Chapter 7 – POSY #3
That must be why I’m going along with this, sitting here complacently while Dario tries to care for me like a toddler with her first doll.
How did I never notice how awkward he is?
I guess our time together was always structured.
Dinner. Games. Clear rules and etiquette.
He pulled out my chair. Poured my wine. Even sex was somewhat scripted.
He put me in position, and I took him. I came if I could get myself off.
If I couldn’t get to my clit, I didn’t. He’d kiss me when he was done, and then he’d take a shower.
And I was okay with it. More than okay. I was in love.
Why?
Why is this all I wanted for myself?
I can tell myself I didn’t know there was something wrong with him, but I wasn’t asking any questions, was I?
“What are you thinking about?” Dario’s leaning against the sink, arms folded, watching me drink.
“You.” I don’t have the mental bandwidth to lie.
“Are you thinking about how I won?”
“I’m wondering what made you the way you are.”
His smile fades. “I don’t see why it matters.”
I shrug. “I guess it doesn’t.”
He stalks toward me, and I tense, but he leans past me to turn on the spigot. Water gushes into the tub, steam filling the air.
“Are you going to burn the rest of my skin off in the jacuzzi?”
He frowns at me.
“You turned the handle all the way to hot.” I point out.
He sticks his fingers in the stream and sucks in a breath, snatching them back. “That’s scalding.”
“Yeah.”
“The hot water heater needs to be turned down.”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I lift a shoulder. Truth be told, it never occurred to me. This isn’t my home. I was a guest. I wasn’t going to complain about the accommodations.
“Why haven’t you ever noticed?” I throw back.
“I take cold showers.”
Of course, he does.
He’s adjusting the temperature, brow furrowing. At least the water isn’t steaming anymore. He seems frustrated.
I’m not used to seeing him this rumpled. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his second button is undone, revealing the thin gold chain he always wears with a crucifix and Miraculous Medal. He’s not religious. I asked him once why he wore the necklace, and he said habit.
“Give me your hand,” he huffs, grabbing it before I can respond and thrusting it into the water. “Is it too hot?”
“It’s fine.”
Can he not tell?
“Strip. Get in,” he orders, backing away. He’s irritated.
I keep an eye on him while I peel off my khaki work pants and white cotton panties.
Feeling has returned to my extremities, but I’m sore.
I’m bruised all over. At least half of the marks I gave myself in that trunk.
I scan my body quickly as I step into the tub and sink into the warm water, wrapping my arms around my knees.
Dario sits on the closed toilet, staring at me.
I don’t want to be naked in front of him, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m on overload. Survival mode. The pounding in my head has mostly subsided, but there’s still a dull ache. The lump where my skull hit the asphalt is still tender and hot to the touch. My wrists burn.
The water soothes some of the lesser aches, but I still feel like I’ve been through a war.
And Dario’s looking at me like a science experiment.
“Wash,” he says, impatiently. “Don’t just sit there.”
“If you’re getting bored, you can leave,” I mutter, but I reach for the body wash.
“You never bore me.”
I blink and focus on his face. It’s bland. Hard. Same as always.
He’s not sweet-talking me. Dario’s sweet talk is cliché and repetitive.
He trotted out the same phrases every time we had sex when we first got together.
You’re so beautiful. I love being with you.
You’re perfect . He stopped when I moved in.
I figured it was a natural evolution of the relationship. Like peeing with the door open.
Looking at this cold man with his hands braced on his thighs, glaring at me, wound tighter than a drum, it’s impossible to believe the words ever came from his mouth, but I remember vividly. We were skinny dipping in the pool when he said I love you for the first time.
No. He said, “I love being with you.”
And we were about to have sex.
“What are you thinking?” he demands again.
I waste time by squeezing lavender-scented body wash on a loofah and kneading it in my hands.
“You never used to wonder.”
“Because I knew.” He says it with absolute confidence.
“You knew what I was thinking? All the time?” I run the sponge as lightly as I can over my shoulders. It’s rough, and I’m sore.
He nods. “You loved me. You were anxious about other women. You wanted me to propose. You worried about whether I thought you were getting fat. Whether I was getting bored.”
My face flushes. He’s one hundred percent correct, and it’s pathetic. I was dancing around, high as a cloud, happier than I’d ever been in my life, and that’s the garbage that was on a loop in my head.
“I never got bored,” he says, offhandedly.
“Why not?” It’s out of my mouth before I can remind myself that I don’t care.
“I don’t know.” He stretches his spine and rises to his feet. “You’re going to take forever going that slow.”
He stalks over, and I shrink to the corner. “Hand me that.”
He grabs the sponge from my hand and begins scrubbing my arm. Hard.
“Stop,” I cry, jerking away, curving forward to protect my breasts and belly, steeling myself for more rough handling.
He does. I gape. His shirt is wet, clinging to the ridges of his abs. He looms at the side of the tub, sponge dripping suds down his veined forearm.
“It hurts?”
“When you rub my skin off? Yes .”
He glares at the loofah. “Then why are you using this?”
I stare around the immaculate white tub. I don’t know. It’s what was here. I got nothing.
He sighs and perches on the edge, grabbing the bottle of body wash. He squints at the label, grunts, and squeezes some in his hand.
“Come closer.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. I’d rather not. I don’t understand what’s happening here, and I’m naked. Vulnerable. Hurt and tired.
I stay plastered to the far side.
He makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, almost a growl. I tremble. The air is warm and steamy, but my insides are cold.
He sighs in exasperation, toes off his shoes, and peels off his socks.
“What are you doing?”
He splashes into the tub, pants and shirt still on.
“Whatever I want.”
I scramble away, and somehow, he hooks me around the waist as he lowers himself into the water, dragging me between his legs, trapping me.
“Stay still, or I’ll hurt you.” His voice is calm and even. I’m panting, chest heaving, and he works his hands together to lather them up again. Then he runs them from my shoulders, down my arms. Gently.
He stops just before he gets to the abrasions on my wrists, his fingertips almost touching the raw, red skin.
I shiver against his hard chest. Some primal instinct has me frozen in place, afraid to breathe too deep.
He rests his chin in the crook of my neck and then rests my hands on his knees, stroking back up the sensitive inside of my arms.
He emits a low hum and skims the bruises. He’s admiring the marks he made.
“You like seeing how you hurt me?”
I tense. I shouldn’t have said it. I have to get out of this alive; I can’t let words fly out of my mouth.
“I like marking you.” He says it as if he’s discovering it himself, in this moment. “It might leave a scar. These tape burns on your wrists.” He sounds pleased.
He sniffs and straightens, reaching for the body wash.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he says as if that answers for everything.
“Ray told me to.”
Ray watched Dario maul me in the driveway, and ultimately, he backed away. He’s not my friend. I don’t owe him shit.
Dario chuckles. “Did he tell you where to go?”
“No.”
Dario pours more soap into his palm, bemused. “He would have given you bad advice. You’re much more clever than Ray.”
“Thanks.” It’s a smart remark, but Dario either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. He rubs his hands and then strokes them over my breasts.
I suck in a breath.
Dario’s hard cock presses into my back. It has been this whole time, but I’ve been ignoring it.
Dario’s different from the other men I’ve been with.
He’s not led by his dick. We were in the middle of sex once when the market in Japan opened, and he pulled out without coming because he was obsessed with some tech stock.
I try to ignore the feeling of his rough palms soaping my heavy breasts, too, but I can’t.
He cups me, lifting and molding, and then he smooths over my belly and glides down my thighs.
He leans us both forward so he can reach my calves and feet, and then he straightens back up and returns to my boobs.
It’s jarring. It’s not affection. It sure as hell isn’t love. His touch is almost clinical as he weighs me and plucks at my nipples until they’re stiff and aching. I press my legs together. My pussy’s throbbing, but that’s biology.
He can touch me however he wants. He’s stronger, and I’m beaten down. It doesn’t mean anything, though. It doesn’t mean I love him anymore. I hike my chin and stare at the stone tiles.
“Does this feel good?” he asks.
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t know.”
With no warning, he pries my knees apart, wedging a leg between mine to hold me open. I buck, but he wraps one arm around my chest, pinning my elbows to my side. He slips his free hand between my legs, thrusting two fingers inside me without warning.
I gasp.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs in my ear.
“So?” It’s a short syllable, but it shakes. I swallow. “I don’t want to do this.” I know it doesn’t matter to him, but maybe it matters to me. That I at least say it.
“You fucked me all the time before when you weren’t in the mood.”
My stomach turns. It’s the truth. “We were together then. Couples do that.”
“I never fucked you if I didn’t want to.”
My body is so tense. His fingers are still inside me, probing. His thumb’s seeking out my clit. I clench my thighs, but I can’t dislodge him.
“Dario,” I say softly, knowing it won’t make a difference. “Please stop.”
And it’s a miracle. Like I’ve said the magic words. He immediately slips his fingers from me, ghosting the tips gently over my plumped pussy lips and then resting his palm right above my wet curls. He moves his legs so I’m cradled between them again.
“I’m going to put a baby here.” He tickles the swell below my belly button.
My brain can’t keep up. “No.” Even though I’m utterly drained, alarm skitters my nerves. “That’s a terrible idea.”
He hums, unmoved. “Our children will be smart. And attractive.”
“And humble.” He’s never talked about kids before. Despite the box in his sock drawer, we never talked about marriage either. And now—he’s insane. We’re not bringing a child into this disaster.
He laughs. “You can teach them how to be like you. They might be born like me, though, and then you’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Born how?”
“You know. Without—” He seems to struggle for words. “A conscience?”
“No one’s born with a conscience. You develop one. It’s learned.”
“Well, then. Our future children will be fine. You’ll teach them right from wrong, and I’ll teach them all the important things.”
The conversation is surreal. The water’s cooling, and except where his hot skin touches mine, I’m shivering. Dario seems impervious. It’s silent in the house, as always, and the sun is bright, streaming through the frosted glass panes above the alcove with the tub.
My brain is slow from sleep deprivation and the aftereffects of adrenaline. I should be fighting. At the very least, I should be on guard, but I’m limp in his arms.
“I thought you were going to make me suffer.” My voice is thick.
“I was.” He cups a palm and scoops cool water over my breasts, rinsing the suds away. I shudder. “I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“I’m not angry anymore.”
“Why not?” I shouldn’t push. Why am I pushing?
He takes his time replying. When he answers, he seems surprised. “I wanted you back. You’re here now. It’s all good.”
I struggle to keep my heavy eyelids up. My tongue is thick as I say, “It’s not good. At all. You’re fucked in the head. As soon as I can, I’m going to run, and this time, you’re never going to be able to find me.”
He wraps his arms tightly around my trembling torso. “Shh,” he whispers in my ear. “You don’t have to fight. I’ll go back to the way I was. You can go back to pretending everything is fine. You liked it like that. It’s over now. You can relax.”
He lifts me from the tub and winds me in a thick, white towel. Then he puts me in bed and covers me with a fluffy comforter. I blearily check the clock. It’s nearly nine thirty. The New York Stock Exchange is opening.
Dario heads out the door. It shuts with a snick and then there’s the unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock.