Within a moment, lucidity hits me as starkly as the cold raindrops pelting us from above. "I'm so sorry," I sob as my body convulses with sorrow and shame of what's been happening for the last two days. "I'm so, so, sorry, Jean Luc." He says nothing; his only response is to hold my body against his as he lets me ride out the remainder of the emotions that I'm feeling.
Large, freezing pellets of water douse us from the heavens, but I don't seem to care. They're almost refreshing in their iciness. "Beverly," my husband whispers after what seems like an eternity. "Let's go inside." I nod, hang my head, and blindly follow him along the path back to the house.
I'm ashamed to admit how much this house sickens me; in a moment of realization I feel incredibly violated, but also culpable and revolted with what I've done. The smell that's wafting through the stale indoor air is overwhelming and camellias litter every free surface.
"I'm sorry, Jean Luc" I repeat for what seems like the hundredth time. I can't think of anything else to say. I was unfaithful to him.
He shakes his head. "Let's get you out of those clothes. You're going to catch your death if you stay in them." He keeps his voice devoid of emotion; he becomes like an automaton.
I nod in response as he leads me up the creaky stairs. The bathroom is small, and now cramped with the two of us. I stare at him; he's focused as he pulls my damp shirt out of my pants. I raise my arms automatically and a loud slap indicates the shirt's new residence on the cold tile floor. I'm still staring at him as he fights the damp pants down my legs. I shiver, my cold skin made cooler by the frigid air. Soon, there's nothing hiding any part of me from him. I'm exposed.
He's not looking at me as his hands move to unbutton his own shirt. I stop him, though, with my own cold hands. He understands and I move to mirror his earlier gestures, unbuttoning his dank top and throwing it aside to join my own on the floor. I move to his belt, removing it with one swift, forceful movement. I brush my hands over his arousal before I move to the zipper on his trousers, eliciting a slight moan. In one effort I remove them and his underwear, leaving him as naked as I am.
We stay like this for a moment, eyes meeting and breath hitching. He makes no effort to kiss me or even touch me. Instead, he moves past me to the dial on the antique shower. Warm moisture fills the room. I'm still not moving; I'm too numb.
He turns back to me, though, and focuses on me. I've held his gaze for the last few moments, but now he abruptly turns from me and ushers me under the scalding currents. The water burns my skin, an ode to just how cold I was moments before.
"I'm-" I start to say, but I'm stopped when his mouth crashes down on mine. He's not gentle or tender. His tongue plunges past mine as I'm pushed against the wall, pinned and held here by his arms on either side of me. I can tell he's angry with me. But, his anger only fuels his arousal and my own. I break the kiss, breathless. I make no effort to speak and neither does he. I make no effort to kiss him again; I'll let him have his way. I've still not caught my breath when another kiss comes, this one so forceful that it's likely to leave a bruise. "I'm so angry with you, Beverly," his red eyes evince tears of their own.
I nod. I know. I'm so humiliated, mortified. My own lips tremble but his kisses are persistent and demanding. My tears mingle with his as our cheeks meet and not even air is left between us. He forces me even more closely against the cool tile wall. Our angle is wrong as I feel him grab my leg, forcing his arousal into me, meeting my own dampness, which is separate from the moisture that bombards us from the showerhead. I move to embrace him, but he keeps my arms pinned to my side. Still, he doesn't touch me intimately - not my breasts, not my neck. There are no gentle caresses, no loving words. I groan at his initial penetration. He enters me fully, pressing up against the neck of my cervix. He waits only a moment, staring at me, and making no more effort to kiss me. Then, he begins his movement. It's slow at first. In. Out. Each exit elicits a moan. There's that distinctive slap of skin on skin. Its erotic cadence is only enhanced by his roughness. He's not going to last, I know, when he picks up the pace. His breathing is hitching and he's forgetting to breathe.
My orgasm floods over me in seconds, but it's incomplete; this isn't a shared moment. My body contracts around his erect member and I feel the distinct buckling of my knees as my head slams back against the hard tile. He's holding me, though. And that in itself is a mirror for our life, it seems. He clutches me even more harshly as his own orgasm is ripped from him. He comes with a scream, "Beverly!"
He stays connected to me for as long as he can before softening and pulling away. His gaze is still trained on me. A second source of moisture bleeds down my leg as our combined fluids leak out. He's still breathing heavily as the aftershocks of his intense orgasm ride over him. "You're," one breathe. "Mine," second breath. There's a fierceness in his eyes and his voice that I'm just now registering. I nod my head dumbly. "No one else's."