Page 102 of Frozen Heart
“Are you hungry? Want me to get you something to eat?”
Only if it’s you. I want to eat you, Little Iris.“No.”
That stray strand of hair is still over her face, and I’m dying to touch it, to sweep it away. My hand rises, almost of its own accord—
“It’s really no bother. I can fix you a plate before I go.”
Her words are like a gut punch, leaving me winded. Right. For a second there, I forgot…
My hand falls back to my side, curling into a fist, hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
“Say hello to your mother for me.” I turn on my heel and storm out of the kitchen. Out of the house. Leaving behind the sweet vanilla scent.
A huge palm, skin rough with calluses, slowly glides down my naked back as I lie, spent, on top of my husband. Even after all this time, his barest touch sets me on fire, warmth spreading from the lightest contact. The throbbing between my legs has abated, but only slightly. Adriano all but destroyed my pussy this time. I was hardly inside the room when he swooped in, claiming me like a magnificent, ferocious fiend by fucking me senseless right there against the door. I don’t exactly remember how weended up in the bed afterward, just that it’s where he made me come with his mouth before he took me from behind.
I stretch my hand out, feeling the shape of his tightly clenched jaw, then trace his sensual, hard lips. He’s furious, as furious as he was when I first stepped into our room at the Annex, and that anger in him hasn’t diminished even a little. It’s strange how I know that without being able to see him or hear even a single sound from him. He is fuming. Seething.
“I made vanilla sugar cookies today,” I say as I stroke the line of his lower lip with my thumb. “They turned out fine, even though I might’ve added a smidge more sugar than the recipe called for. I meant to bring you some as a treat, but my husband came into the kitchen while I was finishing up and distracted me.”
His body freezes under mine. It’s the only indication that he’s not happy with what I said. That my words have aggravated him further.
I sigh.
For nearly three months now, I’ve been trying to goad him into reacting. To push him into some kind of response. Any kind. I’ve hoped that he would do something…say something to reveal himself to me. But I got nothing. Other than those few growled words the first night we had sex, he’s been silent as a tomb. Keeping his identity hidden.
At home, it’s more of the same. He never questions or objects to my “sleepovers at Mom’s.” Believes that his wife is cheating on him, but pretends it’s not happening. Persists with this insane delusion. With each day that passes, I understand it less and less. Instead of solving the enigma that is my husband, I feel the fog of confusion between us grow more and more dense.
“I really liked the book,” I say, moving my thumb over the ridge of his nose. “Thank you for making sure it doesn’t have any bugs. It was nice to read the story without worrying.”
As before our relationship turned physical, he continues to leave small gifts for me in the car that takes me back to Mom’s from the Annex. Last Saturday, I received the next book in the cozy mystery series I’ve been reading. With it came another note, once more written on a page torn out of his daily planner. Letting me know in that messy scrawl of his that there are no creepy-crawlies involved.
The other day, Mario delivered a few documents for Adriano that he forgot to bring home from Ruffo Enterprises HQ. I happened to see my husband make a few notations and sign the papers before sending them back to the office. His handwriting was a neat, meticulous cursive, matching the prolific entries throughout the rest of the journal I found in his car. So different from when he isthisAdriano. So different from the notes he scribbles for me. Even his penmanship suffers from duality. Nothing public-facing is ever out of line. Not the way he talks, not even the way he writes. A living, breathing Janus.
Why does he continue to hide? Which side of himself is he hiding from me?
Every new answer I uncover spurs another question.
My fingers keep up the exploration on his face, outlining his eyebrows. “The free clinic in my old neighborhood—the one I told you about last month—got a new ultrasound machine after all. Someone anonymously donated top-of-the-line equipment. It arrived on Wednesday.”
Not a sound, of course.
Leaning forward, I press my lips to his. “I know it was you.”
A grunt. Not even one that could be taken as an admission. No matter how hard I try or what I say, he doesn’t drop the veil, doesn’t lift his mask. Keeps me in the dark. Trapped behind the blindfold, both real and metaphorical.
I want to scream in frustration. The urge to shake him until he comes clean is driving me crazy. I want to yell into his face. Demand the truth.Tell me why? Why, to a million other questions. On the other hand, though, I’m too afraid of what his answer would be.
“I wish my husband were more like you,” I whisper. That’s my last-ditch effort, the only thing I’ve learned that will make him snap.
Adriano’s arm wraps around my waist, and he rolls us over. In one powerful, lightning-fast move, he’s above me, his body trapping my own beneath his weight. His breathing is shallow and rapid, a clear sign of his rage. Drawing any sort of comparisons betweenhimand my husband is the one thing that will always trigger a response.
He drives into me, thrusting and filling me completely, making me gasp for air. He’s huge, and my pussy is still tender from the last round, but there isn’t a better feeling than having him inside me. His mouth collides with mine, seizing it in a fierce kiss. As our tongues battle, he pulls out, only to slam into me again. Hard. Harder. Again and again. His pace doesn’t let up.
My nails sink into Adriano’s shoulders as I open my legs wider, needing more of him. Wanting him closer. He pounds into me like a man possessed. My pussy throbs with every thrust, my walls spasm around his cock. I tear my mouth away only long enough to gulp a breath of air, then pull him down for another kiss. Imagining I’m with the real him.All of him.Not the silentguest he wants me to believe he is. Not the ruthless man who is my husband. But the man who seems unfeeling yet is also capable of doing wonderful, amazing things. For me. And for others. I don’t want just one side of him or another. He is both. Both are him. I wantthatman. The true Adriano. I want him to claim my body and soul.
Because he—both versions of him—already has my heart.
The coil in me winds and winds, and in a moment of dazzling fury, I detonate. Soaring to new heights. Rendered boneless. I can barely hold on. Utterly consumed by him. I gasp for breath while he pummels me without mercy. Drives me to another peak.
