“Yeah, I’m real.”
Her relief is visible as she slowly closes her eyes while resting her head back on my chest. The crazy cute thing kisses directly over my heart. “Good morning, baby. Can you take your dick out of me?”
“Never,” I say too forcefully, banding my arms around her. “Keep me warm.”
“It’s uncomfortable,” she mumbles, already halfway back to sleep.
Holding her waist, I push my hips down and slowly slide her off my dick. The cold air makes me cringe, so I kiss her head, her nape, then her shoulder as I lay her on the bed, slipping out from under her to tuck myself away. I’ll need to leave soon but as I stretch my shoulders after being stuck in the same position for so long, I see the wall. “Did you have make-up?”
“No, paint.” She weakly lifts her hand to show a deep cut on her palm. “I wanted to have you here.”
I’ve witnessed this shit before. When the isolation became too much for people, they’d paint the walls of their cells with shit or blood. Anything they could access became their medium.
The image my beautiful wife painted is my face, particularly my eighteen-year-old face with bloody stars above my head as I watch over the bed.
I can’t leave her with bloody fucking walls.
I get dressed and leave the room, in search of something to clean it away. Helene’s not in the kitchen. The cleaning solutions under the sink sting my eyes as soon as I uncap the bottles, making them unusable. Delilah’s head will be fucked if she’s stuck with the fumes all day.
The lounge doesn’t have anything other than blood stored in wine bottles. As I walk around the staircase, I notice a cupboard door leading to the spandrel. I manage to get a grip on the small, painted-over metal knob to turn it. L-shaped shelves line the walls with different tins neatly stacked on them and old rags wrapped around paintbrushes in varying sizes. There’s a bottle of turpentine, which will definitely make my crazy girl even crazier. I grab three of the tins, the paintbrushes, and close the door with my shoulder.
I expect the creepy cunt to be behind me, stick in hand, but there’s no one there. Fuck it, I’m owed some luck. The universe must agree too. I go back to the room without seeing Helene.
Delilah sits in the middle of the bed, staring at the bloody image on the wall. Setting the items on the floor, I climb through the drapes and turn her to face me. “You don’t do that again, okay?”
“You’re leaving?”
“Here. Not you. I will always be with you. Look at the stars, I’ll be there.”
She tucks her chin to her chest, muttering, “What about when I can’t see the stars?” She does the same shit she used to when we were younger as she forces a smile on her face. “I’ll be okay.”
How did I never notice it was fake?
All those times I would watch her, I assumed her mood was because of Asher. I never looked deeper or beyond my own preconceived notions.
She softly kisses my cheek before she gets off the bed while I remain stuck in place. The woman I love, the only woman I have ever and will ever love, is breaking. She’s been breaking her entire life. I don’t know how she always manages to climb to her feet. No matter what happens or who hurts her, Delilah stands tall. Now is no different as she walks into the bathroom.
I look at the wall, waiting for a sniffle or a sob as the water runs. But there’s only the sound of her stepping under the spray as she softly hums to herself.
I sit on the edge of the bed with my knees spread as I blankly stare at the cans of paint beside my feet. My dick is still hard after I couldn’t come. There was a mental block every time I worked myself closer to release. I can do it for her though.
Popping the metal lid off each can, I line them up between my thighs. One is a deep charcoal, near black under the separated oils, the other a steel grey, and the one closest to me has a thick layer of yellowed oil above the thick white paint.
I set the darker colors aside, leaving the can of white paint between my feet as I lift my hips to free my dick. Every time Delilah came, I was closer to release, so I accidentally edged myself for hours. At least it’s useful as I wrap my hand around my length and spit down into my palm. My eyes close, replaying the beauty of my filthy wife spraying me in her cum.
“Fuck,” I groan, my head falling back. The taste of her is imprinted in my mind. It’s not the same as when my tongue is inside her cunt. It’s so sweet I can smell it. Pure fucking sex—there’s no other way to describe it.
“Kane,” she snaps from the bathroom doorway with only a towel wrapped around her, suds on her shoulders, her hair dripping. It’s her eyes. Angry and wild as she flicks them down to watch me stroke my dick from base to tip.
“Drop the towel,” I beg. “Crawl to me.”
She grips the knot at her chest tighter as she grits, “Get whoever you’re thinking about to crawl to you.”
“I’m trying to.” I add more spit to my palm, rolling it over the head of my dick. “But my wife is a stubborn fucking thing.”
A small smile lifts her lips, one she tries to fight as she tilts her chin in the air. “I’m not stubborn.”
“Oh, koukla mou, are you finally admitting you’re my wife?” Before she can take it back, I order, “Come. Here. If you make me chase you, I won’t give you my cum.”
