I Buried My Husband and the Gardener Was Still in the House

Romina floored the accelerator of her Ford EcoSport and left the city behind, the one that now smelled to her like a wake and rotten flowers. Two days after burying her husband — an apoplectic stroke had taken him, no warning, no goodbye — she needed air, silence, and a bit of sea to wash her soul. Or whatever was left of it. At thirty-nine, she wasn’t a magazine-thin chick or a calendar-busty bombshell, but she had an ass that turned heads on any street. Round, firm, one of those that move on their own when you walk. A little on the curvy side, yes, but distributed in all the right places: wide hips, fleshy thighs, and smooth skin that begged for hands.

The trip felt endless. She left at seven in the morning on a Saturday and stopped every so often to stretch her legs, eat a lukewarm sandwich with soda, or just stare at nothing like an idiot, thinking about the asshole who had left her a widow without asking permission. She reached the coast after five in the afternoon, with the sun sinking weakly on the horizon. The house by the sea, the one they hadn’t set foot in for years, was on the coastal avenue, near Santa Teresita.

It was a three-room chalet with a large kitchen, a spacious living room with a leather sofa that creaked when you sat on it, a garage, and a somewhat large front yard, with a little stone path that led straight to the sand. Perfect for mourning, Romina thought as she parked. Or to forget everything, if that happened.

She got out with the suitcases and the salty wind tousled her brown hair. She was dressed simply: tight leggings that showed off that legendary ass, a white T-shirt clinging to her body, and sneakers. No makeup, because what for? She was in mourning, damn it. She opened the door with the rusty key, expecting the smell of damp and abandonment.

But no. The house smelled of freshly brewed coffee and of a man.

There he was, in the kitchen, his back turned, pouring himself a cup as if he owned the place. Tall, dark-haired, with broad shoulders outlined beneath a dirt-stained T-shirt, shorts, and work boots. He looked like a laborer, a gardener, or a bricklayer who’d walked into the wrong house. Romina froze in the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.

—Who the fuck are you? —she growled, dropping the suitcase with a dull thud.

The guy turned slowly, with a smile that lit up his bearded face. Dark eyes, penetrating, as if he were already stripping her with his gaze.

—I’m Damián. Your husband hired me a month ago to fix up the yard and the garage. He told me the house needed maintenance before you came.

—And how do you know who I am? —she spat, in a foul mood.

—The photo. —He pointed at the wedding portrait in the glass cabinet—. And I found out about your husband from the guys. We played beach soccer together. I’m truly sorry.

Romina frowned. Her husband, that idiot, had never told her anything. Not about maintenance, not about the soccer friends. But of course, between the stroke and the coffin, what was he going to tell her? Damián looked her over from head to toe, stopping at her hips, which the leggings outlined without shame. She felt heat rising from her belly, a tingle between her legs she hadn’t felt in months.

What the hell was all this? Grief, loneliness, the sea… and now this unexpected stranger in her kitchen. What kind of inheritance did you leave me, you bastard?

—Get out of here, I don’t need you —she lied, but her voice trembled. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted the opposite, and was ashamed to admit it.

Damián came closer, smelling of sweat and wet earth.

—The house is spotless thanks to me. And you look like you could use company. Recently widowed, right? I can help you get through the mourning.

She stepped back and her spine hit the door. The guy was big, imposing. He rested a hand on her hip, squeezing softly but firmly.

—No… don’t fuck with me —she whispered, but her nipples hardened under the T-shirt and he noticed.

—I’m not fucking with you, Romina. I saw you get out of the car and thought you needed someone to remind you that you’re alive. That ass drove me crazy the second you stepped onto the path.

Without further ado, Damián turned her like a doll and slammed her against the cold kitchen wall. He yanked her leggings down and exposed her round ass, barely covered by a black thong that disappeared between them. He landed a slap that sounded like a whip.

—Look at this ass, for fuck’s sake —he growled.

Romina gasped, the sting mixing with a pleasure that confused her. No one had touched her like that in years, raw, with no protocol or bullshit romance.

—Stop, you animal… —she weakly protested, but she was already wet and the thong betrayed her.

Damián shoved the fabric aside and slid two fingers inside her without asking permission. They slipped in easily.

—You’re soaking. The late husband didn’t take good care of you, huh? —he said, moving his fingers in and out, slowly, searching for the exact spot. She arched her back and pushed her ass into his hand—. Say it.

—Fuck me already, asshole —she moaned, surprised by her own voice.

He pulled down his pants. He rubbed himself against her ass a couple of times, promising, and drove into her in one thrust all the way to the hilt. Romina screamed, a mix of pain and relief. Damián grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, and started moving with a steady, deep rhythm. With each thrust her tits bounced under the T-shirt, which he tore off her completely with one pull. Pink nipples, hard as stones, which he pinched while he fucked her against the tiles.

—Take that, widow. That’s what you were missing —he growled, speeding up. The sound of their hips slamming together was obscene, wet, and turned her on even more.

—Harder… don’t stop —she begged, biting her lip.

***

They left the kitchen without separating. Damián lifted her in his arms and carried her to the living room. He threw her onto the leather sofa, face up, and sank into her again. He bit her neck, sucked her tits, made her scream. Romina dug her nails into his back, marked him, scratched him as if she wanted to leave him behind as a keepsake. The leather creaked beneath them both and smelled of salt, sweat, and sex.

—You’re a son of a bitch —she panted—. But it’s been a long time since I felt like this.

After a while he turned her over and put her on all fours on the sofa. He stared at her round, juicy ass, trembling with every slap he gave it to watch it bounce. He spat on it and ran a finger over her, preparing her.

—Now the other side —he warned.

—No, not there… —Romina protested, but her body betrayed her and kept pushing back on its own.

Damián started slowly, letting her get used to it, and then took her harder, grabbing her by the hair like a rein. She buried her face in the leather and moaned long and low, surrendered. She came first, an orgasm that shook her whole body and left her trembling. He followed shortly after, sinking in all the way with a hoarse grunt. They collapsed exhausted, sweaty, tangled up on the sofa.

***

But that was only the beginning. That night, in the master bedroom, they started again. Damián tied her to the bed with two old ties that had belonged to her husband — a detail Romina found like sweet revenge against the dead man — and punished her with his hand until her ass was warm and red. Freed from grief, she found herself asking for things she had never dared say out loud: that he use her, that he bite the nape of her neck, that he not treat her gently.

The next day, on the deserted beach at dawn, they undressed on a blanket. Damián spread sunscreen over her, massaging her ass calmly until she’d had enough of waiting, climbed on top of him, and rode him like an Amazon, with the sea in the background and the wind drying the sweat from her back.

—Give me more —she panted, her hands braced on his chest—. I don’t want to think about anything.

They spent the days like that. They fucked in the kitchen while the food went cold, against the car in the garage, in the narrow shower in the bathroom, on the sofa that already had the shape of both their bodies. Romina forgot the coffin, the wake, the rotten flowers. She only thought about this stranger who had put her back into her own body, as if he’d recovered it from exile.

A week later she decided to stay a little longer. The house by the sea was no longer the setting for mourning, but for an attraction she hadn’t sought and had no intention of giving back. And that legendary ass kept drawing attention from anyone who saw her walking along the coast, but now it had a single owner who claimed it every night with dirty words and firm hands.

—You’re my favorite widow —he whispered in her ear, in the dark.

And Romina, who two weeks earlier had imagined herself locked in an empty house crying until she dried out, dug her nails into his back and thought that, in the end, the dead to the hole and the widow to pleasure wasn’t just a cruel saying. It was, too, a way of staying alive.