Page 37 of Muerte
“Alex,” finally spilled from my lips as I was forced to endure another orgasm.
“Good girl,” he soughed, allowing himself to come with measured thrusts and a guttural groan now that he had what he wanted.
I trembled beneath him, my breaths ragged and choppy. Instead of pulling out right away, he wrapped both arms around my body and pulled me away from the ledge of the tub, holding my back to his chest as he kissed my shoulder and then my neck.
When he finally withdrew and carried me to the shower and began to rinse me with the same tenderness he’d used after wiping the tears from my cheeks, I made the mistake of looking in his eyes.
In them I saw a glimmer of something darker than I could have fathomed—a twisted kind of fondness that made my heart race for reasons I couldn't fully comprehend.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He guided me towards the closet that I had caught a glimpse of while submerged in the bath. His grip on me was a paradox, soft yet somehow claiming ownership. I silently questioned whether he noticed the subtle quivers racing through me, the way my body yearned to recoil from his touch.
Yet, I remained still, instinctively understanding that any show of resistance would only deepen my predicament. With a conscious effort, I steadied my breathing. I didn’t want him to know how badly he affected me.
We entered a space that looked like it was ripped right out of an interior designer’s dream. It was the biggest closet I had ever seen, a perfect pairing of gothic grandeur and modern luxury. The two stories were connected by a winding iron staircase that granted access to an upper level. My eyes were immediately drawn to the skylight that adorned the ceiling and cast a golden glow over the clothing.
Alexander's clothes took up the entire right side. Suits, button-down shirts, and a few casual options were neatly arranged by color and purpose, an ode to his meticulous nature.
“All of this is yours,” he explained with a roundabout gesture to the other half.
I took in the clothing with a sinking feeling. Every garment felt like a reflection a different version of me would happily wear, a mix of modernity and a nod to the past.
Dresses in the style of 1950s fashion, shirts paired with skirts, and even a few pairs of sweatpants that looked out of place among the refinement.
Designer heels of varying heights and color stood proudly, waiting to be chosen. A collection of matching handbags was lined up above them. I found that a little sardonic, given I couldn’t think of too many places I’d be carrying a purse. Nonetheless, someone had put thought into every detail, an effort I couldn’t fathom.
I’d always envied the women that stepped out looking like they had a filter on. I’d attempted it only once, and after hours of attempting to blend and contour, I could’ve passed as an extra in Killer Klowns. If I wasn’t going to work, I wore whatever was comfortable for a day of simple errands or lounging.
"Why is everything so formal?" I couldn't help but voice my bewilderment.
“Within our community, tradition holds a special place. Women here dress as women should—a reflection of timeless elegance and sophistication.”
As he spoke, he traced a finger along one of the delicate dresses, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly diverted my attention elsewhere, exploring the room further. His explanation described this space perfectly. It was the wardrobe of a refined housewife who knew class was essential.
I slowly walked around, careful not to show how sore I was, cognizant he was watching my every move. It could’ve been my imagination or overthinking things, but I believed he got pleasure from the pain he caused me in bed. I wasn’t going to willingly be the supply to his demand.
Beyond a leather ottoman was a wall adorned with long mirrors, their shined glass casting an illusion of endless space.
To the right of this, an ornate vanity stood with meticulous organization—a trove of makeup, perfume bottles, and an assortment of hair tools. Could this all have belonged to someone else? Had another woman stood in this very spot once, taking it all in? Or had she been used to this exuberant level of wealth?
I turned towards him. “Did these things belong to your wife?”
His response was accompanied by a gaze as deep and golden as autumn leaves, his countenance a veil of stoicism. Beneath that, a ripple of irritation seemed to surface, though his expression remained shuttered. “I would never give you hand-me-downs, and I wouldn’t ever allow anything a woman from my past may have even touched to so much as brush against your skin.”
I heard what he was saying but couldn’t quite believe it. This couldn’t have been done in a day or two.
Glancing up, I saw the second level held even more clothing. It was truly like a mini department store, only organized ten times better. Pensive, I looked back at Mr. Hawthorne—Alexander.
“You were married, weren’t you? Doesn’t that mean she was someone important? I’m only here because you forced me to be, for however long I’m a novelty. It just makes more sense to me.”
“Novelty?” His eyes seemed to darken for a moment, a subtle shift in his expression that didn't go unnoticed before his inscrutable mask was back in place. His tone held a hint of reproach. “Do not downplay what you mean to me by insinuating you're some spontaneous fuck or random whore.”
His fingers brushed against the fabric of another dress before he turned his gaze back to me.
“These were never for anyone but you. Every stitch, every fabric, every color was chosen specifically for you.”
“I don’t—”