Chapter 3

ELARA

I lose count after the fourth or fifth orgasm. Time dissolves into sweat and teeth and the wet slap of bodies. At some point, he ties my wrists to the headboard with his belt. At another, he spreads me open on the bathroom counter, watching in the mirror as he takes me apart with his tongue. 

We were at it the whole time, only stopping to eat and refuel. He feeds me from his fingers in the kitchen, then bends me over the marble island and licks the juice from my thighs before sliding back inside. I return the favor on my knees in the hallway, taking him deep until he fists my hair and groans like an animal. Later, I ride him on the living-room rug, his hands bruising my hips, and my nails carving crescents into his chest until he flips me and finishes with my legs over his shoulders.

We christened every surface in his house. The glass dining table. The velvet chaise by the window. The shower wall where he pins me and fucks me until the water runs cold. My body learns muscles I never knew existed, a sweet, aching proof that I’m alive and ruined.

Sometime after dawn on Monday, he finally stills. He’s on his back, with one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. The city outside is pale gold. I’m curled against his side, his black silk shirt, monogrammed D.C., draped over me like a gown. It smells like him and sex.

I should sleep. Instead, I watch the rise and fall of his ribs and feel the panic creep in.

This ends at sunrise. That’s the rule of one-night stands, isn’t it? Except I don’t even know his name. Except I let him inside me raw, let him mark me, and let him own me in ways no one has ever even done. Except I’m terrified of what happens when he wakes up and sees me in the light.

I slip from the bed. My legs nearly give out. Between my thighs, I’m swollen, tender, and marked. I find my dress in the laundry room...cleaned, pressed, and the tear mended with tiny stitches. My shoes are by the door. My panties were not in sight, and I don't see another one.

I pull on the dress. His shirt hangs to mid-thigh; I keep it. My phone is dead in my clutch. I use the landline in the kitchen to order a taxi to the address I memorized from the mail on the counter: Blackwood Tower, Penthouse 3.

The driver says ten minutes.

I pad back to the bedroom. He hasn’t moved. Moonlight carves shadows across his scars, the wolf tattoo over his heart rising with each breath. I want to crawl back in and snuggle with him.

I do neither.

I leave the keycard on the nightstand and leave, not bothering to leave any note. Just the faint scent of sex and the ghost of my mouth on his skin.

The elevator down is silent. The lobby is empty except for the night doorman, who doesn’t look up. Outside, the city is waking, with delivery trucks, early joggers, and the smell of coffee and exhaust.

The taxi idles at the curb. I slide in, barefoot, clutching my shoes. “Williamsburg,” I say. “Kent Avenue.”

The driver pulls away, and I don’t look back.

 I don’t remember the ride home. Only the slam of my apartment door and how cold it feels as I step in. I lock the door, deadbolt, and chain, then lean against it and slide to the floor. My legs won’t hold me. I still smell like him: cedar, sweat, and sex. I sit there until my tailbone goes numb. I strip in the hallway, leave his shirt in a heap, and stumble to the shower.

The water is scalding. I scrub until my skin is raw, but I can still feel him, his hands, his mouth, and the way he watched me come apart like it was art, the drag of his stubble on my inner thigh, the bite on my shoulder, and the way he held my hips like he was claiming territory. I sit on the tile and cry until I’m empty.

I called in sick. “Food poisoning,” I lie. My voice is hoarse from all the screaming. HR transfers me to my supervisor. Take the day, Elara. Rest. I hang up and crawl into bed.

The silence is worse than screaming.

I crawl into bed naked and shivering. The sheets are clean. They smell nothing like him. I hate it, and I hate this situation.

Sleep doesn’t come. Instead: flashbacks. Elena’s voice: “I told him exactly what to say to make you fall.” Lucas’s mouth on her neck in the selfie she sent. Then...worse...him. The man who has made me understand the needs I have been subduing. The way he looked at me was like I was prey and prize in the same breath. The way I begged.

Tears clouded my eyes until everything became a blur; I mourned my past and the girl I would never get to be. I cried until the pillow was soaked, and I’m hollow.

I turned off my phone, closed the blinds, and went to sleep

At some point, I woke to hunger but could only find saltines in the cupboard. I chew one dry and choke it down with tap water that tastes like rust. My stomach revolted immediately, and I threw up in the sink.

The bruises bloom darker. Fingerprints on my hips. A perfect crescent of teeth on my breast. I trace them in the bathroom mirror and hate how my body clenches at the memory.

I sleep in fits. Dreaming of his voice and hands on me." I wake up wet and aching, fingers between my legs before I’m conscious. I come with a sob, wondering how I will continue to live with this monster that has been awakened in me. I order a dildo after searching for help online.

By Tuesday morning, the alarm I forgot to disable blared at 6:30. I slap it silent. My body is a war zone with my muscles screaming, core throbbing, and thighs sticky with dried arousal. I have to go to work. I have to face Lucas and hope that my job is not tampered with.