The Diary of an Unloved Wife novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: His Walls

He didn't ask if I was sure.

He just opened the truck door, the one with the sticking handle, and put me in.

We were on Bedford Street a little after midnight.

His apartment was on the top floor of a narrow brick building with a fire escape zigzagging down the front.

It was one big room and a bedroom, and books were stacked against every wall.

There was a radiator under the window, and it was quiet.

"You fixed it," I said.

"I fix everybody's." He shut the door behind us. "It's a sickness."

I took off my coat and dropped it on the floor.

He looked at the coat, then at me.

"That's a very nice coat to throw on a floor, Beacon Hill."

"It's my coat," I said. "I can throw it where I like."

He laughed, and then he stopped laughing, because I'd started on the buttons of his flannel shirt.

I got three buttons down before he caught my wrists.

"Slow," he said.

His voice was rough.

His hands were rough.

He held my wrists against his chest like I'd done something wrong.

"I've been slow for five years," I said.

His thumbs pressed into my pulse.

I could feel his heart through the flannel, going fast under all that calm.

"Then you can be slow for five more minutes."

He let go of my wrists.

I finished the buttons myself, watching his face.

He watched mine right back.

The flannel fell open.

Under it was a white T-shirt, worn thin.

I pushed it up.

His stomach went tight when I touched it.

"Take me to bed," I said.

"Say it again."

"Take me to bed, Malachy."

He picked me up.

Just picked me up, one arm under my knees, one around my back, like I weighed nothing.

I grabbed onto his neck.

"Show-off," I said.

"Electrician," he said. "I carry conduit all day."

"You're comparing me to copper pipe."

"You're prettier."

He carried me through the stacks of books, sideways through the bedroom door, and dropped me on the bed.

The old iron frame groaned.

The quilt under me was blue and red and green, old cotton, soft from years of washing.

His mother's.

He stood over me and pulled the flannel off.

Then the T-shirt.

He had a chest like a wall, dark hair over it, a scar I didn't know the story of yet.

I reached for his belt.

He let me unbuckle it.

Let me pull it open, pop the button on his jeans, push them down.

He kicked out of them.

His cock was hard already, straining against his boxers.

I put my hand on it.

He sucked in a breath.

"Jesus, Margery."

"Take these off."

He did.

Then he was over me, one knee between my thighs, his weight on his elbows, his face right above mine.

"You're shaking," he said.

"Good."

He laughed, low.

Then he kissed me.

Slow, this time.

His tongue in my mouth, his hand coming up to hold my jaw.

He pulled my sweater off.

The air hit my skin.

He looked down at me and something in his face went still.

"Fuck," he said quietly.

He undid my bra with one hand.

A man who'd done it before.

He pulled it off and dropped it off the side of the bed.

Then he sat back on his heels and pulled my jeans open.

I lifted my hips.

He dragged them down my legs with my underwear in one motion, and then I was naked on his mother's quilt.

He just looked at me.

His chest was moving.

His cock was hard against his belly.

"You done looking?" I said.

"No."

His hands went to my hair first.

He pulled the pins out one at a time, slow, and dropped them on the floor.

I heard each one land, tiny ticks on the wood.

My hair came down.

He spread it over the pillow.

Then he started at my neck.

He kissed my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts.

His mouth was hot and slow.

He took one nipple in his mouth and sucked, and I arched up into it.

He did the other one.

My hands were in his hair.

"Malachy."

He kissed down my stomach, my hipbones, the inside of my thigh.

I pulled his hair.

"What do you want?" he said against my skin.

"Your mouth," I said. "Please."

He made a sound, low and hungry.

Then his tongue was on me.

He didn't start slow.

He licked up through me like he was starving, and I cried out.

My legs fell open wider.

He held my thighs open with his big hands, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin.

His mouth worked my clit, sucking, licking.

He knew what he was doing.

"God," I said. "Oh, God."

He did something with his tongue that made my hips buck.

Then his fingers were there, two of them, sliding inside me.

I was so wet.

I'd been wet since the parking garage.

"You like that," he said against me. Not a question.

"Don't stop."

He fucked me with his fingers while he ate me.

Slow, and then faster.

My fingers were twisted in his curls, pulling hard enough to hurt.

"Please," I was saying. "Please, please."

He curled his fingers.

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