Page 38 of The Marriage Debt

“I fuck you like I own you because I do—and your body knows it better than you do.” The first tremors of her orgasm come slowly, pussy clamping down on me so hard it makes it difficult to push in. It’s hot, and I want to fuck her so hard her walls tear, so I thrust harder and the feet of the table tap on the stone tiles beneath it.

Lila begins to spasm and jolt, her body snapping loose like a sprung piano spring. “That’s it. Come on my cock like a filthy little slut—just like that.” She twitches, pushes back against me so I go deeper, and it makes my balls draw up. “You were made to break under me. Look at you now. Shaking for it.” Her release begins to simmer while mine ramps up.

Her pussy clenches again and again, milking me, and I let go. “Fuck! Lila— God!” I bite her shoulder as I fill her up, her walls squeezing me, milking every drop of cum from me. The world slides into nothing but white-hot pleasure and I pump into her until I feel my seed drain out of her around my balls and slick her thighs.

I pull out slowly, watching the mess drip down her thighs, then drag her back into my lap without a word. Her body is limp but not weak—just spent. Her back rests against my chest, legs draped over mine, dress still bunched around her waist. My pants are half-open, cock still slick, breath still catching.

I take the cigarette from the tin, strike the match, and light it one-handed. The first drag burns clean. I exhale over her shoulder, then press it to her lips. She takes it without hesitation, inhales deep like she needs the smoke to ground her, then hands it back. I let my arm curl low around her waist, hold her there, let her feel the weight of me even when I'm still.

Neither of us speaks.

She doesn't move to fix her dress. I don't fix my pants. The air’s thick with the smells of sweat, sex, and smoke.

This is what silence feels like when no one’s pretending anymore.

19

LILA

Marcella keeps her eyes on the road, posture perfect, fingers resting lightly on the wheel as if she’s pretending this is just another afternoon errand. She hasn’t said much since the emergency petition was denied. The court ruled the marriage stands. The Varo name, tied to Rossi by ink and law, will not be easily cut loose.

She asked for a visit. Mateo agreed, with conditions—one hour, a Rossi tail behind us, no stops except for what he approved.

“I thought we could start with the bookstore,” she says. “They just stocked that graphic novel Lev asked about.” She glances at me as she drives and I try to maintain my calm. It isn't easy spending time with her after what she's done. I wonder if my mother sent her to get information.

I nod once. “Alright.”

Keeping it about Lev makes it easier. He’s the only topic we can both touch without drawing blood.

She parks two blocks from the shop along a high-end strip that’s quiet and curated, the kind of place where time costs more than the coffee. I reach for the door handle before she even cuts the engine, but she stops me with a word.

“Lila.”

I pause, hand on the frame, but I don't look at her. I keep my head down. I'm still upset that she allowed my mother to use her against me.

“You look better.”

“Better than what? The last time I saw you, you were helping my mother have me removed from my own life.”

“I didn’t know it would go that far.” The tone she uses sounds apologetic. I feel bad for snapping at her.

“You didn’t want to know.”

Marcella looks down at her hands. She wears no rings, no polish, no jewelry—just the same clean lines and clipped nails she’s always had. Everything about her appears composed, but I know the signs. Tight shoulders, shallow breath, eyes that won’t settle.

“I didn’t have a choice," she says softly.

“You had a choice,” I say as I step out. “You just didn’t choose me.”

We both climb out and walk into the store. Marcella doesn't bring up the court case again, and I think venting that small bit of emotion is enough to take the pressure off. I don't feel like smacking her anymore.

Inside, the bookstore feels calm and warm. The smells of ink and coffee cling to the air. Lev would love this place with its wooden shelves stacked with hardcovers, bins of puzzles and board games, and tables full of journals and fantasy maps. I scan a display for something he’d like and find a new copy of the book he’s been asking about—one with dragons and exploding castles. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands.

Marcella stays close, pretending to browse. She opens a book, flips through a few pages without reading them, and places it back on the shelf.

“You think I betrayed you.”

“I don’t think it,” I say, still examining the cover. “You did.”

---