Page 37 of Scary Suitor

A long, stifling moment breeze by the silverware scraping the plates, and he adds, “My pretty wife will never lift a finger again.”

That, and his long legs brushing mine under the table, can be mistaken for an apology—but he needs to be clear about what fault he’s admitting. He did many things; they toe the inappropriate boundary, yet harmless in every way I justify it.

I exhale fitfully, taken aback by the excuses to forgive him as my heart wants.

I’m undermining my own feelings. When did I lose my pride and become this mindless woman?

His ankle brushes against mine. I’m not playing footsie with him when my existential life crisis is heading toward a Big Bang moment.

Breakfast ends soon, and I find myself doing the dishes with him. I honestly doubt he does this on a daily because there is a dishwasher, and he has the money to hire a housekeeper. He insists on cleaning up after himself, having me dry the dishes, and refusing to let me touch the harmful soapy water.

We’re playing house.

A punch maims my stomach, and I don’t know if I can keep the food down.

Then he suggests we go collect my things at work because he wants me to bid farewell to my colleagues. My chaotic complaint springs off his back as he guides me to the bedroom, words decaying on my tongue as the gorgeous ink ripples on his muscles.

Cassio keeps his back to me, kindly offering privacy for me to change. I spin around when his finger pulls on the string holding up his already low-hanging sweatpants.

He has no common decency.

I yank the first thing off the hanger, toss it over the nightshirt, and put on the folded sweatpants.

If I knew his clothes were this ridiculously big, I think and bundle the waistband to my belly button.

Also, my baffled assessment is a joke. Cassio towers over me; his arm is the size of my head and shoulders wide as the door frame. Slight exaggeration, but his chest sticking to my back begs to differ.

Toned arms wrap around my waist and grip the two swinging strings, tying them securely around my waist. The placement looks funny, but it can’t be helped. He spreads his fingers and presses onto my stomach. It entices a thought of my stomach swelling with a baby after he manhandles me to fuck my pussy full of creamy cum.

My back stiffens, screams of infernal torture pulverizing my head. I shake them away, unaware that Cassio is already kneeling to roll up the pant legs.

He doesn’t dwell on the presentation and gives my ass a big, tender chomp before he stands at his full height. I swirl in shock, my hands diving to the throbbing flesh, and stare incredulously into his innocent eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says, already on his way out of the walk-in closet.

I sputter breathless curses and rub my ass with a wince. The sound of a jangling key means he’s at the front door waiting for me.

It’s near noon when my shoes are tied, and I'm sitting inside his car. His spare coat covers my freezing fingers from his car being buried under last night’s snow.

The vehicle is clean, and the driveway is shoveled, so it means he has hired help.

He was with me all night, and I spent hours praying his powerful arms wouldn’t snap my spine from his rigid clutch.

I soak up the passing scenery, knowing it might be the last time I see this side of the area. His house is in a very nice up-scale residential area, and the starting market value is in the seven figures.

He parks the car in the basement parking lot at my workplace. Mindless movements ease through my joints, acting on their own as I get out. I don’t wait for him and walk to the elevator, hitting the button and watching the flashing light.

“Don’t get too sad,” Cassio coos once we’re in the elevator. “You won’t be lonely; I’m here.”

The more I try to subdue the indignance and confusion, the more they retaliate violently.

Why me? He can have anyone he wants, willing and by force. Money draws in flocking butterflies, power reels in big fishes, and charm sways sound minds. He has all that and wants none of the benefits that come with it.

Perhaps he’s fed up with people kissing the ground as he walks. Maybe he needs a breath of fresh air to clean the dust off his thrill addiction.

Boredom is the wealthy people’s companion. They’ve gotten away with plenty of things; other than a serious criminal offense, there’s nothing for them to try anymore.

Death is not new to Cassio. He killed that Holt woman with the impulse of a psychopath and resumed life without a wasted beat.

---