I left her exactly where she belongs, passed out in my bed. And still, she haunts me. Her scent. Her voice. The way her lip trembles.
She should’ve been a novelty. Something beautiful I could bend and break and discard when I was done.
But I can’t stop.
I try to push her out, I do, but she seeps back in, filling the spaces between thoughts, wrapping around my discipline like vines. I hate it. I hate her for it. For making me want to go faster, for making my hands tighten on the wheel—like getting back to her a few seconds sooner might let me breathe again.
The car won’t move fast enough.
Everything feels too slow; the road, the sky, the rhythm of my pulse. I’m chewing on the inside of my cheek, jaw tight, willing the engine to give me more.
I said I’d stop holding myself back, that I’d take what I want, no restraint, no delay.
But it’s not in my nature to let go. Not fully. I feel like I’ll disappear without it.
Because if I do...if I unravel the leash even an inch too far...I don’t know what I’ll do to her. Or for her.
Finally back upstate and out of the city, it's just past two in the morning when I pull through the gates of the estate. It's dead quiet. Most of the staff are gone, and the lights are low. Cold air hits me when I step out of the car.
I head straight inside, with no detours, no calls, and no drinks.
She's not in our room.
That irritates me immediately.
The bed’s untouched, and her side still made. Her glass of water hasn’t moved since yesterday. I check the bathroom and find nothing.
I already know where she is before I finish turning around.
Back in the room where I put her when she first arrived. Technically hers, sure, but it hasn't really been hers in weeks. Not since she started sleeping in mine. In ours.
I walk down the hallway slowly. The west wing's colder. Quieter. The place still smells like varnish and linen, as if the staff has been trying to make it feel alive.
When I push the door open, she’s in bed, half-covered by the duvet, sprawled across the center like she didn’t care how she landed. The lamp on the far table is still on, low and warm.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my black t-shirts. Thin cotton that hits high on her thighs. No panties, no bra, with her legs tangled in the sheets. Skin bare, neck flushed like she fell asleep angry.
She’s so beautiful like this.
She stirs a little, feeling my eyes on her.
“You’re back.” Her voice is scratchy from sleep, or from holding back whatever she wanted to scream before she passed out.
“Yeah.”
She sits slowly and runs a hand through her sleep-tangled hair, letting out a small yawn. She shakes her head, eyes avoiding mine, and it feels like a punch in the gut. I want to smell her. She’s the best in the middle of the night, all full of sleep and her sweet floral smell.
"So you just fuck me, choke me until I pass out, and leave without saying goodbye."
God, this snobby woman.
“Something like that.”
Still not looking at me. That’s intentional. She’s pretending it doesn’t matter that I’m just now walking in.
But I know the space between her legs would tell me otherwise.
“Why this room?” I ask.
