My Neighbor's Wife

Zefiro

I didn't know her name, but I knew every inch of her body. I knew what she looked like when she came-heart shaped lips parted, nostrils flared, cheeks flush with color and sweat, grey doe eyes crossed. . . and on some occasions, rolled back in her head, her back arched, her nipples hard and glistening with saliva, and more importantly, there was something about her long, black hair clinging to her sweaty skin, to the odd but sexy dip in her hip that made me want to masturbate. ?

I didn't know his name either, but he fucked her a lot. And hit her a lot. She took each beating as perfectly as she took his dick in her mouth-like a good girl, but I wondered if he saw the hate that flashed in her eyes sometimes. I wondered if he saw how many times her gaze flicked to the hammer she kept at the top of her dresser every time he slapped her.

She never left the house. He never let her. They fought too many times on that issue, loud enough to stir me from sleep. She wanted to see the world. She wanted more than being locked up in her room daily, only let out when he wanted to fuck her in a different place-say the sitting room with ceiling to floor windows that I could see through without even trying. Too many times, he'd pressed her against that window, and he has no fucking idea how erotic it is to see her in those red heels, nipples flush against the window panes as he fucked her from behind.

It isn't that I want to watch her-I am forced to. I could be waking early in the morning and the first sight that greets me as I push the curtains back is that of her naked body as she exits the shower. Wet. Dripping. There are days when I wonder if she knows I live here. If she puts on these shows for me. But I've only been here for two months and she's never up when I leave for work. Or when I return.

There was something about the way she peered out the windows at night, like she could see the entire world from there. The yearning. The frustration. She cried sometimes. Other times, she merely drank until she passed out. But. . . there were times she laid in her bed, bunched up her favorite nightdress-an ivory, translucent material that barely covered her plump ass-parts her legs, and slips her favorite toy-a purple vibrator about six inches long-into her pussy, her small hands fondling her breasts. I could almost hear her moans. I could almost taste and smell her.

Often times than not, I dreamed of her. And when I woke, I went straight to the shower and took a freezing cold bath.

I didn't know anything about her, but I've never wanted anyone so bad.

She read a lot of books. She smiled only when she read. I'd never seen her with a phone. Or friends. She was like a bird in a cage. One that wished to fly but had no wings to. Her legs kicked back and forth and she would often toss the books, covering her lips as she squealed excitedly, bouncing up and down her bed before she resumed reading with a maddening smile etched on that fucking mouth. And forgive me for staring at her ass as she bounced. It was the part of her body that tortured me the most.

And she walked about in her panties or none at all.

I'm not obsessed with her. Neither do I have sick thoughts about her-I don't consider them sick. I don't watch her unless I have to. Because I get frightened for her. She keeps a bottle of pills on her nightstand. I don't know what they are, but too many times, after a terrible fight with her husband that ended with her face blackened and bleeding, she stared at them. Held them as she cried alone. And then, she'd set them back on the nightstand and sleep like a child.

I get frightened that I may one day wake and she would no longer have a smile. Or life.

But none of that matters. She isn't mine. She is my neighbor's wife and off-limits.

"There has been an unexpected development regarding the Thompson acquisition," my secretary, Mark, tells me, and something at the back of my mind tells me this is important, yet, all I can hear is the commotion coming from the other side of the wall demarcating my fence from hers.

He's hitting her again.

I really should have fixed this meeting at the office, or a hotel. But HR had decided this was best for. . . relating better with my employees and old man, Dante, was a pushy bastard sometimes. While the HQ is situated at Milan, we'd recently branched out into LA and I'm here to oversee the start and growth of this branch myself. I'd planned to stay a few months but the product launch is taking longer than expected. And while I often prided in my virtue of patience, I'm starting to lose it.

Dante's analysis of the situation stated that 99. 99%percent of my employees thought I was a grumpy jerk who had little to no value for human life and it was making the work environment hostile. How was I to know they wanted a Thanksgiving break when I didn't even remember it was Thanksgiving tomorrow?

I didn't build a successful empire by taking breaks and unnecessary holidays. But, unfortunately, no one shares my sentiments-or lack of-and I'm stuck with these thirteen, trying to convince them that I am, in fact, not the heartless devil they think I am.

Maybe I should fire them all. This fucking sucks.

"What is-"I start saying when the sound of glass shattering cuts through the air, followed by a tortured scream. My employees shift uncomfortably, and Darcy, a well-mannered woman in her mid-forties fixes me a pointed stare." You should. . . go take a look. It's spanning out of control."

"I had no idea resolution of couple dispute was in your job description, Mrs. Williams," I snap, suddenly irritated. They had fights inside their home all the time. Never outside. Never this close to the fence. Hell, why didn't I just move to my villa like I originally planned to? Why did I have to remain here?

Everyone's staring at me expectantly, and Dante's face is twisted in disapproval. Darcy looks like she's upset or ate something bad. Fuck. I toss the tab on my table and sigh." Fine. I'll check. Carry on, Mark."

Displeasure and anxiety curl tightly in my stomach as I walk the full expanse of my yard. I hate being told what to do. It is innate to be in control. Outside my turf, there's a vulnerability I try to squash. I try to have as much control as I can over my schedule, my surroundings, my communications and relationships. Heading to my neighbor's flat takes that away, leaving me nervous, anxious and angry.

Clenching my fist hard, I slam it into the white gate twice. I'm never having a meeting at my apartment again.

The house behind the gate goes eerily quiet, the woman's screaming suddenly drowned out by the howling wind. Minutes trickle by and I grit my teeth as I count down the seconds before raising my fist to the gate, rattling it even harder.

No response.

I pull my cellphone out of my pocket, dialing 911. Right before I hit the call button, the towering black gate slides to the left and I am greeted with hard blue eyes that crinkle on each side with a forced smile." Hey mate. What can I do for you?"

British accent. His sleeves are rolled up. He's sweating heavily and scratch wounds line his arms. My gaze flicks to the house behind him and I take a step forward." Everything alright back there?"

Predictably, he blocks my path, and a ragged breath slips from him, one he tries so hard to cover with laughter." My wife and I were playing around. Too noisy? I must apologize."

I notice the cut across his broad forehead." You're bleeding." She fought back? She never fights back.

His jaw clenches." Yes, yes." He attempts another false smile that does nothing to convince me-only because I've seen the truth of what he does to her." Susanna plays rough. You understand how these women are-"Just then, she runs out from the sliding door, heading straight for me. Her left eye is swollen shut, her lips burst in three places. Blood cakes her bare arms, and. . . she is very naked." Please," she cries." Please help me. He'll kill me!"

My feet move of their own volition, my fingers itching to catch her. Save her from him. But before I can make that mistake, he catches her around her waist, laughing and kissing her neck. His lips move as he whispers something to her that makes her go limp in his arms.

He doesn't even bother to try shielding her naked body from me as he says," It's a kink of hers." His blue eyes drift to the fence." You. . . you live next door?"

I don't take my eyes off her as I respond," Yes."

Her grey eye that hasn't been punched shut beseeches me. Please." I'm Jaxon Hawke. You are?"

Jaxon Hawke? If he is who I think it is, then I cannot interfere. It is not fear that makes me step back. It is the promise I made to my wife on her death bed that I wouldn't return to that life. The life where I was untouchable, invincible. I still am, to an extent, but I'm starting over. And not even the perky breasts and round ass of the most beautiful woman on the planet can derail me from that.

I smile." Zefiro." I make a point not to look at the woman again." Have a good day."

Just as I turn to leave, the woman says hastily," Would you care to join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow?"

I stop walking. Very slowly, I turn around. It is clear her husband is displeased with her sudden request, but he tries to mask it with another smarmy smile. However, my eyes aren't on him. They're on his wife and her grey eye that sears into me. I know what she's doing. If I say yes, Jaxon won't touch her tonight. He won't hit her, until after Thanksgiving.

Or, in her own words, kill her.

But I'd be damned if I let myself become a pawn in whatever sick game they're both playing. I tip my head to the side." I must decline your offer, but thank you. I have plans." Plans, loads of work, same difference. Like I said, it doesn't matter if she is the most beguiling woman on the planet. She is simply not my problem.

Her eye darkens and the air between us stretches thin as her injured lips thin with displeasure. A proud creature with pretty feathers, this one. While she may spend her days obeying every word her husband tells her, it is certainly clear she doesn't like being refused.

A small, strange smile lift her lips." Of course. I understand."

I leave her behind, feeling unsure of if I did the right thing. But a much bigger thought occupies my mind through the entirety of the meeting.

Her name. Susanna Hawke.

Their sex tonight time is different. Rougher. They are in her bedroom and she is bent over the arm of a green, plush couch, her hair pulled back by his fist as he rams his dick into her, punishing her, hitting her. Her eyes aren't closed. No, she's gazing out the window and my blood heats when she narrows her eyes at me, standing by my window. Surprise shines in her eyes, and I expect her to scream.

Instead, her lips part, and her eyelashes flutter, a lustful haze darkening her eyes. And she smirks at me, biting her bottom lip as she comes.

"Fuck," I breathe, stepping away from the window, hands instinctively hiding my erection. There's no way she sees me. My windows are one way through. There is no fucking way she saw me.

Heart seconds away from exploding, I flee into the bathtub, stepping into the shower without taking off my clothes. I'm unsure how long I let the downpour drench me. I don't get out until my teeth is clattering and my lips are blue. I'm still rock hard. For the first time, the water does nothing. So, I turn to the alcohol in my cellar for help.

It's been way too long since I've been with a woman. Not since Priya died three years ago. My dealings got her killed and I have punished myself every day for just as long. It is, after all, the biggest reason I left Milan and abandoned the family business for my younger brother, Enzo. He's always wanted everything I own anyway.

Releasing a ragged sigh, I rub a palm over my face and roughen my damp hair. I can't live like this. Like a fucking creep, lusting after a woman I barely even know. It makes me want to sit in the front pews at the nearest church and beg Dio for damned forgiveness. It makes me want to bleach out my eyes, my mind, forget everything I've seen and come to learn. This isn't me. Nonna didn't raise me this way.

Reaching for my cellphone, I dial one of the five contacts I have stored on it. I usually don't bother saving digits. I have a photographic memory. That made it much more impossible to forget what her folds looked like when she parted her legs and pushed in that damned vibrator. I'm a man tormented. And I've had enough.

The man picks on the first ring." Mr. Della Rocca."

"Jonathan Blake." I tip my wine glass back and suppress a groan at the burn in my throat." Do we have a buyer yet?"

Papers flip in the background." Two offers actually. Seventy million and-"

"Take it off the market, Jon. I no longer wish to sell."

My agent goes awfully quiet on the other end of the line and seconds beat awfully slow before his low response." You have yet to hear the other offer for your Aquila. It's being valued to more than a hundred million dollars!"

My nostrils crinkle at the disrespect of putting a price tag to a building that's centuries old. It's the only thing I didn't relinquish to Enzo when I let him take my father's seat as heir. I loved it there. Priya loved it there. I intended to sell it when the memories, grief and guilt threatened to steal whatever was left of my sanity. I saw Priya in every damned corner of that house. Clear as day. It fucked with me.

Perhaps, I need to return there. Better Priya's fucking ghost than the filthy thoughts living rent free in my head at the sight of that woman." I don't care, Jon. Take the covers off my damned furniture or I'll strangle you with each one and wear a hole into the'For Sale'sign with your head."

I'm joking. This is how I joke. With threats. Priya often said I was a big softie trying to hide behind brutal threats I couldn't see through. I had laughed at the comment. How untrue it was.

"S-sir," Jonathan stutters, his voice catching." The house will be ready upon your arrival."

I nod, pleased." Very good."

However, the next day, after work, as I shove a few of my bags into my car and drive down the street, the entire course of my life shifts as a woman jumps right in front of my car and I run her over.