Special Family Games novel · Chapter 2 of 12

Chapter 2: Therapy

The morning routine was a bath.

Every morning at eight, Rosalía would take me to the bathroom on the second floor, turn on the faucet in the tub, undress me like a child, and soap up my back.

For fourteen months, that bath was the only thing that kept me alive.

On Thursday, as soon as she locked the door, she leaned against it and looked at me.

"You can talk now."

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

We both laughed, quietly.

It was the first time we laughed together.

"Tell me everything," she said. "What you remember, what you heard, what you think."

I talked while she filled the tub.

I told her about the fall, which I remembered like a piece of a cut film.

About the hospital, which felt like a dream of water.

About her voice, which from the first day had been the only clear thing.

"You used to sing to me," I said. "In the hospital."

"A song from my grandmother."

"The one about the river."

"You remember?"

"It was what woke me up."

She fell silent.

Her hair was pulled up in a bun, she wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and cotton shorts.

Her eyes were shining.

"Take off your clothes," she said at last, in a voice I didn't recognize.

I undressed.

She looked away, but only for a second.

Then she really looked at me.

Her eyes traveled over my chest, thin from rehab, the scar on my temple, my thighs.

She stopped at what was already starting to get hard.

"You're twenty-three years old," she said, as if to herself.

"And you're thirty-nine."

"How cruel you are."

"It's true."

"Get in the tub."

I got in.

The warm water covered me up to my chest.

She knelt at the edge, rolling up her sleeves, and picked up the sponge.

She soaped my shoulders.

My arms.

My back.

She had always done it with a nurse's tenderness.

Now she did it slowly, looking at every inch as if discovering it.

"Rosalía."

"Shh."

"Tell me to stop."

"I don't want to."

I took her wrist with a wet hand.

She stayed still.

"Then come here," I said.

"Not here."

"Right here."

"What if Eladio comes?"

"He comes at three."

"Rodrigo…"

"Get in."

She looked at me with her lips parted.

She pulled her t-shirt off over her head.

The shorts.

She was left in a white cotton bra and a light-colored thong, the skin of her thighs goosebumped from the steam.

She got into the tub in front of me, and the water rose to the edge.

I sat her astride my legs.

I took off her bra with wet fingers.

Her breasts, heavy and soft, hung free in front of my face, her dark nipples hardened by the air.

I brought them to my mouth.

First one, slowly, with my tongue in circles.

Then the other.

She threw her head back and grabbed the edge of the tub with both hands.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Rodrigo."

"Say it again."

"Rodrigo."

"Louder."

"Rodrigo, please."

I silenced her with a kiss.

It was my first real kiss after the accident.

It tasted like mint and salt, and everything I had wanted without a name for months.

She wrapped her arms around my neck.

She rubbed against me, her wet thong against my hard cock, until her thighs trembled.

"Take it off," I said.

"Order me."

"Take it off."

She took it off.

She left it floating in the water.

I lifted her by the hips.

She put one hand on my shoulder and with the other took my cock, hard and hot, and guided it to her entrance.

She lowered herself very slowly.

We both moaned.

The water overflowed.

It splashed against the tiles, soaked the bath mat, the mirror, the door.

We didn't care.

Rosalía rode me with her eyes closed, rising and falling, her hands in my hair, her back arched, her bun undone.

I held her ass.

I bit her neck.

I whispered what she wanted to hear herself say.

"Look at me."

She opened her eyes.

"Tell me whose you are."

"I don't know."

"Tell me."

"No… nobody's."

"Liar."

I spanked her, gently, in the water.

She moaned with a broken laugh.

"Yours," she panted. "I'm yours, Rodrigo. I'm yours."

"That's it."

I pushed her against the edge of the tub, pinned her with my body, and started thrusting up into her, hard, feeling the water splash around her.

She came first.

With a stifled cry against my shoulder, her nails digging into my back.

I came inside her, deep, her name on my lips.

We stayed like that, holding each other, panting, the water cooling.

"This is crazy," she whispered.

"Yeah."

"You're my stepson."

"I'm a man you used to bathe every morning."

She laughed, her forehead resting against mine.

"I don't regret it," she said.

"Me neither."

We came out of the bathroom wrapped in towels.

Half-dressed, she dried her hair with one hand while with the other she squeezed my wrist, as if to check I was real.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Long.

Impatient.

Rosalía froze.

"It can't be. It's too early."

She looked out the hallway window.

The color drained from her face.

"Oh my God."

"Who is it?"

"My sister."

Downstairs, at the front door, standing with a leather briefcase and a navy blue suit, was a woman with short hair and a sharp gaze, looking up toward the window as if she knew exactly where she was standing.

"Mirtha," said Rosalía. "A lawyer. And a lot smarter than me."

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