Chapter Five: Addicted

Chapter Five: Addicted

The footsteps were never real.

Grace wakes tangled in wet sheets and her own sweat, limbs aching, thighs sore with pleasure that still echoes in muscle memory—but she’s alone. The pool is empty, silent beneath the swelling morning sun. No signs of movement, no open door, no hastily snatched towel. Only her breath catching in her throat and the dull throb between her legs to prove that any of it happened.

She lets her fingers drift under the water again. Finds herself still open, still tender. Not a dream, then. Just a ghost of a moment now swallowed by daylight.

He’s already inside.

She doesn’t look for him. Doesn’t need to. He’ll come.

Because he always does now.

**

The sheets are cream. Her mother’s favorites—Egyptian cotton with the faint scent of rose and talcum from her hoarded perfumes. The irony isn’t lost on Grace, not even through the haze of sleep. This room was always off-limits. Sacred. Her mother’s domain.

But Julian fucks her in that bed like it belongs to her now.

She’s asleep when he enters. She hears him only vaguely—soft footsteps, the whisper of fabric, the low creak of the mattress. Then warmth, sudden and full, between her thighs.

A breath, then lips.

A hot, wet press.

Her body reacts before she’s fully conscious—hips rising, legs parting. His mouth is slow, patient, devastating. He licks her like he’s starving, every stroke deep and firm, his hands locking around her thighs to keep her from escaping the rising tide.

She wakes with a moan and threads her fingers through his hair, tilting her pelvis up into him.

“Oh my God—Julian—fuck—”

He growls in response, tongue flattening against her clit before flicking, teasing, circling. He hums into her and the vibration sends her arching off the bed.

Her orgasm takes her by the throat.

She comes shaking, breathless, clamping around his tongue and sobbing his name like a prayer. Her thighs twitch with every aftershock.

He doesn’t stop.

He licks her clean, mouth gentle now, soft presses of his lips to the crease of her inner thigh, the swell of her sex. When he finally rises above her, she grabs his face and kisses him, desperate, messy, tasting herself on his tongue.

“Want you inside me,” she gasps. “Right now. Here. In her bed.”

That last part breaks him.

He groans, low and guttural, and thrusts into her in one long push that draws a sharp cry from her throat. He’s hard and thick, still slick from her, and she stretches to take him again. Always again.

This time there’s no pool, no water, no moonlight to blur the edges. It’s all touch and skin, hot air and the raw sound of flesh on flesh.

He fucks her slow at first, eyes locked to hers.

“You drive me insane,” he says, voice rough.

“You make me want to burn everything down,” she breathes.

“Do it,” he says. “Fucking do it.”

And she does.

She wraps her legs tight around his waist, digs her heels into his back, and meets every thrust with her own. Their rhythm builds, wild and reckless. The headboard knocks lightly against the wall. The mattress creaks.

Her moans rise, higher, sharper. She clutches his back, his shoulders, his face—like she can’t get enough of him, like she’s starving through her skin.

“Harder,” she gasps. “Please—God—don’t stop—”

He pounds into her, gritting his teeth, sweat sliding down his temples.

“Fuck—Grace—I’m gonna—”

“Inside me,” she whispers. “Please—inside—”

He comes with a shuddering growl, burying his face in her neck. His body locks tight above hers, and she feels every throb, every pulse, deep inside.

They lie there for a long time after.

Breathing each other in.

Her fingers trace lazy circles on his back. His lips graze her collarbone.

She doesn’t ask what this means.

She already knows.

**

The addiction begins slow, then fast.

It’s not just the sex, though the sex is always—always—ruinous. It’s the way she feels when he enters a room. When he stands too close behind her at the sink. When she catches his scent on her sheets after he leaves.

She thinks about him constantly.

Dreams about his hands. Fantasizes in the shower, rubbing herself raw under the spray until she comes with his name muffled into her wrist.

She sneaks into his room at night.

He never tells her no anymore.

Sometimes it’s fast—up against the wall, his hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

Sometimes it’s slow—his fingers playing her like piano keys, his mouth lingering for hours, making her beg.

She wants him all the time.

And worse—she wants him only more the longer he gives in.

He’s everywhere. In her blood. Her bones.

Even in the quiet.

Especially then.

**

She finds him one evening by accident.

It’s just past dusk. The house is silent, hushed under the weight of the day’s heat. She’s barefoot in a silk robe, walking back from the laundry room, when she hears the clink of a glass in the sitting room.

She steps inside quietly.

Julian stands by the tall window, shirt half-buttoned, a glass of wine in his hand. He’s not drinking. Just holding it.

Staring.

His face is drawn tight, shadows sunk deep under his eyes. His other hand curls at his side like he’s holding back from smashing the glass to the floor.

He doesn’t hear her.

She watches him.

The guilt etched across his brow. The storm he thinks he’s hiding.

He exhales once, long and shaky.

“Julian?” she says gently.

He turns, startled. The mask snaps back into place, but not fast enough.

She sees it.

The shame.

It cracks something inside her.

She crosses the room slowly, puts a hand on his chest. “Talk to me.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“Please.”

“I can’t lie to you,” he says. “But I can’t tell you the truth either. Because if I do…”

She waits.

“If I do,” he finishes, voice thick, “you’ll never look at me the same again.”

And he turns back to the window, as if that could hold him together.