My Neighbour's Wife (A Mafia Romance Novel)

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 n*****s 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 f****d her a lot. And hit her a lot. She took each beating as perfectly as she took his d**k 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 f**k 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 f*****g idea how erotic it is to see her in those red heels, n*****s flush against the window panes as he f****d 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. 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 p***y, 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 f*****g 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.