Page 20 of Lourdes & the Mafia
“This will be mine soon,” he whispers. That voice itself becomes wisps of darkness and promise. It slides through my body, over every single inch. And my stupid, fragile heart wants what he’s offering. Even when I know how wrong it is, it feels right. His eyes flash like he knows my innermost thoughts. “Soon you will be mine. Anam cara.”
As the last word leaves his lips, he vanishes in a thick cluster of black smoke.
I’m slammed back into reality myself. The pain ebbs slowly, and in this reality, I’m still on the floor, the water pounding down against my body, my chest heaving, and my hands still pressed tightly against my clit.
“Oh, fuck…”
What the hell was that? Who the hell was that? And how the hell did he break through my visions?
I need… I need…
I need a good fucking orgasm, first, that’s what I need. It doesn’t matter that Dimas just pounded into me after we made up. Sex with him is always really fast, and while I don’t get that same thrill that he does, I enjoy it just the same. Because I love him. Even if he does leave me wanting by the end of it. Even if I have to jump in the shower afterwards and touch myself until I come.
I work on that first. Usually what takes me a long time to accomplish is quick and vicious and so, so good. Because this time when I touch myself, I remember those eyes. That smile. The way the pressure of vision-man’s hand felt between my legs. It brings me to orgasm fast and when I’m done, I hurry and wash, already coming up with a list of tasks I have to do.
I need to go visit my grandmother’s journals. Surely there’s something in there that can help me figure out what just happened. If that’s a rare occurrence, if it ever happened to her…
And three…
I need to google those words. The ones spoken in another language.
Anam cara.
And fourth…
I dry my body off and get dressed quickly. I look around Dimas’ place, biting my bottom lip. I don’t have any clothes here. He says he doesn’t feel comfortable with me keeping my stuff over here, even if I am over a lot. He says he values his privacy, and that I need to learn to be more independent.
Coño, thinking about it in my head makes Dimas sound like such a fucking asshole.
Naomi would say he is.
She wouldn’t be wrong.
Fuck, how did I even get here? How did I become such a pathetic person who hangs on to every word Dimas says, even after everything he’s done? He’s cheated on me and still I came crawling back. I always do. Every time he fucking calls. And a part of me knows I shouldn’t, because I’m always scared he’s going to do it again, but another part just wants to earn his love. In any way I possibly can.
And that might be my mistake.
Loving someone so much that I forget to love myself in the process.
And like my visions, the truth of that statement hits me all at once. This whole time, I’ve given him more love and respect than I’ve given myself.
Andfourth…
“You need to break up with Dimas.”
And so I go to do just that.
The memory comes and goes quickly, taking over a huge front part of my mind. And yet, what I thought to be a one-time thing, a fluke in my magic, as my grandmother’s journals didn’t reveal shit, is standing before me now.
He still looks wealthy and refined. A head full of dark coils, perfectly trimmed like he just came from the stylist. He’s wearing an outfit in a combined mix of Lorenzo’s and the other guy’s. A suit, stylish and black without a single splotch of color, and a black turtleneck beneath that.
I look down.
Coño, the dude is wearing loafers.
Loafers.
He looks me up and down, his slow perusal causing the hairs on my body to stand up. Everything about him is menacing and sensual, and he stares at me like he remembers me, too. It’s in the slow curl of his lips as he smiles. It’s in the heat of his eyes as he stares at the silk little number as if he can see through it and to the body beneath.
