Chapter 14: She Can’t Stop

It was one of Demarcus’ first letters. It was the kind of letter that defied concealment. Harold had tried hiding it under a pile of old bills and flyers, attempting to bury it beneath the weight of his uncertainties. Yet there it remained, boldly peeking out, each glance drawing him back with a mix of bewilderment and curiosity. He held it carefully like a ticking secret, unsure of the burst of revelations that might come if he let it slip. The handwriting was relaxed and animated, its words undulating across the page with an intensity that startled him: “I can’t stop thinking about you ... the way you move ... how I need you...” The raw declaration left him more puzzled than pained, his heart twisting into unfamiliar contours of doubt.

In the living room, Marlene sat quietly, lost in her recent encounter with Demarcus, her hands calmingly twisting in her lap while her eyes traced the familiar pattern of the carpet.

When Harold spoke, his voice trembled not with anger but with a questioning uncertainty. “What is this, Marlene?” he asked. She looked up at him, her face gentle and a little tired, offering explanations that lined up like careful, tentative steps.

Marlene’s smile was delicate, and her voice held a soft quaver as she sought to restore calm. “Oh, that,” she murmured, as if the letter were merely a misplaced note rather than a stormy confession. “Demarcus Wilson. Remember him? One of my old students. It’s just him reaching out.” She paused, watching Harold’s face for a sign that he believed her.

Harold’s brow furrowed in puzzled inquiry. “Reaching out?” he repeated, his tone more an earnest question than an accusation. He reopened the letter, holding the creased paper as if it might offer further secrets, and read aloud in a voice that betrayed his growing confusion:

“You excite me like nothing else. Thinking about you keeps me up at night.” His hand shook slightly, the letter seeming to pulse in his hand.

“It’s not what you think,” Marlene said more firmly now, as though raising her voice could banish the lingering doubts, as her heart sank into her stomach. “He’s always felt close to me. We used to discuss literature—apparently, I left quite an impression of encouragement.” Her voice wavered as she tried to balance her sincerity with an explanation that could ease the tension.

Harold’s eyes remained questioning as he regarded her, his gaze searching for the truth with a trusting warmth. “An impression?” he echoed softly, his tone more reflective than hurt. The brightness of the room seemed to amplify the quiet uncertainty hanging between them. She reached out briefly, but her hands fell away as Harold turned inward, deep in thought.

He paced slowly, each step measured as he attempted to piece together a puzzle that no longer seemed entirely clear. “I never imagined that making an impression could lead to this,” he finally said, holding the letter like a piece of delicate evidence. “Do you still keep in touch with him? Is he someone I should be concerned about?”

His words floated between them, edged with genuine curiosity and a desire for understanding rather than blame. Marlene hesitated as the truth and her hidden uncertainties wavered within her. “We’ve been exchanging a few letters,” she admitted softly, “He’s just had a difficult time and needed someone to talk to.”

“Someone to talk to,” Harold repeated, his voice thoughtful as he searched her eyes for reassurance. “And what do you need, Marlene?” he asked gently.

The question lingered in the quiet room, filled not with bitter accusation but with a tender need to understand. Marlene’s chest tightened, and she struggled for words that wouldn’t betray her own uncertainties. “I don’t really know,” she confessed finally, the honesty of her admission softening the space between them with vulnerable truth.

She watched as Harold absorbed her words, each syllable evoking a puzzle piece in the mosaic of their shared life. “I never meant any harm by keeping this from you, I just...” she whispered, though her words seemed to dissolve into the air before fully settling.

“You never meant harm,” Harold replied quietly, his voice resonating with trust even as he stared at the letter once more. The jagged, wild declarations no longer sparked fury but left him musing aloud. A quiet sadness mingled now with genuine bafflement. Slowly, he shook his head, the motion gentle as if trying to dismiss the unfamiliar feeling.

“I still can’t quite understand all of this,” he murmured, speaking as much to himself as to her. Turning toward the door, he let the letter slip from his grasp, its soft, rustling fall carrying a tone of unanswered wonder.

Marlene watched him go, each step an echo of the shared life they had built—a life now marked by an unexpected ambiguity and a secret. She remained seated in the silence he left behind, the truth of her desires a raw yet honest admission, pulsing like a new wound that she hoped, with time, they might understand together.

The walls were as bare as her conscience, as raw as her anticipation. Marlene lingered on the edge of the couch, the patched and faded upholstery catching at her skirt like a needy lover. She was here. She was waiting. Each second felt electric, alive, a testament to how far she had come and how close she was to something she couldn’t quite name. Demarcus entered the room naked like a muscular black god, with a force that left no room for doubt or hesitation. He was all motion and purpose. He stood before her sitting form. His uncut limp black penis beginning to rise with excitement. He smiled down at her before kneeling between her legs and lifting her feet with deliberate care, letting the expensive heels drop to the floor like discarded inhibitions.

She breathed him in, the raw scent of him mingling with the intoxicating thrill of her own transgression. Her heart pounded a wild and reckless rhythm, every beat a step further from the life she knew and deeper into this unknown that called to her with an insistent whisper. The old couch creaked under her, echoing the tremor of uncertainty that raced through her limbs.

Demarcus’s hands were sure and unyielding as they traced the line of her calves, his touch both a question and an answer she couldn’t ignore. He paused, letting her feel the weight of the moment, then brought her foot to his face, inhaling deeply with an unabashed hunger

that sent a shiver straight to her core. She watched him, transfixed and trembling, as he pressed his lips to her arch, lingering, tasting, each kiss a boundary crossed and a desire laid bare.

She moaned, a soft and involuntary sound that seemed to fill the empty room and her own empty places. The power of it startled her, resonating between them with an urgency that she both feared and craved. Demarcus smiled at her with a feral, knowing look, the kind of look that said he understood the parts of her she barely admitted to herself as he took her perfectly pedicured toes into his mouth.

The air between them was thick with tension and the faint, dizzying scent of sweat and anticipation. Marlene felt it on her skin, a humid cloak of shame and longing, as Demarcus ran his tongue along her heel and she arched her back, giving in to the relentless pull of what was happening. Her breaths came faster, sharp and ragged, a counterpoint to the steady, measured strokes of his fingers along her ankle.

Without a word, without needing one, he set her feet aside and moved with swift, confident precision. He hooked his thumbs under the hem of her dress, lifting it with a roughness that was part demand, part invitation, part promise of everything she’d secretly wished for. His knees hit the threadbare carpet, and he leaned in, his mouth finding her wet and waiting.