Stolen Lies (Truths and Lies 2)

In the photos, her blue eyes are alight with fire. She was so alive. She loved to challenge me. I loved it right back. Loved her.

Now?

I still fucking love her, which is why this shit hurts so bad. I let her leave that day pissed at me when I should have dragged her back to bed to leave love notes with my mouth all over her body. I should have spoken those words. Maybe it could have made a difference. Maybe she would still be here with me.

Scrolling past several pictures, I find my favorite. One of her lying in bed, her hair messy and her tits exposed. They’re red from my mouth and her nipples are hard. The sultry look on her face just begs me to come back to bed and fuck her again. Again and again and again. That’s not the look of someone who’d willingly leave. Deep down, I feel that in my heart. But my head? My head wonders if she was acting all along.

Refusing to think badly about her when all I want is to fucking come, I undo my towel and fist my cock that’s come to life upon seeing her picture. She’s still my wife. Until I know she’s dead or left me, I’ll go on the assumption she’s alive somewhere out there missing me. I stroke and stroke, fixating on her plump lips. Her full tits. Her hooded eyes. Closing my eyes, I remember back to how tight she felt when I’d push into her slick cunt. How her tits would jiggle and she’d moan so fucking sweetly. Her fingernails would scrape down my shoulders and she’d beg for release. I groan when my nuts seize up. Heat splatters on my stomach and my chest heaves. When I reopen my eyes, I realize I’ve accidentally slid to the next picture. It’s one of her at the opening of Pomegranate that her mother took. I stole it from her mom’s social media like a fucking creepy stalker.

God, she’s beautiful.

She’s still out there.

She has to be.

As my eyes droop, I silently make a vow.

I’m coming for you, moró mou. I’m always coming for you.

And one day I’m going to find you.

Talia

“In the underworld, Proserpina has grown to love Pluto, who treated her with compassion and loved her as his Queen. As she would have up in Olympus, she remained eternally beautiful in the Underworld. Pluto admired her kind and nurturing nature. However, Proserpina missed her dear mother greatly and wished to spend time on earth with her. When Hermes reached the underworld, he requested that Proserpina come back to earth with him to rejoin her mother and father.” I turn the page of the book, and a tiny hand swats out at the page, wrinkling it slightly.

“No, no, sweet girl,” I tell her gently. “We have to be nice to the book.” She looks up at me with her radiant bright blue eyes and giggles, and my heart feels as though it’s thumped straight out of my chest. But I guess that comes with the territory. My mom used to always tell me being a mom means removing your heart and giving it to your children.

Wiping a drop of liquid emotion from my cheek, I continue to read my favorite part of the book. “Pluto knew he could not refuse the commands of Zeus, but he also could not part from his beloved Proserpina.” A golf ball sized lump fills my throat, and I have to set the book down for a minute to gather myself together. It always happens when I get to this part. Thoughts of him surface and I have to force them away. It’s the only way.

With a deep breath, I continue to read the story. “Before she departed from the underworld, Pluto offered Proserpina a pomegranate as a farewell. This was, however, a cunning move by Pluto. All the Olympians knew that if anyone ate or drank anything in the Underworld they would be destined to remain there for—”

“That book again?” a shrill voice, equivalent to nails grinding on a chalkboard, says, ruining story time.

Without turning to face the owner of the voice, I close the book and stare out at the blue waters of Mirabello Bay. From up here, I can’t smell the salt water, but I can still see the waves lapping up at the shore, and sometimes when I close my eyes, I can imagine being down there, lying in a hammock, smelling the scent of—

“You know it doesn’t understand anything you’re saying, right?” the annoying voice continues, snapping me out of my daydream. “It’s a baby,” she snarls.

“And that’s why I’m the mom and you’re the maid.” I give my daughter a kiss on her forehead and inhale her fresh baby scent that’s mixed with chlorine from our swim in the pool earlier. “She’s not an it. And she’s almost six months old. She’s sitting up and crawling. She laughs and…” I turn around to face the maid, annoyed at myself for allowing her to work me up, but I can’t help it. Every time she speaks of my daughter as if she’s some alien, it riles up my mama bear instincts and I pounce.