21
Rina
The apartment door closes behind me, the sound oddly quiet against the weight pressing down on my chest. For a moment, I stand in the darkness. My dress clings to my skin, damp from sweat, and everything that happened with Oliver. I feel suspended in the quiet aftermath of something I can’t undo.
I drop my clutch on the counter and lean against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. My nerves haven’t stopped buzzing since we fucked in the bathroom. Since he forced me to admit that what I feel runs deeper than surface-level lust.
You have feelings for me. Stop trying to deny it.
The line loops through my mind like a refrain I can’t silence.
I kick off my heels and head straight for the bathroom. The tile is cool beneath my feet, and steam rises the second I twist the knob, the hiss of water filling the silence. After stripping down, I step under the spray. The water beats against my shoulders, washing away the makeup, the perfume, the illusion of composure I wore to dinner.
What it doesn’t wash away is him.
His scent.
His touch.
It doesn’t wash away the sound of my voice breaking when I begged him to bury his cock deep inside me.
I press my palms to the wall and bow my head.
“It was a mistake,” I whisper. “Nothing more than sex.”
Even as I say it, my throat tightens around the lie.
What we did wasn’t just physical.
It was a reckoning.
He doesn’t just make me lose control.
He makes me want to lose control.
In the past, control has always meant safety. But with him, safety feels like a cage, and danger feels like freedom.
Once my fingers turn pruney, I dry off and wrap myself in a towel. Only then do I catch my reflection in the mirror. My lips are swollen, my neck marked, my hair a wild mess. I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror.
What Oliver makes me feel is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. I come alive under his hands. He’s the only one capable of making my brain click off until there’s nothing left but sensation.
It’s addictive.
Scary.
And there’s a part of me that wants more.
Wants all of him.
I’ve never felt so conflicted in my life.
I wander into the living room with the towel knotted tight around me. On the side table, a framed photo of my mother catches the reflection of the moonlight. Her smile is perfectly composed, pearls at her throat, posture flawless. It was taken right after my father walked out.
I remember that day.
She’d dressed us in our Sunday best and insisted we pose for the camera, like holding still could make everything stop unraveling around us. But if you looked close enough, you could see the strain in her eyes.
The first lesson she ever taught me was how to make survival look effortless.
