ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

31: The Transformation

RITA

The Silent Treatment

That was the gift I initially wanted to give him — silence. A neat little snub. But then I stopped. I'm not petty. He's not my husband, not even close to being my soulmate. He's not my lover or my partner. He's simply the pleasure I court in bed.

Nevertheless, he'll come to regret lumping me together with his past fickle woman, and trying to dress me in her image as if I were meant to become her reflection.

Never mind. He'll know my worth when I'm gone. No more me to warm his bed. No more me to cook his meals, roll his cigars, or slip into his showers.

Yet I won't let him off without a taste of regret. He wants me in her clothes?

Fine.

I'll wear them — and I'll flaunt them when we visit the hairdresser to transform my hair.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Her clothes fit better than I'd expected. She'd been slimmer than I am, and I'd worried they'd be too tight. I'm neither fat nor skinny — just comfortably in between.

Relieved he's not here, I leave the closet and head into the bedroom. With a sigh, I slip into the guest room, remembering he said her things were stored there.

He doesn't know where I got the lingerie. He hasn't noticed his naked cocaine tree yet. Nor the stacks of pizza boxes I ordered. But he will.

The guest room greets me with several suitcases lined up beside the wardrobe. Biting my lip, I lift the lid of one — empty.

"Well," I mutter. "She said she'd already settled in."

The wardrobe, however, is wild.

"Wow," slips from my lips as I pull open the doors.

Her clothes hang in neat, immaculate rows. But it isn't the order that catches my attention. It's the brands: Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Chanel. She earned well — very well by being a fickle woman.

I slip into a leather coat and belt it at the waist. It's cold outside, and I'd rather not freeze, though I know Roman will warm me sooner or later as I cannot resist his lips and hands.

Then my gaze lands on a box of condoms tucked inside the wardrobe. Roman always swears he doesn't have any, and whenever I ask him to buy some, he somehow forgets.

We've been careless these past few days, and I'm not about to risk getting pregnant. Since he refuses to use protection, I'll take care of myself.

Box in hand, I head into the living room just as I hear him curse. My eyes are lowered, and I don't notice him until we collide.

I would've fallen if he hadn't caught me by the waist, pulling me against his chest. My palms press instinctively against his warmth.

For a moment, the steady weight of his hand at my waist feels so reassuring and comforting, that I almost forget why I'm angry.

"You weren't in the bedroom or the living room. Where were you?" he asks, frowning.

"I borrowed a coat from her closet," I murmur, glancing at the box wedged between us. "And I found a pack of condoms — so you can cover your cock."

His gaze drops to the box. "I think we are fine without a condom."

"You'll give me your little seeds," I say, tilting my head, my lips pressed together.

This pleasure we engage in could create a life.

"Yeah... just down your throat," he snorts, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.