I leave Brahms to deal with the dead man in my office and head to the east wing of the house. In the foyer, I notice Iris’s purse on the console table. One of the guys must have fetched it from the church. I grab it as I make my way toward my wife’s bedroom suite.
In the three hours since we got home, I haven’t been able to calm down. I haven’t been able to sit still. Despite having security complete a thorough check of the house and the grounds before we even arrived, I did it all myself after I had Iris settled in her rooms. The rooms that I searched every nook and cranny of before allowing her to set foot inside. After leaving her with instructions not to come out until I return, I set off on my mad dash to personally secure the premises. Inside and outside. Twice. By this time, my migraine was a raging inferno, a thermonuclear flash behind my eyes. Probably because I barely got my essential dose of her nearness today.
The door to her suite is unlocked, so I let myself in. The faint smell of fresh paint still lingers, especially in her sitting room. I had the entire space renovated before she could move in. I wanted her to like it. To be comfortable. And the thought of her enjoying nice things in life filled my chest with warmth.
I refuse to acknowledge that the last part actually happened or what it means.
As I venture into the suite, I find her bedroom empty, but the sound of running water comes from behind the closed bathroom door. The image of my wife, naked, in the steamy shower turns my cock to granite in an instant.
Most matters in my day-to-day are intentional and planned. There’s very little unpredictability. Even desire is something I have always controlled. I do not succumb to impulses, and I’ve never been ruled by baser instincts. Sex is definitely something I’ve always approached with purpose. I prefer to choose when I will want a woman, just as I choose all other aspects of my life.
My Little Iris has made a mockery of my discipline.
The mere knowledge that she is behind that door, stripped bare beneath the hot stream of water, is enough to fill me with lustful need. It’s staggering. Primal. A fucking immediate response to her.
I grit my teeth, trying to shake off these unwanted thoughts. Dangerous thoughts of my wife. Under me. Wanting me.
She is the only weakness I have permitted myself. I must find a way to restrain these urges. Keep them at bay, or I risk deteriorating further.
The cracks Barty spoke of are getting harder to ignore.
As my hands fist at my sides, I spin around. On my way out of Iris’s bedroom, I call the housekeeper, ordering a pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade to my wife’s suite.
A white silk scarf covers my eyes, yet I can still see somehow. Every luxurious detail of the library-like room at the Annex is crystal clear. I stand in the middle, surrounded by an airy, bluish fog that hovers above the polished hardwood floor.Once in a while, tendrils of that fog rise, wrapping around my naked body.
I’m not alone. My silent guest is right in front of me. Despite the brilliant light illuminating the room, his face remains hidden by shadows. Neither are any of his other features discernible. But I know it’s him. I can feel it.
I stand before him unashamed, not hindered by shyness or anxiety about my nudity. It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling. I was with Kyle for a couple of years, and even after all that time with him, I insisted on keeping the lights off during our intimacy. It felt like I was revealing a lot more during those moments than merely my naked body. There are no similar uncomfortable feelings in me now. Not as I face my silent guest.
Boldly, I reach out and, grasping a handful of his shirt, pull him toward me. When our mouths clash, the earth moves under my feet, shaking violently. But I am not caught in an earthquake. It’s him. Turning my world upside down. I throw my arms around his neck, holding on tight as if he alone can keep me tethered and keep me from plunging into a bottomless abyss. I kiss him. Lose myself in the rapidly spiraling fog. Clinging to the man as if he were the sole source of my air. Breathing in that crisp, oceanic scent.
I need him. My whole body is burning with that need. Every molecule in me is on fire.
I want him. Desperately. Want him inside me.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a wind blows, and the fog grows thicker. The scene morphs, and I am now lying on an enormous bed. One that simply materialized out of nowhere. My body is covered by his, and I am screaming. Screaming in ecstasy while he slams into me over and over. The intensity, the powerof his thrusts—I can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of his touch.
I wrap my arms around his massive shoulders, bowing my back off the bed, as another orgasm hits me. While his hot breath fans the hypersensitive skin of my neck below my ear. Just before his soft lips ever so gently graze the point of my pulse.
“Little Iris.”
My eyes fly open.
I am staring at my silent guest, but his face isn’t blurred anymore.
I’m looking at my husband.
Drowning in his icy-blue depths.
I reach for him again, but the door to the room bursts open. Another Adriano Ruffo storms inside. He lunges at his counterpart with animalistic fury, wrenching the first Adriano off me and dragging him into frenzied hand-to-hand combat.
Like an otherworldly cascade, the fog slides off the bed, flowing toward the two Adrianos. The two men who are both my husband, but who are trying to strangle each other to death. Hurling each other around. Spilling each other’s blood.
I watch in utter horror, unable to distinguish between the pair. Impeded further by the thickening fog. It swallows both men in an eerie shroud. Allowing only brief gaps here and there for me to see.
Weapons materialize in the men’s hands out of thin air. They face off, gun barrels glistening in the light. For a breathless moment, everything stills.
Silence.
