Chapter 25 #2
I remembered so much happiness. The scent of a happy kitchen, pots boiling, plates laid out, a feast being prepared.
My dad's hands slid around my mother's waist. The smile on her face could have advertised five-star dentistry.
He danced into their embrace, whispering words of love into her ear as she stood before the oven, finishing up dinner.
My lips tugged up, and my eyes filled with tears.
Happy tears.
“You did this for me?”
“Everything is for you. The house is yours. . . ours. Equally. But this was a special gift for you.”
“It's all Cuban.”
“It is.” He took another sip. “I remembered you said you liked to cook.”
“I did. I asked your mother once if I could teach her to make something Cuban. She took offense.”
“She was hateful.”
“She seemed to hate me more than she did anyone else.”
Woodrow raised an eyebrow like I'd gone mad.
The past came back to bite me, its dark venom seeping into my bloodstream ferried reflections into my mind.
I heard every hurtful thing Wynter ever said to her son.
Every ridicule made me tense. My palms started sweating.
My pretty floral dress—that I hated now, remembering Wynter saying they were all I'd squeeze into—relieved them.
As a teenager, I didn't notice every jibe she made, all her sneaky bitterness, and the darkness inside her. Not until she was happy to showcase it.
I hated her for that. Her, not my pretty dress. I hated her for being a friend, a mother. . . for the false offer of a family that she ripped away from me.
The worst kind of human wasn't the one to bring you to the ground but the one who watched and enjoyed your fall, and then kicked you while you were at your lowest.
And that was why I hated her most.
She wasn't welcome in this house.
Her ghost wouldn't haunt us; it was trapped, burning in hell where it belonged. And memories of her had no business doing so, either.
Brushing my fingers down the fabric of my dress once more, I pushed all thoughts of her away from me.
I slipped a book from the shelf. The glossy hardcover shined in the sunset, brought in by a high window—a new feature, like many others. An easy escape for all the trauma and pain that once filled this room.
I looked to the grass, to the field beyond, and then I looked around, confirming my thoughts. This room was the exact same room. Being fully concrete, it hadn't burned with the rooms above. . . but it was different now. . . free of the pain caused here. Thanks to that window.
And so was I. Thanks to Woodrow.
The realization was jovial and uplifting, and it brought a small smile to my lips.
“Do you think you'll like it here this time?”
I looked back to Woodrow, to the depth of hope and longing he kept hidden, now suddenly exposed to me, and my smile didn't falter, it grew.
“I think I will.” I hugged the book tightly to my chest, and said, "I'm gonna make us dinner tonight.”
After I'd scared him with a clap of my hands and replaced his small furry body with some veggies, that for some reason, he was absolutely terrified of, Bushy Tail had left his tabletop perch.
He was currently cuddled up on the footstool, matching the pink tweed couch. A spot he'd claimed as forever his.
I leaned over the stove, over the pastel-colored cookware pots. The heat of the food simmering caressed my face, bringing both disquiet and peace at the same time.
Taking a spoon to my nose, I inhaled, and a smile burst through me. I felt my mother's presence. I could see my dad's approving smile in my mind's eye.
A shadow moved along the splashback, covering mine and growing bigger as Woodrow approached.
He stood close to me, but he didn't touch me. “It smells good.”
It really did. I was proud of myself and proud of this memory for surviving in my turbulent mind. I’d forgotten so many beautiful experiences when so many bad ones started happening.
“What is it?” He asked, staring into the pot where dozens of ingredients were swimming in harmony.
“It's called Ajiaco. And it's a stew. Don’t worry, I won't make crunchy veggies.”
I favored them, but I knew he'd struggle with swallowing them.
“It smells really good.”
“Are you actually gonna eat any of it?”
I side glanced at him, staring through my hair.
He had barely eaten since finding me. Stopping seconds after eating, feeling full from the smallest mouthfuls.
Even the breakfast smoothies he humored me with these past few days were discarded after a single sip.
He claimed they tasted funny. But he never wanted anything else.
I knew it was hard for him. Hard to watch those around him enjoy heavier meals.
“What do you mean?” he quizzed, tucking my hair behind my ear, so he could get a better look at my face.
I rushed to pull it forward, but he stopped me, his hand guiding me back to the food.
I hated that I needed to hide in my own home.
Home, it was weird to think that.
But nothing was weirder than feeling uncomfortable in your own skin.
Woody had ruined my appearance, nothing could change that. Hell forced me to acknowledge that by shaving off my fringe. . . luckily, it still wasn't impossible to hide, and I'd done that every day since, by pulling my hair forward.
The rental car's side mirror had told me sweet lies, promising I looked better by pulling my hair forward than I would with it brushed back.
Woodrow would never agree. His fingers weaved through my hair. He pulled my daisy clip out gently and opened it with his mouth before sliding it into a new position in my hair, holding much more of it from my face than before.
“You're too pretty to hide.”
I wanted to laugh but the chuckle turned sour in my mouth, and instead, came out as a sob.
“Don't cry.” Woodrow's hands moved around me, fingers splaying on my waist and settling there.
I shuddered, my breathing fast and unsure. My hand reached for his, holding his fingers flat to my stomach, while still deciding if I should pull them away.
“I'll forever be sorry that my hands hurt you in a way you can't heal from.”
His breath tickled my scars, and I found myself leaning in against him until his face brushed mine. I panicked, waiting for the mean comments men always gave me, and I was about to retract when his grip on me tightened.
“Scars change nothing. You're mine. You'll always be beautiful to me.”
I turned into him, the wooden spoon I’d been stirring with, left behind in the simmering pot.
I didn't say a word, my eyes roving between his silver stare and pretty mouth. His lips parted and he swallowed. He didn’t cover and my eyes didn't drop.
His tongue wet his lips, and my gaze traveled with his tongue as it moved from left to right.
He dipped his knees, lowering his height until his pretty pouted lips landed on mine, his tongue prying them open.
I opened my mouth, welcoming his taste of spearmint. The subtle sweet taste brought a new freshness to my mouth.
He lifted me into his arms, big hands swallowing up my waist as he spun me around and dropped me onto the island.
His hands slid up my body to cradle my head as he lay me down amongst the leftover cut-up veggies.
He stared down at me, sprawled before him.
The cold marble surface kissed my shoulder blades and thighs as I watched him with devastation.
Devastation, over the fact he was so beautiful and he was no longer kissing me.
His fingers caressed my skin, goosebumps shadowing his barely there touch. He moved from my ankle to my inner thigh. To the material of my satin underwear. My heat kissed his fingers, and he nudged the material aside.
“Woodrow,” I pleaded for more.
“If you want more, I need a favor from you?”
I was too perplexed to ask what he could possibly want. Too aroused to disagree with any damn terms he imposed.
“Hold these here.” His fingers pulled at my underwear, making his instructions clear.
My hand replaced his.
“Good girl.”
I grew wetter from those words.
His fingers touched me right where I needed him to. I bucked my hips, wanting the intrusion I was sure would follow, but it didn't come.
Using his fingers, he opened my pussy lips. His pupils were blown, the silver barely visible, proof of his lust—his need for me.
“What do you want, Woodrow?”
He wet his lips again.
His shadow's movement grazed my skin, and it gave me even more goosebumps. “I want your hand right here, holding yourself open for me.”
My fingers met his between my legs, and he showed me how he wanted me to touch myself. My middle and forefinger parted from each other. My pussy, now wet, open, and bared to him.
“What do you want, Moonlight?”
“Your love.”
“And how do you want me to show you my love?”
“Surprise me,” I breathed out.
The wickedness in his smile and the heat radiating off his body could rival the devil as he basked in hell.
He abandoned his height, and his shadow stopped caressing me as he dropped to his knees to worship me.
He kissed the inside of my knees before wrapping his arms around my legs. He pulled me to his mouth, placing my legs on his shoulders.
I pressed myself higher, trying to see, but the second his tongue landed on me, my head dropped back.
His tongue flattened against my pussy, a sensual hum vibrating through me.
I closed my eyes as I felt his heated breath move to my clit. His left hand moved from my thigh to my hole, open and exposed, inviting him inside. A finger pressed against my opening, and the only thing that stopped my hips from rising, was his disapproving stare.
I flattened my body to the marble, not taking more than he was ready to give.
I heard a loud moan as pulse after pulse of arousal waved inside my body.
His finger slid inside me. His lips lifted from my clit, a trail of saliva bridging the small gap between us. His words tickled me as he spoke. “I’ve waited so many fucking years for you. To taste you again. Nothing has ever compared.”