Phantom
: Chapter 11

July 7, 1944

My heart is racing, and I’m not entirely sure why yet.

Lies. You know exactly why.

It’s been years since I’ve felt this nervous. The butterflies in my stomach and I are old friends, and the last time they visited was my first date with John. I thought I laid them to rest after that, but it appears they’ve come back with a vengeance.

I’ve reapplied my red lipstick twice already, and it’s hardly been an hour since Sera left for school. She’s taking a few summer classes so she can graduate early. Other days, she’s either working at the deli or spending time with her best friend, Martha, and her family.

Martha is the oldest child and had to drop out of school this past year to care for her younger siblings while her parents work. They’re not very wealthy, so Sera has taken it upon herself to pick up more hours at the deli so she can help their family.

When she first told me, I bawled like a baby in awe of how she’s grown up to be so selfless.

Unlike her mother.

However, I did ask her to conserve most of her earnings, preaching about the importance of saving money. I didn’t tell her I’m terrified she’ll need that money if John puts us on the streets.

Sighing, I force myself to keep my tongue in my mouth this time. I’m paranoid that my lipstick smudged on my teeth, so I keep licking them.

I’m acting like a fool. A lovestruck fool.

Ever since Ronaldo found out what John did to me, he’s been diligent in visiting me during the week over the past month. We’ve spent most days getting to know one another—sharing our childhoods and stories from our youth. And aside from a few stolen kisses and his holding me in his arms, he’s kept his hands to himself. At first, I was thankful, far too shaken to even desire a man’s touch. But now, I crave it. I want him to replace that terrible memory.

Luckily, John hasn’t forced himself on me since, but he has lost his temper and acted aggressively a few times, throwing things in fits of drunken rage. One night, he punched a hole in the wall, which he promptly fixed that weekend.

He’s out of control, but there is one facet I have control of, and that’s Ronaldo’s affection.

I want to know what being loved—truly loved—by Ronaldo feels like. And I want him to know what it’s like to be truly loved by me.

And I intend for us to find out today.

I place a hand on my forehead, shaking my head at myself. With my free hand, I lean heavily on the kitchen island. I’m getting myself all worked up, and it may be for nothing. There’s no guarantee he’ll even show up tod—

The front door opens, then clicks shut behind me. My heart stalls in my chest, and my muscles tighten. A chill scatters down my spine, causing it to snap straight.

My back is to the living room where he slowly approaches. I can’t see him, but my God, I can feel him.

How does one breathe when the one who possesses their lungs is standing behind them?

It takes a few moments to work up the nerve to turn around and face him. Another breath gets caught in my throat. After all this time, I still haven’t gotten used to how tall he is—how imposing of a man he is.

He only wears a black button-up, matching trousers, and a fedora today, but his piercing stare has me completely arrested.

My God, I’m still not accustomed to how devastatingly beautiful he is.

“Ronaldo,” I breathe, his name rolling off my tongue like it’s a language I’ve been practicing for years.

One corner of his mouth quirks up, suspending further oxygen from reaching my lungs. This man . . . he will be the death of me. It’s as certain as the moon rising.

“Mia rosa,” he greets, his deep, volcanic voice as smooth as lava yet as rough as the rock that inhabits it.

My hand drifts to my throat, where my pulse thrums heavily. I feel the skin there reddening, my body heating under his blazing stare.

The echo of his footsteps radiates in each heartbeat as he nears. By the time he’s standing within an inch from me, my chest is heaving, and I’m inhaling his delectable scent.

“You look like you have something on your mind,” he drawls casually.

“I love you.” The words burst out of me like water from a broken pipe. That wasn’t entirely what I meant to say, but I couldn’t keep it bottled inside anymore.

Several emotions flit across his gaze. Surprise, elation, then absolute hunger.

“I hope you weren’t hoping for a romantic moment,” I babble. “Because that was entirely unromantic of me. I’m a little ashamed that—”

“If I could, I’d lower to a knee on this checkered floor and ask for your hand. It would be entirely unromantic of me, but it wouldn’t stop me, either.”

I bite my lip, and it’s like all my happiness has filled up a balloon inside me. It’s floating up toward my throat, expanding my chest until I fear it’s going to pop.

“Love cannot define what I feel for you. But I will settle for it with my words and show you what I truly feel with my actions,” he says quietly.

He crooks a finger and glides it across my cheekbone, awakening a lightning storm in the air and sending the currents scattering across my skin.

“You look absolutely divine today, my love,” he purrs. My eyes flutter from his electric touch, and goose bumps rise as he slides his hand to my nape, cupping it firmly.

“How divine?” I whisper breathlessly.

“Enough to feast on,” he rasps. But then he draws away, and my heart surges. I grab his arm before he can retreat, catching him by surprise.

“Then prove it,” I demand shakily before fastening my bottom lip between my teeth. God, I’m nervous. So nervous. Though I’m sure of what I want.

He studies me closely, scrutinizing every detail on my face before focusing on my lip trapped between my teeth. It’s unnerving, especially when his expression is so carefully smoothed into marble. What is he thinking?

He must think me ridiculous.

“You want me to eat you, mia rosa?”

I flush hot, my cheeks burning. “Well, n-not actually. I—I didn’t mean—” I huff, frustrated with my stuttering. “I want you to touch me, Ronaldo. Please.”

His hand returns to the nape of my neck while I move the two of mine to his chest. His heart thumps heavily, the only indication that he’s more affected than he lets on.

With his other hand, he toys with the button at the collar of my silky white blouse. “These clothes look exquisite on you, Genevieve.”

My mouth dries, and it takes an effort to swallow. His saying my name like that—it has a breathtaking effect on me. My core throbs and I squeeze my thighs tight.

His fingers drift up to a gold raven pendant dangling below the hollow of my throat. I found it in a boutique years ago. It reminded me of my favorite Edgar Allan Poe poem, and while it’s a simple piece, it’s always been my favorite.

Now, he toys with the small bird, sending goose bumps scattering across my flesh.

“Your clothes would look so much better on the floor, though, don’t you think?”

“On the floor?” I repeat dumbly, the question coming out as a pathetic squeak. My cheeks burn in response, mortified that this man has barely touched me and I’m acting like a fool.

He hums his approval, dropping the necklace and staring at me with a reverence I haven’t seen in . . . well, ever. How does one look from him have me questioning my entire life until this point? Were John and I ever truly in love? Or were we two kids that latched on to the first relationship we found?

I had kissed many before John, but I had taken none of them seriously. John and I were each other’s first for nearly everything. First date, first relationship, first lover. And I never looked back—never thought to.

For a long time, I had convinced myself that was ideal. Neither of us needed to explore because we loved each other. Now, our marriage is falling apart, and I’m unable to blame the man before me. The destruction began well before Ronaldo came around, but he might just be the one to knock over the last pillar that’s keeping John and me standing.

John has done terrible things, yet I cannot say with confidence that he’s ever stepped out on our marriage. Aside from that night when he mistook me for another woman, I haven’t seen any other indication that he’s strayed.

I’ve never smelled the perfume of another woman on his clothes or seen red lips imprinted on his shirt collar that didn’t come from my kiss. He’s hardly looked at another woman in the years we’ve been together. If the booze has led him to an affair, I’ve seen no evidence of it.

And so what if he hasn’t? What if, despite all his sins, he’s stayed faithful? Does it even matter when he could be hiding so much more from me?

In some ways, John has ruined me. Tainted me and covered me in stains that will never wash away. For the rest of my days, I will remember the ways he’s defiled not only my body but also my trust.

If John has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t really know him at all.

I don’t even know myself anymore.

And truthfully, I kind of blame him for that, too.

But look at what you are doing. You’re betraying him, too.

And in the worst way.

I’ve condemned him for so much, yet I’m no better, am I?

I’m not without sadness for the fact that I’m losing my husband to a whiskey bottle and a game. Rather than being consumed by my red lips, it’s the red poker chips that captivate him. He drank me in only to spit me out and replace me with a swig of dark, bitter liquor. And when he came back for me, he slammed into me like an empty liquor bottle on a table, demanding something from me I didn’t have to give.

A spark of anger ignites at the reminder that my husband has violated me in ways no man has the right to. Any shame that was circulating through my system dissolves beneath the weight of my husband’s transgressions.

He shouldn’t be the only one allowed to sin.

“Would you like to see?” I ask, staring up at Ronaldo through my lashes. “I think this blouse would be a fine addition to the checkered pattern.”

I’m still nervous, but I’ve always been a confident woman. And something tells me Ronaldo would appreciate that about me.

I grab hold of where his fingers are twirling a button, reveling in the roughness of his hand. He stills beneath my touch, watching me closely as I gently push him aside and pop the button free.

I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, but it wasn’t for him to step away from me completely. I frown, embarrassment and shame punching me in the chest.

“Sit down there,” he directs, pointing toward the dining room table. Utterly confused, my mouth flops.

“Did I do something wr—”

“No, mia rosa, you could never.” His tone is deeper now, and my lips part when I notice the rather large bulge in his trousers.

Oh . . .

When I draw my gaze back up to his, he tilts up his chin and rolls his tongue in his cheek, staring down at me with a wicked look, daring me to test him. You have five seconds before I . . .

Excitement replaces any ugly feelings I had moments before, and I pivot on my feet and do as he says. My hands tremble, though I couldn’t blame my erratic nerves on anything but anticipation. Especially as his footsteps echo from behind me, approaching me as slowly as he always does. Like a predator stalking his prey, keeping himself hidden until the second he pounces.

He pauses directly behind me, the back of the chair separating us. Another shiver racks my body when his fingers brush across my shoulder, when he slowly gathers my loose curls and lays them down the middle of my back.

Then his lips caress the shell of my ear, evoking another tremor. “A queen has more important duties than undressing herself. Let me take care of that for you.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the devil was on my shoulder, whispering to me in such a wicked way.

My thighs clench, wetness gathering between them.

I hold my breath as he reaches around and releases the second button on my blouse. Slowly, he unbuttons each one, ensuring the tips of his fingers brush against my flesh with every movement. All the while, I resist the urge to squirm beneath him.

When the last button is free, he guides the soft material off my shoulders so I can free my arms from the sleeves. The brassiere I wear is the most flattering I own, with strips of lace over the silk ensured to ensnare a man’s gaze.

Ronaldo’s fingers trace over the lace, and though the material separates him from my bare flesh, it feels as if nothing is between us anyway.

Toying with the zipper on the side of my emerald-green slacks, he comments lowly, “I don’t see very many women wearing these.”

“I saw them in a boutique and thought they looked interesting,” I explain, the slightest tremor in my voice. With the war going on, many military and workforce women wear slacks for necessity and comfort. Now, they’re slowly becoming popular in society and popping up more often in boutiques. They’re scarce due to the material shortages, which is why I couldn’t resist purchasing them. “I like to try new things.”

Something that should be obvious, given our current circumstances.

“I think these would complement the tiling, too,” he drawls, the glide of the zipper quiet beneath my thumping heart. The cotton material parts and droops, revealing my matching lace-and-silk girdle leading down to the straps securing my stockings in place.

Typically, I wouldn’t wear them with slacks, but I had hoped he would undress me today, and I wanted to wear something that would make him lose his mind.

A deep hum rumbles in his throat, his approval like fine red wine—intoxicating, and a taste I’d never tire of.

“Lift up for me, love,” he orders gently, his voice lined with gravel. I obey without question, allowing him to slide my slacks down until they drop to my feet and I kick free of them.

“Ravishing,” he breathes. “Nothing could compare to the likes of you, my love. You are the most beautiful flower and the rarest gem, more breathtaking than any of earth’s wonders.”

He speaks to me more beautifully than anyone ever has before. My throat closes, utterly speechless over his proclamations.

Reaching over me, he dives his hands between my thighs and brazenly spreads them. I gasp, and my cheeks burn hot when I see the evidence of my arousal so boldly on display. My panties are soaked, and the visible wet spot extends down my thighs, glistening under his stare.

Embarrassed, I attempt to snap my legs shut, but he resists and only spreads my thighs wider.

“I— Oh my . . . Ronaldo, this is . . .” I can’t get a single coherent thought out of my mouth. I’m mortified that he’s seeing just how he affects me. I’ve never had a reaction like this before. Never soaked through my undergarments like this. It looks like I soiled myself, for God’s sake.

“You’ve made a mess,” he purrs, sounding delighted.

“That’s not . . . I didn’t—”

“I know, my love. Your cunt is weeping for me.”

I bite my lip, a throb emanating from between my legs from his vulgar language. I’ve never heard a man speak like that to me. But my God, do I like it. And it is weeping—and crying out for him, too.

“Will you touch me there?” I ask boldly, needing to feel him almost as much as I need to breathe.

He hums again, a response that’s neither a confirmation nor a denial. His fingers drift over the strip of bare flesh between my girdle and bra, sending electric shocks scattering across my body.

“I think I’m too curious,” he murmurs finally, his hands drifting over various areas, his touch sensual yet evading everywhere I need him to be.

“About what?”

“How far you would go to feel me inside you,” he answers darkly. “And if, by the time I give in, you could drown me with your cunt.”

He cups my face and tilts my chin up until I’m staring at him from upside down.

Leaning closer, he brushes his lips across mine, teasing me until I grow impatient and capture them in a fervent kiss. His tongue greets mine for a second before he retreats, leaving me desperate for more.

“When you become the ocean, I will gladly sink into you, mia rosa.”

Then he pulls away, and before I can process what’s happening, the front door shuts behind him, leaving me alone.

And so very empty.

July 7, 1944

Ronaldo likes to tease.

Only an hour after I sent Seraphina off to school, he came to visit. After what I went through with John, I wanted to let go of that and replace those awful memories with new ones. So I told him to touch me. I begged for it.

He resisted at first, but it didn’t take long for him to concede.

He told me to sit in my dining room chair.

I followed his orders eagerly. He unbuttoned my blouse. Then my slacks. He pulled them down and left me in nothing but my undergarments.

His fingers whispered against my flesh. And he said beautiful things to me as he did. Dirty things, too.

He smiled when he saw the desperation in my eyes.

Yet he still denied me. He never touched me where I wanted him to. Where I needed him to. His fingers taunted me. And then he left.

It took everything in me not to beg for him to come back. One of these days, I won’t be able to control myself any longer.