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⊰ 2 ⊱ Ashes in My Mouth

| Penelope |

I don’t know how long I sit on that bus stop bench, tears flowing until my eyes burn and my heart feels wrung out like a used dishrag. The night grows colder but I barely feel it, too numb from the searing pain of my husband’s betrayal.

When I finally manage the strength, I slowly rise on shaky legs. I know that I can’t go back to our apartment. I can’t face the remnants of the life I thought Donovan and I were building. So I walk. Aimlessly, I walk as my mind replays the sickening scene over and over again.

I’m such a loser…

I’m not sure where I’m going until I get there—a seedy bar on the outskirts of downtown. The neon sign flickers halfheartedly in the grimy windows, a sign I’ve driven by a million times but never stopped to visit.

It’s not the place for a married woman.

But my marriage is over. Who the fuck cares?

Pushing through the door, I’m hit with a wave of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. It’s exactly the dive I expected, all scuffed floors and cracked vinyl barstools. I don’t belong here. Not in my sweet floral dress and teary smudged mascara.

Screw belonging.

I stride to the bar, ignoring the openly curious stares from the scattered patrons. “Whiskey, neat,” I tell the dark-haired bartender, my voice sandpaper rough. He slides over a glass of amber liquid without question and I toss it back, relishing the burn.

Two more and the edge of my misery starts to blur, my limbs growing heavy.

Let it burn, let it burn, gotta let it burnnnn!

I sway to the lyrics of Usher’s song “Burn” as I sing it in my head.

Why am I so cringy?

I’m a fucking mess.

I signal for another shot but a low, husky voice interrupts from behind me. “I got this one.”

I turn to see a man settling onto the stool beside me. He’s older, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair, a hint of stubble and piercing gray eyes. Gorgeous in a brooding, slightly dangerous way.

“Thanks,” I mutter as he nods to the bartender. My irritation suddenly flares through the haze of alcohol. I’m not in the mood for small talk or clumsy flirting.

But he doesn’t say anything else, just sips his own drink, some kind of import beer. I sneak glances from the corner of my eye, trying to suss out his deal. He’s too well-dressed for a place like this—a black button-up, black slacks, and oxford black shoes.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says without looking at me. I flush, embarrassment washing my face.

“Sorry, I just…”

I just what? Desperately need a distraction so I don’t drown in self-pity and rage?

“Let me guess,” he says, swiveling to face me fully. “Man troubles?”

I bark out a bitter laugh, nodding slowly. “Is it that obvious?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a half-smirk painting his lips. “This isn’t exactly the kind of bar you come to for a knitting circle.”

Good point.

I drop my gaze to the scratched surface of the bar, my voice low and strained. “My husband…” The words ash in my mouth. “I caught him cheating on me. In our own damn bed.”

Saying it out loud makes it real all over again and I blink against the sting of fresh tears, gulping down the rest of my whiskey. I thunk the glass on the bar, a heavy sigh escaping my lips.

There’s a beat of silence before I hear him say, “Fuck.” I can hear the genuine sympathy in his tone, his voice softening. “I’m sorry. What an asshole.”

The simple validation shakes something loose in my chest. It’s not just me, then. It’s not my failure, my lacking, despite that bitch’s cruel words.

“Oh, it gets worse,” I say, anger sparking through the booze and misery muddle. “Apparently, he’s been showering his little side piece with fancy gifts. Necklaces, watches, the whole nine. And you know why?” I laugh again and it comes out sounding halfway to a sob. “Because after two years of trying, I still can’t get pregnant.”

The man frowns, his brows knitting together. “And he thinks that’s an excuse to step out? Pity.”

My anger fizzles out as quickly as it ignited, leaving me feeling drained and hollow. “It’s not completely his fault, I guess. I mean, what good am I as a wife if I can’t give him a child..?”

“Hey.” His hand finds my back, touching me gently, reassuringly. I raise my bleary eyes to meet his, my eyebrows furrowing at the knot forming in my throat as he says, “Him not keeping it in his pants isn’t on you. His duty as your husband was to protect you and take care of you, with or without a child.”

His intensity nearly startles me, his gaze boring into mine until I have to look away. “I just… I feel so useless. So… empty.”

Suddenly, he shifts his hand under my chin, tilting my face back to his. His thumb grazes my lower lip, sending a string of chills down my spine. “You’re not empty,” he murmurs. “You’re so far from empty.”

My breath catches and I feel a flush spreading under my skin that has nothing to do with the alcohol. This close, I see the darker flecks in his gray eyes, smell his clean, spicy cologne. He’s looking at me like I'm fascinating, something desirable and I’m drowning in it after feeling so worthless and broken.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks, his voice low and intimate.

No. I should say no. I should go home. This is wrong… isn’t it?

I contemplate it for a long moment, and the more I think about it, the more I want to walk out of here with him. What else should I do? Go home? Nurse my wounds and face the cold reality of my shattered life? Why? Why should I do that when this man, with compelling eyes and an intoxicating touch, is offering me an escape?

This is a chance to feel something—anything—other than this. Even if it’s only for a little while.

So I whisper, “Yes.”

The night air shocks some clarity into me as we exit the bar, but I don’t let it take hold, shoving down the shrill voice of reason. Hand in hand, he leads me around the side of the building, into a trash-littered alley lit only by the distant neon signs.

Without warning, he presses me against the rough brick wall, his lips capturing mine in a hungry, desperate kiss. I gasp and he takes the opportunity to lick into my mouth, his hands gripping my hips.

There’s a distant part of my brain, telling me that this is wrong, this is cheap, and far removed from anything I’ve ever done. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, drowned out by the burning sensation of pure aching need.

His lips trail down my throat and I whimper, arching into him. There’s no tenderness in his kiss, no sweetness in his touch, just raw animal lust. It sets me on fire, turns my blood molten. Up and under the hem of my dress, his hand presses against my clothed sex, and I nearly convulse.

“You’re dripping,” he growls against my skin, rubbing firm circles that make my hips buck helplessly. “Is this all for me, sweetheart?”

The filthy words only flare my arousal higher. I’m panting, my hands fisted in his hair as he rucks up my dress. Cool air hits my heated flesh as he shoves my underwear aside, delving through my slick swollen folds to slide one finger inside me.

“You’re so fucking tight…” He sounds awed and it just makes me clench harder around him. A second finger joins the first, stretching me exquisitely and I moan like the shameless slut I’ve apparently become.

My hips work shamelessly, riding his hand as he sucks bruises into my neck—bruises I’ll have to hide from the world. The thought makes me hotter, this dirty secret, this indecent proposition so at odds with my buttoned-up life.

Lost in the cloud of pleasure, it catches me off guard when he suddenly withdraws his fingers. A whimper vibrates from the back of my throat, but before I can mutter another sound, he spins me around, pressing me against the wall as he fumbles with his belt buckle. The rough and bumpy feeling of the brick against my cheek and hands seems so insignificant when I hear the sound of a zipper echo behind me, the rustling of fabric a short buffer followed by the hard hot length of him nudging between my legs.

He positions himself at my entrance, pausing to rasp in my ear. “Tell me you want this.”

I do, desperately I do, with an urgency I’ve never felt before. But one last tattered shred of responsibility makes me gasp out, “Wait, don’t you have a condom?”

He rubs the broad head of his cock through my folds, teasing me, tempting me. “You said you can’t get pregnant. Problem solved.”

The awful ache in my womb sharpens for a moment before being swept away by pure dominant hunger.

He’s right. Why shouldn’t I take what I want?

Being a good girl hasn’t gotten me very far.

I arch back into him, shamelessly. “I want it,” I breathe out. “I want you inside me, now pl—”

He drives into me in one rough thrust and I see stars, my cry echoing off the alley walls. He’s huge, splitting me open, reaching so deep I swear I can taste him. It hurts but in the best possible way, the stretch bordering on too much.

He doesn’t gentle me, doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls back and slams in again, starting a brutal rhythm that has me rising on my toes. There’s no room for thought, for grief or regret, only the slick slide of flesh and the obscene slap of my skin against his.

I draw my lip between my teeth, biting down in a desperate attempt not to scream as I lose myself to it, bracing my hands on the wall and pushing back to meet every merciless thrust.

“Mmm…you feel so good,” he praises. “So wet and tight. Fuck!” Each word winds me tighter, building the pressure inside me to unbearable levels.

His hand snakes around my hip, finding my aching clit. The light, near cruel flicks rip a scream from my throat as I shatter, my eyes rolling to the back of my head, my body locking down in a bone-deep spasm. Distantly, I hear him groan, feel him twitching and pulsating inside me as he releases into me.

For a moment, we slump against the wall, panting harshly, sweat cooling on our skin. As the haze of pleasure fades, reality crashes back in.

I just had sex…with a stranger…in a dirty back alley…

What the hell is wrong with me?

The guilt crashes down on me faster and harder than anything, shame slithering through my veins like poison. I shove him off of me, yanking down my dress. I can feel the trickle of our mingled fluids on my thighs, his seed dripping onto my underwear.

With a furious blush, I watch as he tucks himself away, his gaze studying me with an unreadable look on his face. “I didn’t catch your name.”

What?

A hysterical laugh tries to claw its way out of my throat. We just had raw, animalistic sex and didn’t even exchange names?

I am a whore… A dirty, dirty whore.

I hate myself.

“It’s Penelope,” I mutter.

“Penelope,” he repeats like he’s committing it to memory. “I’m Malachi. And I’d very much like to see you again.”

I flinch, feeling hypocritically disrespected.

What did he think this was? That we’d go for a coffee after I let him fuck me outside a rough dive?

Suddenly, I just want to get far away from this whole sordid mess.

I take a step back toward the mouth of the alley, my voice is nearly hoarse as I say, “Look, I appreciate what you… This was great but I’m not—I can’t—”

“Hey, no worries.” He holds up a placating hand and I can’t stand the understanding in his eyes. “You’re going through a lot. But if you change your mind…”

He reaches into his coat and draws a crisp white business card, holding it out. I take it with numb fingers.

Malachi Reed’, printed in sleek black letters above a phone number—no title or company listed.

I shove it into my pocket, unable to meet his gaze. “I should go.”

“At least let me get you an Uber,” he offers sincerely, his voice laced with concern and it grates against my abraded nerves.

“I’ll be fine,” I force out through gritted teeth. I just need to get away, to crawl into a dark hole and pretend this whole night never happened.

Without another word, I turn on my heels and walk. I walk away from his eyes boring into my back until I turn the corner.

In the next moment, the first fat raindrop hits my cheek and I tip my head up to the sky, letting the freezing drizzle mingle with the tears now streaking down my face.

What did I just do..?

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