer to examine the writing, hoping it would offer some clue as to what exactly he was working on. To my surprise, the writing was unintelligible, though each individual letter was drawn with an incredible precision.
It was in code.
Against the wall and behind the desk was a wide basin sink. Above this was a large set of cabinets, and the plastic laminate which coated the particle board in white was peeling at the corners.
I opened the cabinets to find various containers of foods and chemicals, the latter type bearing labels indicating caution should be used in their handling. I pulled my phone back out and took a few pictures. I also took cursory pictures of the papers on the desk and bed. I leafed through the notes more carefully after making sure I had everything photographed on my phone.
Finally, I came across two pieces of information which I could understand. One was a printed bill and the other a handgun license. This last item gave me pause, and I took a photo of this individually.
The name on the license read Matthew Sullivan.
I didn’t have too much time to process what this meant, if it meant anything. Vic would probably be out of the shower by now, and I didn’t want to have to explain my presence in the basement, in case he was already downstairs.
I turned on my flashlight, switched off the lights, and relocked the door.
The keys jangled against my hand, so I pressed them into my palm, causing them to rattle dully against one another. I held my fist against my chest to quiet them as I made my way upstairs.
I looked out across the foyer and listened for any sign of another person. When none came, I slipped from the basement, closed the door quietly, and walked back to my bedroom.
I tried to make myself focus on painting. I sat by the window, and stared outside, almost reminding myself of Theresa and her constant, outward stare. Yet, inside my room, the blank canvas seemed determined to remain so. I was half convinced that even an attempt toward color would be somehow fatal, though I was unsure of to whom.
So, instead of pressing myself to strongarm creation, I drove a couple of towns over to the university campus which housed the only nearby medical school. The red brick fa?ades of the grouped academic buildings were partially covered in ivy, and the paths which went past them were arranged in staggered squares around aggressively manicured, overextended lawns.
Students sat on benches to talk, while others walked or jogged through the interwoven trails. I felt so out of place on this campus, and I kept my head down as I headed towards the administrative building.
I approached the front desk, where a woman in her forties with a blonde bob haircut was typing intently.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I would like to verify enrollment for a medical student. His name is Matthew Sullivan.”
She stopped typing and glanced up at me.
“Have you tried the directory?” she asked, her eyes flicking back down to the computer screen.
“Where can I find it?” I asked.
“Through the student portal,” she said.
“I don’t think I can log in,” I said. “I’m not a student.”
“Then, I think you’ve got your answer,” she said, returning to typing.
I took a deep breath, and clenched my hands into tight fists.
“Please, he’s my fiancé,” I said. “He said he’s enrolled in the medical program. We keep borrowing money under my name, to keep him in school, but I think he’s been lying to me.”
She huffed out a breath, and cast a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Come on this side,” she said, waving me over. “That’s S-U-L-L-I-V-A-N?”
“Yup,” I said.
The results page was empty.
“You sure you got the name right?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got it right.”
She put her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, honey.”
I imagine the look of confusion on my face must have been authentic. After all, what had Matthew gained by pretending to be a medical student? If he was going to lie, why not just say he was a doctor?
“Thanks for checking,” I said.
The receptionist seemed unsure of what to say, so I just thanked her again before leaving. I returned to my car, only barely registering the surrounding bustle of campus life. What I was gaining by playing detective, I did not know. While it had begun as simply another form of distraction, now I could hardly walk away.