Chapter 4: Scrubbing Away the Evidence
The water was scalding, but it wasn’t enough. Litza stood under the punishing stream, her skin flushing a angry red, her fingers scrubbing at her arms, her breasts, between her legs with a loofah until the skin burned. Lavender-scented steam filled the large, tiled enclosure, but underneath it, in the heat of her own flesh, she could still smell him. Mark. The musk of sex and sweat and his specific, salty skin.
She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the water drum against her neck. Her body ached in a way that was entirely new. A deep, muscular soreness in her thighs and core, a tender rasp inside her throat, a faint throb in her jaw. Each ache was a fingerprint, a receipt for the night. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images flashed anyway: Clara’s hungry eyes watching from the edge of the bed; the impossible, obscene stretch of her body around him; the feeling of being utterly filled, then empty, then filled again until she lost count.
A tremor ran through her, part shame, part thrilling, devastating memory. Her hand, of its own volition, slid down her stomach, past the protesting redness from her scrubbing. Her fingers touched her clit, swollen and hypersensitive. A sharp gasp escaped her, echoing off the tiles. It hurt, a little. And it felt electric.
She began to circle the tender nub, her breath hitching. This was wrong. This was a violation of her own self, a compounding of the sin. But her body, still humming from the relentless assault of pleasure, didn’t care. It wanted to recapture the feeling, the helpless, screaming climaxes he had wrung from her. She imagined his hands on her hips, his voice growling in her ear, his thickness splitting her open. Her other hand crept down, two fingers sliding into her sore, slack entrance. It felt different. Used. Stretched.
She fucked herself with her fingers, imagining it was him, harder, deeper. The water sluiced over her, mixing with the fresh slickness gathering between her legs. Her hips began to piston against her hand. She bit her lip to stifle a cry. She was close, so close, teetering on the edge of a shameful, perfect release—
“Litza? You in there?”
The voice, muffled by the door and the roar of the shower, was like a bucket of ice water.
Yuri.
Her husband. He wasn’t supposed to be back from his conference until tomorrow.
Panic seized her, sharp and cold. Her hands froze between her legs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
“Litza? You okay? The water’s been running a long time.” His voice was closer now, right outside the bathroom door. Concerned. Normal.
“Y-yes!” she called out, her voice too high, too strained. “I’m fine! Just… a long day. I’ll be out in a minute!” She forced cheer into the words. It sounded grotesque.
“Okay. I brought you that cherry strudel from the bakery near the hotel. It’s on the counter.”
He was being sweet. Thoughtful. The guilt was a physical nausea, rising in her throat.
She turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, she shoved the bathroom door open a crack, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it tightly around herself. Her reflection in the fogged mirror was a ghostly smear of pink skin and wild, wet curls. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly, brutally fucked. She was a woman who had been thoroughly, brutally fucked.
She needed to get out, to dress, to compose her face. But another part of her, the clinical part, needed to see. She wiped a hand across the mirror, clearing a swath.
Leaning in, she slowly opened the towel. The evidence was there. A faint, mottled bruise on her hip from his grip. Red marks from Clara’s fingers on her breast. And between her thighs, when she pulled the skin taut… faint, pinkish lines. Stretch marks. New ones. The skin had been stressed beyond its limit, marked by the sheer, impossible girth of him. They were subtle, but they were there. A permanent souvenir.
A soft keening sound escaped her lips. She clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Litza?” Yuri’s knock this time was firmer. “You sure you’re alright? You sound…”
“I’m fine!” she barked, the sharpness making her wince. She took a steadying breath. “Just… stubbed my toe. Be right out.”
She heard his footsteps retreat towards the kitchen. The mundane sound of cupboard doors opening and closing.
She had to move. She dabbed herself dry, avoiding the tender areas. She brushed her teeth violently, trying to erase the phantom taste of him. She combed her hair, applied a little moisturizer to her face, trying to look normal. Human. Like a wife.
The towel felt like a paper shield. She opened the bathroom door and padded across the hall to their bedroom, closing the door silently behind her. She dressed quickly in soft, covering pajamas—long pants, a loose top. Armor.
When she walked into the kitchen, Yuri was at the table, reading something on his tablet, a cup of tea beside him. He looked up and smiled, his kind, familiar face a knife twist in her gut.
“There she is,” he said. “You were in there forever.” He stood and came over, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened, then forced herself to relax into the hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled of airplane air and his familiar, spicy cologne. It was a good smell. A clean smell. It made her want to weep.
He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length, his gaze searching her face. “You look tired. Everything okay at the clinic?”
“Long day,” she repeated, the lie now a practiced mantra. She moved away, busying herself with putting the kettle on for tea she didn’t want. “Conference wrap up early?”
“Speaker got food poisoning. Cut the last day short.” He sat back down. “So, I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You did,” she said, her back to him. She focused on the slow bubble of the kettle, the mundane task a lifeline.
She felt him watching her. The silence stretched, filled with everything she wasn’t saying.
“Litza,” he said, his voice gentle. “Talk to me. Something’s off. Is it… is it us?”
Her breath caught. Their quiet, comfortable, passionate-less us. The us that scheduled sex for Friday nights and talked about maybe trying for a kid next year. The us that had never, not once, left stretch marks.
She turned, forcing a smile. “Don’t be silly. It’s just work stress. A difficult case.” The words tasted like ash. Clara’s face, hungry and approving, flashed before her. Mark above her, inside her, a feral force of nature. A difficult case.
Yuri studied her, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t convinced. He was a perceptive man, an architect who noticed details. He was noticing the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“Come here,” he said, patting his lap.
Her blood went cold. She walked over slowly, perching on the edge of his knee. He put his arms around her waist, his hands settling on her hips.
His right hand pressed directly onto the bruise Mark had left.
She flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“You’re sore?” he asked, his touch instantly gentling.
“Yoga,” she blurted. “Tried a new, intense class. Overdid it.”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes were still on her face, reading the micro-expressions she couldn’t control. His hand began to move in a slow, soothing circle on her hip. Then it drifted, naturally, affectionately, down to her thigh, squeezing lightly.
The touch, so innocent, so spousal, sent a rogue bolt of memory through her—Mark’s hands gripping her there, holding her open, yanking her onto him with brutal force. A pulse of wet heat, traitorous and immediate, sparked between her legs.
Yuri’s hand drifted higher, up her inner thigh, under the loose fabric of her pajama pants. His touch was a question.
She froze. Every muscle locked. Her mind screamed. No. Not now. Not with his marks on me. Not with the memory of him so raw.
But another part, the part that had just been touching herself in the shower, the part that was still humming from the depravity, leaned into it. This was her husband. This was safety. This could cover the sin, wash it away, make her normal again.
“It’s okay,” Yuri murmured, mistaking her tension for reluctance. “We don’t have to. I just missed you.”
His kindness was the final straw. A sob welled up in her throat. She twisted on his lap, throwing her arms around his neck, clinging to him. “I missed you too,” she choked out, the first true thing she’d said since he came home.
He held her, rocking slightly. “Hey, it’s alright,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, it’s alright.”
But it wasn’t. It would never be alright again.
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with a shaky laugh. “Sorry. Just… tired and emotional.” She looked at him, at his concerned, loving face. She made a decision. The only one she could make.
She kissed him. Not a peck, but a deep, searching kiss, pouring all her confusion and guilt and desperate need for absolution into it. She felt him respond, surprise giving way to warmth.
She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. The dark, quiet room she shared with him, where nothing more adventurous than missionary ever happened. She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him, kissing him with a fierce, unfamiliar hunger.
Her hands pulled at his shirt. His moved under her top, cupping her breasts. When his thumb brushed her nipple, she arched into it with a gasp, the sensitivity from Clara’s attention still present. She guided his hand down, past the waistband of her pants, into the wetness that was for him, but wasn’t.
He groaned. “God, you’re so ready.”
She was. She was slick and open and aching. But it was an ache he could never fill, not like the other. As he entered her, she let out a shuddering sigh. It felt… nice. Pleasant. A comfortable, familiar fullness.
She rode him, closing her eyes, trying to lose herself in the rhythm. But her mind betrayed her. The feeling wasn’t enough. It was a shallow pool after an ocean. She thought of Mark, of the brutal, complete possession. She thought of Clara’s fingers on her clit. She angled her hips, chasing a memory, grinding down on Yuri, pretending he was bigger, harder, more.
It worked, after a fashion. A tight, perfunctory orgasm clenched through her, more relief than ecstasy. She muffled her cry in his neck.
He followed soon after, holding her tightly, his release a soft pant against her ear.
They lay together in the dark, his arms around her, her head on his chest. She listened to his heartbeat slow. He kissed her hair.
“I love you,” he murmured, already half asleep.
“I love you too,” she whispered to the darkness.
The lie was easier now. It settled over her like a second skin. She stared at the ceiling, feeling his spend leak out of her, mingling with the remnants of another man’s, inside her, on her skin, a secret stain on their marital sheets.
The marks on her hips and between her thighs throbbed gently in the dark.
They were hers now. A map to a place her husband would never find.