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The Politician's Wife

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Sango suppressed a yawn as she picked at her $500-a-plate dinner at her husband's elegant fundraiser.

Sango suppressed a lot of things.

She caught his glance from across the room, looking for some fault of hers. He glanced at her plate then gave a nod before resuming his animated conversation with a particularly well-funded potential campaign contributor.

Naraku had mentioned earlier that night that it was looking as though she was putting on a few pounds, so he was glad to see most of her dinner untouched. He was wrong. Sango had been steadily losing weight since the accident and had never been thinner, but she had to look the part of the perfect politician's perfect wife. The size-too-small gray patterned tweed Chanel dress he had purchased for her constricted her ribs, imprisoned her breath.

She hadn't been losing the weight to please him. It was just that nothing in her life held any taste for her any more. All the joy, color, and flavor had been sucked out of her life. Anything she ate tasted like mud, cloying and thick, in her mouth.

For all intents and purposes, she had died when they did. Her heart had stopped those same moments when the car hit the water, killing her father instantly; when the murky river roared in through the shattered windows, drowning her brother who hadn't the time to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Sango hadn't realized how tenuous her place in this world was until they died. Now she had nothing. Less than nothing, if you counted her husband.

The death of her family, the last members of a political dynasty that had gone back three generations, had created an uproar in their party. Speculation about Kohaku, her father, the use of drugs and alcohol that either was or wasn't in their systems at the time of the accident (reports varied depending on which medical examiner you believed), and the fact that another car with another casualty had been involved, had also plummeted from the bridge that late night, had scandalized the nation. Four people dead: two in the icy river that night, and one in a hospital bed after a months-long coma.

The fourth was Sango, even though no one counted her since she had washed ashore. Her lungs still moved air. The doctors told her that her heart still beat strong even though she felt nothing. She also remembered nothing. This was not uncommon after such a traumatic experience, but the pall of suspicion covered her, as well. She became a pariah, an untouchable.

A month later, Naraku approached her. Despite being from the opposing political party, he offered a public three-month courtship followed by marriage. He knew how well it would play in the polls. It would make him look as though he could see beyond party loyalty, that he had sympathy and that he cared about people.

Lies. Sango knew, but she didn't have a better offer. So she accepted. She was dead, anyway, so who cared?

So Sango smiled politely at his side during his campaign. She would so often defer to him whenever asked a direct question that people simply stopped talking to her. It was a relief. She only had to look the part. The less she did or said, the more happy Naraku was with her. She marveled that she could go days without uttering a single word and no one ever seemed to notice.

Sango stopped fidgeting with her fork and laid it down on top of the inch-thick bloody steak and creamy garlic mashed potatoes. She suppressed a sigh at the waste of food.

"Done with that, Miss?" asked the waiter. The rest of the table had been cleared and the guests were mingling, all wanting their money's worth of time with Naraku. Only Sango remained seated.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, glancing up at the waiter.

He took her plate and turned before he could see her glower at him. She knew him. She had a thing for faces. She couldn't forget a face if she tried, and she knew instantly that he was one of the core members of an upstart political party that was gaining power now that the party of Sango's family was imploding. She had seen him in a video that Naraku was watching, casing his opposition.

She didn't know his name, but she recognized the short pony tail right away, then his sharp eyes that failed to mute the intelligence behind them. But mostly, she knew his mouth. The video had shown the dangerous, confident smirk, even as an advisor to an relatively unknown political newbie and she had been intrigued. Even though he wasn't currently smirking, the way he talked showed that the muscles moved far too easily in that direction.

This man... vexed Sango. Maybe it was his overconfidence that he could slip through the crowd without recognition, probably recording conversations where these people were likely denigrating the poorer constituents who often voted for the rival parties so that he could publicize them later. Maybe it was because he was part of a political party that was new and exciting and ready to take on the establishment, like her father's had been only a few generations ago. Or maybe Sango just hated people who smirked.

It didn't matter. Feeling vexed was the first real feeling that Sango had had in months, and she wanted to see where this feeling would take her. So she followed her "waiter."

She watched him duck into the kitchen. Dinner service was largely over, but the wait staff and cooks were still busy with clean up. Sango pushed through the doors and into the kitchen behind the mysterious man. A few of the staff froze at her arrival. Sango definitely did not fit the environment in her Chanel dress, but she didn't care.

"Hey!" she yelled at the waiter who was retreating further to the back of the kitchen.

There was a chorus of hoots from the staff. Sango could clearly hear a chef whistle and goad, "Miroku, who's ass did you grab now?"

The man turned around, blue/gray eyes surprised and innocent until he saw Sango stomping toward him. Then he looked surprised and guilty.

"I know who you are and I know what you're doing," Sango hissed, pleased that he wasn't smiling. "And don't you have jobs to do?" Sango yelled at the rest of the kitchen, channeling the kind of woman that Naraku would respect, the kind of women who were proud of a political party that only cared about their own needs and bank accounts.

And that was it. Something inside of her snapped.

That was the moment Sango had enough. She could not keep up this pretense another second. Not with that man, Miroku, looking surprised and guilty and accusingly at her for her tone. She was done.

Miroku quickly grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the back door into the dim alley. She took a moment to regard him: handsome, she supposed, and even the loose black pants and white dress shirt couldn't hide he had a nice body. The sun had set a few moments before, but twilight still lingered in the sky. "Sango, I can explain..." he began as they moved further into the alley next to the dumpster.

So he knew her and every word felt like a knife. Somehow, him knowing her made everything more unbearable and she had to stop this, stop his mouth from hurting her with its words. So Sango lunged for the man, pulling him down into a deep kiss.

Miroku froze for a second, but then mashed his own mouth against Sango's, just as hard as she was. Thankful, she gasped and felt his tongue slide between her lips and it was the first time she had tasted anything but river mud since the accident. He tasted like sunlight and flying.

A violent hunger for more sensation, more flavor tore from her insides. Dead, dormant for so long, it tore at her abdomen like some wild animal, demanding more. Sango's mouth, her tongue, her teeth devoured his kisses and she heard him gasp, his body tensing and growing hard as he struggled to keep up with her.

Miroku's body wasn't gentle as he crushed Sango into the corner between the gritty brick wall of the building and the dumpster. But his hand was gentle when he reached up to cup her neck, her jaw, coaxing her mouth away from his but leaving his forehead pressed against hers.

He was the opposite of Naraku, with the way he looked through her and his cruel hands. He was already sleeping with Kikyo, his campaign manager, so he had little use for Sango, anyway. The few times they had fucked had left her bruised. Even worse, unsatisfied. This man was different.

"What...?" he asked, but couldn't continue as their eyes locked. They both panted, breathed each other's breath and she felt herself submerge in the black desire of his eyes.

It was like the opposite of drowning. She felt as though she were taking her first breaths after fighting that frozen river. She was surfacing back into her own life.

She needed more. This newfound will to live would not be sated with only desperate kisses. "Please," she whispered as she reached between them and unbuckled his belt. It was awkward because she refused to drop eye contact, but effective.

Miroku pressed her back even more forcefully than before, the brick wall breaking the skin of Sango's upper arm and exposed shoulder. His arm snaked around and up her dress, grabbing her ass, pulling her forward to press her heat against his groin.

Sango squirmed against his hard length trapped behind a zipper. She brought up her leg and wrapped it around his hip so she could press herself more flush against every inch of him. She was already wet, ready, ripe. Miroku choked at her movements, the way she ground herself against him like she couldn't wait another second.

Because she couldn't. She did not know this man, this stranger, but she could taste her own salvation on his mouth, could feel it in his cock, and could see it in the naked desire in his eyes. And she liked the way he fumbled, trembling slightly as he pulled her panties down so she could step out of them, then pushed her dress up to her waist.

Her hands were as steady as a river current, unzipping him, grasping him, freeing him. She lifted her leg higher and he hooked his elbow under her knee as the tip of his cock melted into her folds. He sighed at the sensation.

"Please," Sango whispered again. "Fuck me."

He didn't smirk. His eyes, violet and black, held hers as he pushed into her, filling her in one thrust. She moaned at the sensation, already primed and slick with want. He didn't give her time to recover as his hips snapped forward, again and again and again, his fingers digging bruises into her hip. She punctuated every hard thrust with a soft cry of pleasure.

She could feel him slide inside of her, could feel his body hot and hard and muscled as he held her up, could feel the stinging scratches of the bricks, could finally feel everything. She could hear the fabric tearing at the zipper in her back. Could see the last blue leave the darkening sky. The sensations were intense, but the wild animal inside of her was still trying to clawing at her. She loved this pleasure, this feeling of being crushed and cherished. Sango couldn't say it with words, but she knew this man could read it in her eyes and he never once looked away.

Sango's mind was wiped clean of anything but the white hot pleasure that was building between her legs. His pace quickened, each thrust coming faster and faster until it matched her own beating heart. It was in that moment, when Sango could actually once again feel her heart in her chest, that she came. Her orgasm was violent and hard, her body struggling against the hard metal and brick as it strained to keep contact with the man who was giving her such brutal delight.

Miroku continued to thrust until her orgasm was fully spent and she felt boneless in his arms. But it would not do for him to be unsatisfied. She began to undulate against him, encouraging him to continue.

And he did. His hips snapped into hers again and again, keeping a faster pace. Then, as his thrusts became deeper, wilder, as his eyes began to widen, Sango whispered "Come inside of me."

And he did. He pressed his whole weight against Sango, pinning her to the wall as his hips jerked erratically and he growled into her ear. She could feel his come start to slide down her thigh and the thought made her happy. This made her happy. When he was spent, with some effort, he pulled away from her, allowing her feet to again touch the ground. Sango pushed her dress back down and Miroku tucked himself back into his pants.

"I shouldn't have done that," he finally said with a guilty look.

Sango laughed. The absurdity of the entire situation caused the hilarity to bubble and she laughed for the first time since the accident and it felt like something loosened inside of her. Of the two of them, she was far more likely to be in trouble with what just transpired. But she couldn't find an ounce of guilt or regret anywhere inside of her about what just happened.

It might be the sex, it might be the defiance, or it might be just that it was time that she started living again, but all of this seemed perfect and right. She was thankful.

"Miroku?" she asked, testing the name on her tongue.

He nodded with a small smile.

"I think you should take me home."

And finally, he smirked, and Sango didn't mind it at all. "I think that's a good idea. I'd like to talk to you. I have a... proposition."

Sango giggled. "Okay. But first, why don't you see if there are a couple of leftover steaks from inside. I want to eat until I blow out the seams of this dress."

Miroku nodded and ducked back into the building. Sango smiled. She was a little bloody, filthy, and torn. She had knowingly committing adultery with a stranger in a public alleyway. But for the first time since the accident, her conscience felt clear. She was living again. She had a taste for life, not only pleasure, but, she was realizing, truth and justice. And she had a suspicion that if she followed Miroku on whatever path he was on, she might find all three again for herself.