Color Her Red (25 page)

“I want more,” I whisper.

In a swift movement, he picks my body up to straddle him and he moves me onto him.  His hand steadies my hip
s and gently moves lower; his thumb finds my sensitive clit.  I moan loudly as he slowly circles around it.  He speeds up his motions and puts more pressure on my clit.  A wave of pure ecstasy releases from me and I feel myself pulse around him as I moan. 

He kisses me hard, leaving his lips around mine, parted, he breathes heavy and picks up his motions.  My body feels weak in his grasp.  I grip his shoulders, clinging to him, my breasts pushed against his chest. 

I feel hot moisture between my thighs and I freeze in fear, pushing away from him.  He hesitates; his eyes follow my gaze.  He grabs me hard slamming into me, kissing my neck. 

“It’s cum Emma, it’s just cum
,” he breathes into my ear letting his hot breath send a wave of pleasure down by body.  I hold onto him tight, kissing his shoulder. 

“Let me love you again, let me hold you.”  I hear his words and I feel pricks at the back of my eyes.  His motions don’t slow, I feel myself getting closer.  I nod into his shoulder. 

“Tell me,” his voice breaks.  I move away from him and see tears clouding his soft blue eyes.  I rest my forehead on his as he continues to move deep in me, steady motions bringing me closer.  I gasp for air and moan. 

“I will let you love me.”  Tears escape my eyes and I bury my head in his neck.  He lays me back down and takes me harder.  His arm still braces me as his kisses my passionately with a carnal need.  I feel the heat rise in my body and the overwhelming sensation culminates as he moves faster, kissing my neck.  I reach my climax with his and my body quivers in his arms.  His hot breath and warmth surrounds me for a moment before he slowly withdraws and collapses on his side.

He moves a heavy arm around my body.  My first reaction is to pull away, reject his touch, but I’m exhausted and sated and I have promised him that I will let him hold me;
I will let him love me
. 

After the Red

Crystal L. Shaw

Expected

May 2013

Chapter 1

             
It’s fucking freezing for April.  The sun has already called it quits and the gentle wind has progressed into a bitter cold breeze.  I look up at the sky, barely tilting my head; dark clouds are setting in.  I should’ve grabbed that cardigan
. 
I grumble a small sigh and shake my head, silently scolding myself.  It was right there, hung over the dining room chair.  I looked at it, but thought, nah I’ll be fine, besides it doesn’t match. 
Seriously?  It’s cream.  Neutral matches everything. 
It’s amazing how much I irritate myself.  I attempt to quicken my pace, even though my bare skin is being beaten by the unforgiving winds.  This is the only path I know back to the apartment.  If it hadn’t been so nice when I left, I would’ve taken the car and avoided all this frustration.  Regret.  One more regret to add to the growing list.

The only companion
s that escort me are the white plastic grocery bags dangling from my arms and the clinking of my heels on the hard concrete sidewalk. Why did I have to take two hours picking out this weekend’s meals? 
Because you have nothing better to do with your life.  You’d rather hide in an aisle of spices you never plan on using, pretending you actually give a damn about recipes that include bay leaves, than face the miserable life you’ve made for yourself. 
Ouch.  My heart sinks and twists into an unforgivable knot in response to my conscious’ honesty.  That’s pretty fucked up, and brutal. 
But true.

             
As I think life can’t get much worse than this, Mother Nature takes it as her cue to open up the darkened clouds that plague the sky.  A drizzling rain begins to assault me.  My apartment is just around the corner, but I can’t run.  These damn bags are too heavy; they’re already piercing into the pale, tender skin on my forearms.  With my luck, they’re probably going to rip open and spill their contents before I make it to the awning.  I let the rain fall onto my face without any attempt in defense.   The tiny hairs on my exposed skin stand up straight and send a chill down my spine making me shudder.   I feel the familiar prick at the back of my eyes as I turn the corner but, before I can surrender myself to them, I see Michael running towards me, opening an umbrella.  I attempt to compose myself, not that I could hide my emotions from Michael.  He can read me almost as well as Thomas can.

             
“Emma,” he greets me warmly as he shields me from the striking rain, “I would’ve run down here sooner if I’d known you were walking.”  His voice is comforting and puts me a bit at ease until I am reminded of why he is here, why I am alone.

“Thank you,” my voice cracks with distress.
I try to force a humorous tone, as if I didn’t mind the onslaught, “I was getting soaked.” 

“Well, I’m glad I saw you,” he says politely with a smile.

“Not as glad as I am.”  I return his pleasant tone as though his presence is not shocking.  Well, truthfully it’s not.  Either Thomas or Michael has been here almost every evening since I’ve moved out two weeks ago.  Usually it’s Thomas and Michael waits by the car, carrying out his role as attentive assistant. 

He graciously takes the bags from my hand in exchange for the umbrella.
He stands a good distance away from me, careful not to invade my personal space.  His right half is already drenched.  It makes me feel horrible. He shouldn’t have to suffer just because I was stupid enough to get caught in this damn rain. 

“Please stand with me under the umbrella; I don’t want you getting soaked too.” 
My desperation is obvious; I’m practically pleading with him.  After everything that’s happened, I just want him to stay dry. He gives easily and walks with me under the umbrella carrying my bags of truly unneeded/unwanted perishables. 

“Did Thomas send you?” I finally ask as we take cover under the awning to my building.  It’s a question I already know the answer to; of course Thomas sent him.  I turn the umbrella
upside down and attempt to shake the droplets off.  I’m unsuccessful, making me feel even more pathetic. 

“He would’ve come himself but he’s required else where.  He just wanted to make sure you are doing well.”

“Is he in jail?”  The question leaps out of my throat.  Michael looks a bit taken aback.  I break his gaze and punch in the code so we can walk inside.  I attempt to justify my outburst, “I heard about the incident.” 

I heard about it in depth. 
Yet again, a reporter was waiting outside of Thomas’ office building and, as soon as Thomas set foot outside, the unrelenting nuisance started drilling him for answers.  Why I moved out?  Are we getting a divorce?  Were the pregnancy/miscarriage leaks an attempt to distract the media from the allegations of his abuse?  Thomas gave nothing back as he usually does, until the reporter asked if he had kicked me out because I was a murderer.  He knew that would get him a response.  Thomas’ anger got the best of him.  He struck the reporter hard in the jaw causing him to fly backwards into the street, landing on his ass. 

Murderer, yes that’s something I am now and forever will be. 
The pain thickens in my stomach.  I attempt to hold it back, but I’m vaguely aware that the expression on my face is reflecting the distorted, heated mix of anguish and resentment that’s slowly taking over my body. 

“Mr. Grant isn’t in jail; that matter has been sorted out.” 
Sorted out?  Paid off is more like it. 
I don’t bother to question further.  I don’t care to know the details.  The thought of Thomas defending me adds to my pain though.  I want to let him go, to rid himself of my infection.  That’s why I left; increase the distance to decrease the agony.

I open the door to my cozy beige apartment still filled with unopened boxes
, and gesture for Michael to put the bags on the kitchen counter.  I unconsciously let out a distressed sigh as I head to the bathroom.  I just want to dry off, but as I pat my face with the soft cream hand towel, my body heaves and I succumb to the overwhelming sadness.  I try to keep my sobs as silent as I can, but I know that he knows.

I hear his footstep
s approach the door; it’s time for me to lie and him to knowingly accept the lie, pretending that he isn’t aware of the truth.

“Are you okay,
Emma?”  I can even hear it in his voice; the knowledge that I am going to lie and the pain that is causes him.

“Yes, I’m fine
.”  I hesitate to come up with an excuse, something to make him go away and leave me alone, so that I will only be a burden to myself.

“I’ll let Mr. Grant know that you’
re well then.”  His voice echoes in my head as it creeps through the bathroom door.  “Is there anything I can do for you before I head out?” 

“No thank you
, Michael.  I’m fine.”  My voice is sporadic, I did an awful job of trying to hide the fact that I’m practically lying on the cold tile floor, soaking wet, and rocking my body while trying to muffle my sobs with the towel. 
Pathetic.

“Thomas
just wants you to be happy.”  His words cut through me, a dagger to my heart.  I know this already, but he can’t make me happy.  I can’t even make myself happy. 

The truth escapes my lips before I can object to it, “And I just want him to be happy.”  I desperately want him to be happy, but I know he can’t as long as I’m around.  I’m a black hole for happiness, draining it from anyone who nears me. 

“He won’t be happy until you’ve come home.” 

I can’t help but to release the heavy sobs suffocating me. 

I manage to respond, “You can go now.”  It’s an order.  I don’t want anyone to see me like this and I don’t want to talk about this any longer.

I hear him softly answer, “Yes, Ma’am,” and a few moments later the door closes softly behind him. 

I allow myself to sink deeper into my agony, cooling my tear-soaked, heated face on the cold tile floor.  My weak body keeps me still as I cry myself into a deep and much needed sleep.

THE FIRST TIME I TRIED TO LEAVE HIM, it was a complete and utter failure.  I just couldn’t walk past him; I couldn’t ignore the pain in his expression.  Misery loves company, and God knows I was miserable, still am.  I knew I had to leave him.  Everyday a small piece of my wretchedness was being absorbed by him, darkening every expression on his handsome face.  It killed him to see me like this, so I decided to leave. 

I knew two months after the accident that if I loved him then I needed to leave him.  I don’t know why I’m calling it an accident, encounter, incident maybe?  Two months after I killed her, after I shot her in cold blood while her eyes pierced into me.  I was huddled in the corner of our living room, drenched in my own blood, and some of hers.  It was the day I miscarried, after her brutal attack.  It was also the day I lost my passion to live.  Thomas couldn’t protect me from her, he couldn’t always be by my side, waiting for her to emerge from whatever dark shadows she hid in.  Even worse, I couldn’t protect our baby, our fragile baby who was never able to take a breath.

I sat on the edge of the sofa with my suitcase by the door, waiting for him to come home.  No one was with me; Rose had gone home for the weekend and Michael was picking up Thomas from work even though it was a Saturday.  I think that’s how Thomas coped; he buried himself in work.  I was alone with my thoughts, hating myself and hating life. 
I thought about just leaving a note.  It would’ve been easier.  But he would’ve found me.  He deserved an explanation.  So I waited, practically shaking with morbid anticipation. 

When he came in, he knew.  Thomas entered first.  I’ll never forget the look on his face, a mix of shock and pure sadness.  He stopped moving altogether as if he had suddenly become frozen.  Michael walked in slowly and quietly
but quickly left us.  His eyes never met mine.  I searched for them, for support in my decision, but he avoided my gaze at all costs.  Thomas’ feet were still firmly planted on the floor with cement bindings and both of us were mute. 

I slowly rose, attempting to stand on my own, and let the salty tears
soak into my face.  I tried to swallow so I could speak, but even that hurt.  Everything hurt.  Looking at his face, the agony in his eyes, I could barely breath, knowing the pain that I’d caused him.  I needed to tell him that I wasn’t getting better, that I didn’t want to get better.  I wanted to live in my suffering or die because those were the only two fates I deserved.  Before I could speak and justify my leaving, he stopped me.

“No,” his raspy voice managed to whisper as he shook his head. 

Hearing the pain in his voice and the hurt on his face made my heart crumble into a million pieces.  I still knew I needed to leave him; I had to save him from my misery.