Page 72 of Every Silent Lie

My boobs crush against his chest, my back arching as I yell my release to the ceiling, both my arms wrapped around his neck to keep me grounded. A wave of heat ripples through me, from my toes to my head, leaving behind the most beautiful warm feeling inside. Breathless. For so many more reasons than being replete.

The pleasure rolls through me, making sure there’s not an inch of my body it doesn’t touch, my skin tingling everywhere, as Dec thrusts on, smooth and concise, our chests compressed, my arms and legs wrapped around him like ivy. My head drops, I feel so dazed, and my forehead falls onto his. Strain creases his face, his concentration showing in the beautiful crinkles around his eyes.

I cup his cheek, holding him, letting him control everything, lift me, sink me, roll me, as he chases the end and my orgasm fades away slowly. This right here, watching him, is just as pleasurable.

More pleasurable.

I press my mouth to his and gently kiss him, and he stills, his chest expanding from his deep inhale. “Fuck,” he breathes, his body deflating as he swells inside me and jerks, collapsing back on his heels and twitching with me held tightly in his arms. He hugs me. So closely.

Dec is warmth.

He steals my breath.

He throws light on my shade.

“That was beautiful,” I murmur into the dip above his collarbone as our bodies roll and heave.

His fingers comb into my hair on my scalp and clenches, pulling ever so slightly, and he manoeuvres with ease and dexterity, falling to his back and somehow taking me with him without even slipping out of me. I settle front down on his chest, feeling him softening inside me, and bury my face under his neck, inhaling his usual smell mixed with a bit of clean sweat and sex.

With his hands tracing constant circles across my back, his breathing close, my lips stuck to his throat, and his warmth still inside me, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be right now.

Except back in time three years ago before my life crashed down around me.

December 14th

It’s the feeling of him slipping out of me that brings me round, and I blink my eyes open. The sheets are pulled over us, but I haven’t moved. Neither has Dec—his arms exactly where they were when I dosed off, one holding me to his chest, the other resting on my bum. I can hear his light breathing close to my ear, and it’s the only welcome noise that’s invaded my waking moments for three years. No screams of my past. No everyday life happening beyond my windows. Just . . . breathing.

Gently lifting my head, I peek at him, and despite the poor light, I see him so clearly. And I smile a little, turning my head carefully toward the nightstand. Toward the glow of the digital clock shining. It’s gone midnight, and I’m thirsty. But he looks so peaceful and serene, and it would be an absolute crime to disturb him.

My face bunched up, I gently ease myself off him, feeling the coolness of the bedroom meeting my skin. It’s almost enough to make me want to dive back under the covers and never emerge, but now I’ve moved, I also need to pee.

I’m holding my breath as I hold my weight with my arms, my hands pressed into the mattress as I get my feet on the carpet. It’s a miracle, but he doesn’t even stir, totally out for the count.

I find a T-shirt and shimmy it on, spotting a door across the room that I pray is a bathroom, but as I head that way, I remember something.

Lynette.

I look down at my bare legs and think about the fact I have no knickers on. I don’t know Lynette, have no idea how it works having a live-in housekeeper, but I do know I’d hate to bump into her half naked. I cringe and look back over my shoulder, rolling my eyes as I spot my dress on the floor. I pull the T-shirt off and get my dress on, not bothering to search for my knickers now I’m mostly decent. I pad across to the door and quietly open it, revealing an en-suite. “Oh, thank God,” I whisper. The moment I step over the threshold, low-level spotlights ping on, giving me just enough light but not so much it’s blinding. I go straight to the loo and lower, using the time I’m peeing—which is forever, it seems—to take in the space. It’s all spectacular, all white porcelain and brushed brass fittings, but it’s the claw-foot tub in front of an arched stained-glass window that gives it the true wow factor.

I’m still peeing.

The mirrors above the twin pedestal sinks are suspended on gold rods from the ceiling, the floor is a chessboard of black and white tiles, the shower enclosed by a white half-height brick-tiled wall topped with a glass screen, and a bunch of candles line the windowsill—all of them gold.

I’m still bloody peeing.

There’s a tray spanning the tub, like one of those bath caddies you put things on if you’re a tub dweller—a book, a glass of wine, a candle, your lotions and potions, everything within reach. Does Dec Ellis soak in a bubble bath?

I smile, picturing him relaxed back, bubbles up to his neck. Does he sing in the tub? Read?

Or was that his wife’s?

My smile falls. He’s lived here for ten years. He told me he’d be divorced four years ago if he could find her. She lived here.

I’m done peeing.

I wipe myself, my face bunching when I feel the remnants of his release too, and tug my dress back down. I don’t flush—I don’t want to wake him—but lower the seat instead and wash my hands.

He’s not moved an inch when I leave the bathroom. Creeping to the door, I pull it open and peek out, listening for a minute before venturing onto the landing. I reach the stairs, the beautiful, wide spiral staircase, and take the balustrade, gazing around in awe as I take the steps down, paying more attention to the things I didn’t before because I was in a state of high anticipation and complete anxiety. The chandelier spilling from the top of the house finishes just shy of a baby grand piano. A mirror hanging on the wall makes the entrance hall look even bigger than it is, and it’s pretty bloody spacious. There are endless closed doors, all of which I avoid—I don’t want to snoop—but there are numerous open doors too. I pass a room on the right. It’s dark, but I definitely see a desk and bookcases—his home office?—and one of the closed doors is a bathroom, identifiable by the sign on the door. I approach another open door farther in, with the distinct purr of a refrigerator coming from that direction, and emerge into a beautiful kitchen, the space lit by under-counter spotlights. It’s modern, contradicting the exterior original architecture and what I’ve seen of Dec’s bathroom and the hallway. The walnut cupboards are handleless, the countertops polished cream stone. The long island running down the centre of the room is bare but for a glass vase stuffed with white roses with long stems in a tall vase as opposed to short stems in a dumpy glass like on the table in the hallway.