Proserpina
Lucien was away for more than three and a half months.
I missed him, the nights were long without his rough hands sliding over me, squeezing, probing, and awakening a need in me that I had not known ever existed before he stormed into my life. I lay, wrapped in the sheets, staring out as the night faded, giving way to grey dawn before dozing off fitfully. It was only the yoga regime I followed which kept me fit.
And sane.
I slept in the afternoons, along with my twins, swam with them, played with them and avoided being anywhere near the part of the house where his men frequently turned up.
Daniella had started to frequent our house along with Grace, her wife. Grace was a kindergarten school teacher and she told me that they were planning to adopt a child. It felt relaxing to chat with her. Plump and dark-skinned, with tight black curls, she was beautiful with her tapering black eyes and wide, full-lipped mouth.
She was fun and the children, in particular, looked forward to her visits.
The presence of the security guards warned us that we lived in the house of a man who was dangerous, who was feared. They were all around, discreet and silent but we knew they were everywhere. Once the children asked why the men had 'those funny things, the guns, with them all the time
I tried to give a satisfactory answer. But it made me aware of who their father and my lover, was in reality.
A powerful Mafia Don.
Once when I tried to leave and go shopping with the twins, my plans were rudely shot down by Antony Beston, the Chief of the security detail at the house. A huge man with a beard and eyes that never seemed to meet mine, he came to the house, to the part of the sprawling building where I tried to stay all day long with my children.
He came straight to the point.
'Ma'am', he said politely, meeting my eyes for the first time ever, 'Beatrice tells me that you are planning to leave the house and go to the city for a few hours.'
I stared at him, puzzled and a little annoyed. Getting to my feet, I tried to be dignified but dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants, I knew it was unconvincing.
'Yes,' I said, with as much loftiness as I could muster.'Yes, I was.'
Unblinking, he said flatly,
'Apologies, Ma'am. The Boss has said that you have to stay here. You can't leave the house.'
The blood boiled over in me as I stared after him in astonishment.
He was almost at the door when I recovered my wits.
'Wait! 'I cried my voice raised in anger. 'How...I mean... why?'
He turned, a giant of a man and looked at me and the children, a flash of pity in his craggy face as he said, a little gently this time.
'It's for your safety, Ma'am.' he said stonily and left without another word.
***
Beatrice had been hovering in the background. Sensing my bewilderment and anger, she set down a tall glass of lemonade for me as the children fell onto the homemade cookies I had baked the previous evening.
Yes, I had taken up baking and cooking on a large scale now, bored and aimless as I was.
The twins loved my culinary talents and pottering about in the enormous kitchen with the latest gadgets, was a dream come true for me.
Now, Beatrice, the housekeeper said, kindly, 'Mr. Lucien has a number of enemies. He's just looking out for you.'
I glared at her.
He had not cared to call me to find out how I was, not a phone call, not a single message!
But he was running my life by remote control!
I fumed, impotently.
***
Lucien swirled the scotch in his glass, staring into space, brooding.
The luxurious villa he was staying at in Columbia came with all the trappings for a man who was dealing with one of the most feared dr*g lords and arms dealers in the place.
The woman who had come to him last night, a lithe Argentinian, had been beautiful and sexy.
She had tried her wiles on him, going down on him; in fact, tried all her tricks for she was a high-class escort, one of the women who usually pleasured him whenever he visited Latin America.
But this time, it was different.
While the ejaculation was automatic, he pushed her away immediately, swamped by a feeling of self-disgust and loathing.
His mind kept returning to the night he had forced himself upon the woman he had made his wife. He was not proud of the way he had taken his wife against her will. He had never had to use force to fuc* a woman before this. Women usually fell at his feet, begging him to use them any which way he cared.
But his little woman was different.
Proserpina Martinez was from a world apart.
She possessed the allure of a temptress, yet her naive innocence in bed held him captive. He knew he wanted more—no, he craved more of the woman he had married against her will.
If only she knew.
After that disastrous night before their marriage, he had wanted to distance himself from her. She had recoiled and moved away, flinching when he reached out, turning away to avoid his seeking mouth. The unfamiliar burden of guilt was overwhelming, leading him to flee Hollowford—away from her. He understood that staying in the same house, in the same country, would strip him of control. He feared he would ravage her body once again, something he did not desire.
The reproachful look on her face the last time he saw her—the hurt, the hate, the obvious pain that led to her illness—filled him with guilt, an emotion he had never grappled with before. It also made him feel irritated. For the first time, he felt responsible for another person. He cared for a woman, and it left him confused and angry.
Daily updates from the suburban mansion and hourly reports on the woman he longed to possess, along with her children—no, his children—kept him connected to their well-being. It was a dangerous time; too many new players were in the field, many willing to kill if they discovered his weakness was the woman with the curvaceous body and smoky brown eyes, safely tucked away in a palatial house in a small town.
He threw himself into his work, trying to satisfy his lust with as many women as possible, but strangely, the drive was absent. For the first time, he wanted to be with his own family—something he had never desired before.
His wife.
His children.
He simply could not feel interested in the women who came to his bed, unlike in previous years. The desire she evoked in him was unparalleled; his arousal hardened, yearning for release as he thought of her willing, lush body, her dripping wet needs begging him to fulfill her, the adoration in her eyes, the way she whispered his name repeatedly as she arched into him, shuddering as he took her savagely...
He groaned and fondled himself, now stiff and demanding release. The woman waiting for him in the next room looked up from her phone, staring at him in surprise as he grabbed her head roughly, thrusting himself into her willing mouth, indifferent to his brutishness as he emptied his seed down her eager throat.
After the act, he swallowed his scotch, but his mind was only on Proserpina. He glared at the phone; she had not responded to his terse message.
She had never called him, although Beston had said she kept speaking to her friends regularly. What did he expect, he chided himself angrily; he had hurt her.
Damn her, he thought angrily and shoved the woman to his feet as he stood up, naked, and strode to the well-stocked bar for another refill.
***
As the woman who had serviced him all night prepared to leave, she hesitated at the door.
Turning to him with an amused smile, she asked,
'Senor Delano, you are married now, yes?'
Lucien glanced up, frowning.
None of the women he used in bed asked him personal questions, but this woman, Gabriella, who often pleased him, had perhaps been emboldened enough to ask such a personal query.
Watching his face, her expression altered ever so slightly.
"Your wife is lucky. Because you're thinking only of her while with me, no?" she said, a hint of regret in her voice.
"Get out of the room," he ordered curtly. With a smile, the sultry beauty swaggered out.
Lucien swore, slamming the tumbler onto the bar platform. The woman had been spot on. All the while, when Gabriella had been doing her best to please him, he had been thinking of her.
ONLY of her.
His wife.
Proserpina.
***
After another shower, he stood, watching the traffic move along the streets below. On impulse, he picked up his phone and dialed her number. It rang and rang, finally disconnecting automatically.
Annoyed, he called again. There was an old landline phone connection—one that Beatrice used when he needed her. He decided to call that number, which had an extension in the kitchen.
How dare the little vixen ignore me, he thought angrily.
Being Apart