The Ache Between Us

Chapter Fifteen - Rafael

The fog of the scandal has lifted, and everything went back to the way it was once the media caught up with my innocence. I read and reread the apology that Iris wrote about a hundred times, and I couldn't for the life of me feel that she was saying it genuinely. It didn't feel like any of her other articles.

It felt forced; the spark that shined with every word she usually wrote wasn't there, and I wondered briefly if anyone else reading could see that it was staged. It shouldn't be, though, and that's what was pissing me off. Each allegation and accusation against me was false. Nothing was true. I was so sick of trying to convince everyone that I was innocent in all of this.

You reach a point in life where you begin to understand that you can't please everyone. I'm not going to waste my breath trying to force people to see the truth, to see me for who I am. A week had passed since she posted her article, and yes, I piteously counted the days because it's been a week since I last fucked her right here on this desk.

If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her, smell her, taste her, and that was pure fucking agony all in itself. She tasted like rich, sweet caramel: my sweet Iris, my sweet angel. She was cloying ambrosia bestowed upon me from the Gods. Being inside her was all-consuming and addicting all at the same time.

Thinking about her sweet cunt squeezing my cock like a vice had me getting hard all over again. I don't think I've beat my dick this much since I was in high school when I went down on her for the first time that day. I hated the power she had over me. Iris was a manipulative liar, and I couldn't keep falling for the way she bats her lashes or the way she crosses her arms over her chest.

God, her tits. Fuck. They've gotten fuller just like every other part of her, and all I could think about every night was how she felt under me, soft and pliant. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven when she begged me for more.

It was every gasp, every breathy moan, every shake of her thighs, the way her breathing hitched when I sucked on her clit, or the strangled sound that slipped out when I bit her nipples; as if she hadn't had anyone to fuck her like how I did. The pride in me swelled with every word she spoke. How she begged for more. How she cried out my name. How one orgasm wasn't enough. How she needed more–needed me.

Want you to take the ache away.

Fuck, you do this so good.

No one kisses me like you do.

No one touches me like you do.

Don't stop, Rafael.

I still couldn't believe that she was married. To some fucker named Ali Moradi. Fucking prick of a lawyer, just like how her father knew she'd end up with. Did she go home right after and have him fuck her too? Did she go home and touch herself thinking of how fucking perfect we fit together?

All I knew was what was written in the file Samuel got me. She had gone to Harvard, graduated at the top of her class like I knew my girl would, and I remember her telling me she wanted to be a writer, to publish a book one day.

I don't know how or why her dream got so shifted that she ended up writing about the scandals of the elite and the gossip of who's dating who, but maybe life or something got in her way. I don't know. What that 'something' was, I wouldn't know until she told me.

No children. No complaints. No incidents. Nothing.

Her life with that fucker Ali was squeaky clean and happy with white picket fences. Yet, why does she stiffen up at the mention of the word husband? Why did she want people calling her by her last name and not his? Why doesn't she wear her wedding ring anymore? None of that shit was available in her tiny file.