Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 05

WHERE ARE YOU? the text demanded.

I looked up briefly from my morning beverage, and ignored it. Like I'd been ignoring Juan's texts and voicemails for the last week.

When I was driving home from the party, my phone had beeped. It was Oscar, texting me, telling me he was really glad he'd met me, and to please stop reading texts while driving. And if I'd already been in a wreck, to please call him to come rescue me.

I had to laugh. I had to stop crying long enough to laugh. But I also noticed additional texts, and missed phone calls, which I didn't bother to check while I was driving.

By the time I was home, I had convinced myself the texts and missed calls were from my husband or some other people, but I was right only in one case. Two missed phone calls from Juan, plus two voicemails, and three texts, all of them in the time from after I got to the party until I had left.

I had no idea what to do about Juan. Maybe I would just ignore him forever, until he went away. I was completely raw, actually. All I had to do was picture him going into his bedroom with those two young women, the turning of the lock, and hear Oscar telling me that Juan had hooked up, and my resolve tightened.

What I didn't want to hear again was what else Oscar had told me, about the woman that Juan was crazy about, so that he spent almost no time with her when they weren't in the sack, and how she drove an Audi. I argued with myself. Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn't me. I wasn't entirely sure. Either way, it hurt.

I was also debating what, if anything, to say to Juan. It felt too impossible to tell him the truth: I saw you go into your bedroom with two women, and it really hurt, although logically, I have no right to feel that way. I consider a vaguer approach, like saying that it was just too bizarre, too wrong to suddenly be integrated into his real life, and that I needed to back off now, permanently. Or saying that I regretted what I was doing to my husband, and to the well-being of my family, so I couldn't see him any more. I even considered telling him I was now more interested in Oscar than him, but that was mostly a revenge fantasy.

(I had texted three times with Oscar now. Mostly just check-ins – we hadn't made a plan yet. Part of me felt like a complete asshole – though my association with Oscar was still innocent, I was effectively cheating with the good friend of the guy I was cheating with on my husband.)

So for now, I let Juan hang. I didn't really owe him anything. Right?

I finished my coffee, took a shower, brushed my teeth and briefly considered what I was doing with my day. My husband came in to the bathroom, told me he was going off to meet his sponsor, then one of his friends at a coffee place, but he'd be back sometime after lunch and before our kid got home.

About ten minutes after he left there was a knock at the front door. I knew for a fact that people were knocking on doors during the day to ascertain who was at home, and who they could rob. Not going to happen again, god-fucking-dammit. So I answered the door quickly, hoping I looked threatening or at least crazy.

It was Juan. He had about three distinct emotions: relief, rage and hurt.

"What the fuck?" I asked. "Are you kidding me?"

"Why haven't you called me back?" he demanded. "Why have you shut me out?"

I groaned, rolled my eyes. But I unlocked the security door, walked away from him as I headed into my own kitchen and he followed me. I almost offered him some coffee, and then decided not to.

Folding my arms in front of me, I asked in the coldest, quietest voice I could manage: "What are you doing here?"

He was really upset. For just a second, I was a little frightened of him.

"I can't – you didn't – one day, everything's great, and the next, you won't even speak to me. I have been going crazy! Did you know that? I am going out of my head!"

Very calmly, as steady in tone as I was before, I replied: "I didn't know you were going to be fucking other people at your party. It was too much for me to handle. I know I have no right to feel rejected, to be hurt – but there it is. Then I realized how incredibly stupid this all was. There's no place for you in my life."

Now Juan looked destroyed. He was always such a cool customer, so controlled, and to see him in this state was jarring, and disconcerting.

"Don't you care about me at all?" he asked, and his voice was ragged.

I huffed a laugh. "Of course I do. I'm consumed with you. You're the best thing to happen in my life in a very long time. I can't stop thinking about you. But clearly, I can't – easily share you with others. Which is irrational. You and I – we have no rules, no parameters, no expectations. It is what it is. And it's beyond foolish, especially for me."

"What about me?" Juan demanded. "I can't even keep you at night, even though I can smell you in my bed, taste you in my mouth. I have to wait for you. I'm always waiting for you! I tell people about you, but I can't tell them the truth, about your life with your husband and child. I can't even tell you how I feel, because I'm afraid you'll run away!"

I stared at Juan for a long moment, considering everything.

"Wow. This was really a bad idea."

"No, it wasn't," he insisted, moving toward me. "This was no mistake."

I should have stopped him. He got right into my personal space, his body so close I could feel the familiar rush of heat. I still wanted him. I couldn't stop. So I went with the one thing that I knew would hurt him.

"My husband could come home at any minute, you know," I told him. "I'm not ready to destroy him over something that's already over."

"Not over," Juan insisted.

He began to touch me, to kiss my forehead, the side of my face. I should have pushed him away, but I didn't. I was at least determined not to reciprocate, though it was killing me. He then started to unzip my hoodie, his fingers tracing down my naked breast.

"We can't," I sighed.

But he wasn't going to take no for an answer. His body was pressing me against the kitchen counter, and he was preventing me from moving away from him, even when I tried. I tried to scoot away, and he pressed into me harder. I reached for the counter ledge for leverage, and he snagged my wrist, pulled it away, locking both of my hands in one of his.

My heart was beating a lot harder. I was frightened, and unhappily turned on. How far would he take this? I knew what I could do, how to defend myself, but it would mean actually physically hurting him, which I still could not do. I could head-butt him, hard, go for his eyes, or snap my knee into his groin, smash my hands over both ears – but that was a last resort, if I had really wanted to stop him.

I quietly demanded that he let me go, and he responded by yanking my yoga pants down with his other hand. I told him to stop as he unfastened his jeans, pushed them down, his erection pressing against me. Then he guided himself inside me, while I writhed against him, still trying to get away.

He penetrated, pushing into me while I still struggled, both of us unbelievably turned on. He pressed his mouth on mine, holding tightly to the side of my head so I couldn't move away, my two hands still locked in his other hand.

I began to cry. I couldn't help it. I wasn't being raped, or violated – I wanted him too much. But my helplessness, my need for him so overwhelming that I couldn't walk away, how untenable this situation was – and I was weeping with my sadness and frustration, my weakness and my want.

He pulled away, taking my hands and kissing both of my palms, pulling out as he pulled off his shirt, pushed all the way out of his jeans and boots, and knelt before me, pulling my pants all the way off. He pushed my legs apart, and began to lick my pussy, all the ways he could give me pleasure.

There was a naked man in my brightly lit kitchen, going down on me, the light coffee skin of his legs as he was kneeling in sharp contrast to the white tile of my floor.

Tears slid down my face, as I gasped and moaned and wept, holding onto the counter for dear life. What if my spouse walked in right now? What if I was finally caught, and my hand was forced, a confrontation with all three of us there? I would have to confess, face up to my failures, make some hard decisions. Maybe it was time anyway. I couldn't continue with the way things were. I was too unhappy.

Juan's tongue flicked and probed, and my thighs vibrated with it. No matter what else, he was making me feel really, really good. This was the want I couldn't escape. I didn't want to come, but knew it was inevitable. My clit was engorged, the juices were flowing, and those hot chills were working their way up my legs.

I came, so hard, my feet flexed in a painful spasm, my shriek so loud I was afraid the neighbors would hear. And I kept coming, his mouth and tongue working me into a frenzy until my arms couldn't hold me up any more.

Juan's face was wet. He was watching me, as I gasped and panted, a few tears still sliding down, and he wiped his bare arm across his face. He slowly stood up, and I wondered vaguely if his legs had gone to sleep, kneeling on the hard floor.

He was watching me, his eyes burning. I was frightened again, and for good reason. He suddenly and forcefully pushed me around, pushing me hard into the counter again, taking me from behind as he shoved his cock into me, none of his slowness and gentleness in evidence. He pushed my body down onto the counter, his hand locked around the back of my neck.

"Do you think you can get away from me?" he menaced, his voice low and dangerous.

He was thrusting, hard, the front of my hips and tops of my thighs crashing into the hard counter. I was going to be bruised.

"Do you understand, mija?" he growled and gasped. "This is mine. I can't live without this. I can't live without you. I love you too much. Mi diosa. Mi amore."

He was going to make me come again. I hated the command he had over my desire. I wanted to fight him, even still.

"Pendejo!" I spat.

"Puta," he snarled.

"Ojete!" I snapped back.

He lay on top of me, still thrusting, weaving his fingers into mine on both hands. His body tightened as he started to come, and I wasn't far behind. My heart was beating in my ears, and the head rush was making me temporarily deaf, pinching my head in a strange little headache. The sweet wave of pleasure and endorphins washed over me, as a flood of come began to slide down my inner thighs. The feeling usually drove me crazy.

"Are you okay?" he finally breathed.

No. Definitely not.