The kiss in the water—wet and desperate—had been a silent vow. They were no longer two people playing with fire; they were two souls amid the flames. The time they had left at the Hawthorne Mansion felt finite and precious, each hour consumed by fear and an unbearable physical urgency. Mario and Claudia moved with the awareness that their next touch might be the last within those glass walls.
Mario's phone alarm sounded, a notification from Eleanor that didn't even need to be read to understand its meaning: the ultimatum.
"I return in 48 hours," Mario confirmed in a somber tone as he looked at the message. "And I'll be bringing an architect. She needs me ready for relocation, Claudia. She's closing the sale of the mansion. This is real. Our time is up."
The urgency became the lubricant of their intimacy. The pact turned into action. Mario summoned Claudia to his study, a room filled with screens and stock charts, now feeling more like a conspirators' lair.
"Eleanor wants to sell me, Claudia. She's giving us a 48-hour window to act," Mario said, the calm in his voice contradicted by the intensity in his eyes. "I need your help with one final task. The most important one for our escape."
He asked Claudia to open his personal safe. Inside, among stocks and financial documents, was a small ebony box. Mario asked her to open it. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, lay his platinum wedding ring—a cold, heavy, perfect circle.
"Eleanor sees it as a relic, proof of a contract she never wanted to honor," Mario said with a bitter smile. "I see it as a chain of three years. Now, it's a useless accessory."
Mario took Claudia's hand. His touch was electric. He guided her hand toward the ring. "Take it, Claudia. Keep it. It's the symbol of what we leave behind. It's your proof that you've stolen me. Erotic risk is the game, isn't it? Betrayal is the ultimate intimacy when marriage is a farce."
Claudia felt the act as a profound betrayal, a profanation that gave her a dark, uncontrollable pleasure. She took the ring. Her fingers closed around the cold platinum. It was the most intimate act they had shared so far: a mutual agreement of emotional adultery and marital subversion.
Mario revealed his escape plan: he had been restructuring his assets for months, anticipating this moment. He had purchased a small refuge, a simple villa on the Portuguese coast.
"It's a new beginning, Claudia. A life where the only opulence will be our freedom."
Then came the moment—the hour of the bath.
Claudia prepared the adapted bath, filling the deep tub with warm water and bubbles from a fragrant soap that Mario loved. The bathroom was enormous, with marble walls reflecting the steam. She carefully transferred him to the shower chair and slid him into the water. It was a ritual of maximum vulnerability and, therefore, maximum tension.
She knelt beside the tub, her sportswear already absorbing the heat and humidity of the room. She picked up the sponge, her movements professional out of habit, but now each touch was a silent question. She lathered his shoulders, chest, and strong arms. Mario leaned on the edge of the tub, watching her with an intensity that was almost painful.
By the time she reached his abdomen, Claudia's breathing had grown shallow. Her hands moved with deliberate slowness. She was there to wash him, but she knew she was also there to be seen—the only person in the world allowed to come this close.
Beneath the glistening surface of the soapy water, Mario could not contain his body's reaction to the intimacy. Despite his paralysis, the psychosomatic desire was powerful and evident. Mario had become erect.
Claudia felt a shock, a heat running from head to toe. It was tangible proof that her desire was reciprocated. Her eyes immediately lifted to his, seeking an apology, but found only a burning challenge.
"Don't hide it, Claudia," Mario whispered. "It's my response. My only way of telling you that what I feel for you is not a mental fantasy. It's real. It's flesh."
Claudia felt her skin burn. It was the ultimate proof of her power. She was the only woman who could provoke that reaction. She took a trembling breath, trying to maintain control and boundaries.
In that moment, Mario, using the strength of his right arm, moved quickly and decisively, overcoming the inertia of his paralysis. His hand emerged from the water, wet and strong, and sought Claudia's chest. His warm palm rested over the soft fabric of her shirt, right over the curve of her breast. It was a possessive touch, an assertion that, though he was immobile, he was taking the initiative.
Claudia stifled a gasp, her heart hammering under his hand. The contact was electric, forbidden, and unleashed a wave of ecstasy and panic. She froze for a second, savoring the audacity of the touch, the final breaking of all rules.
Then reason returned. They could not cross that line now. They could not risk total surrender and vulnerability. She needed to remain the caretaker a little longer.
Claudia covered Mario's hand with hers, tenderly but firmly. She gently lowered his hand from her breast, placing it back on the edge of the tub.
"No, Mario," she whispered. "Not here. Not now. Not until we're free. This is not the end of our game. It's the beginning of our life. And it has to be perfect."
Mario understood. The denial of that moment was not rejection; it was a promise of something far greater. It was a conscious prolongation of the torment, ensuring that their consummation would be a celebration of freedom. He nodded, frustrated but respectful.
She finished washing him, but the air was charged with the promise of what was to come. After the bath, she helped him dress. She knelt, fastening his dress shoes for the last time in that mansion.
Mario handed her a small package: a fake passport with a new name and a plane ticket for the next day.
"It's our new identity. If you change your mind, you can leave, and Eleanor will never know. If you come… we meet at the private airfield hangar. You are my anchor, Claudia. If you don't arrive, I stay. I don't have the strength to leave alone."
The final act was a kiss on the lips—long, possessive, full of the power of a man who had reclaimed his life.
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To be continued…