Chapter 3: Midnight Fantasies
The vanilla-scented diffuser on the nightstand offered no comfort. It was a cloying mask, failing to cover the deeper, more visceral smell of sex that clung to Brooke’s skin, a phantom scent she was sure Dominic must notice. He slept beside her, one arm thrown heavily across her waist, his breathing deep and even. The digital clock glowed 2:17 AM.
Every muscle in her body was wire-tight.
Behind her closed lids, the memory played on a relentless loop: the slam of tile against her spine, the scorching water, the brutal, perfect fullness as Oliver drove into her. The way he’d looked at her afterwards—like a chore he’d finished. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cool room air traveled down her spine and settled, hot and low, in her gut.
Her hand moved of its own volition.
Under the crisp white duvet, her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her cotton shorts. She was still slick, swollen, sensitive from the shower. From him. She traced her folds, a sharp intake of breath catching in her throat. She pressed her thighs together, trapping her own hand, applying a delicious pressure.
In her mind, it wasn’t her touch. It was his. Oliver’s long, sure fingers, calloused from grips and barres, parting her, testing her wetness just as he had. She imagined his mouth, that cruel, beautiful mouth, on her neck again. His voice, gritty in her ear. Dominic never makes you this wet.
Her middle finger found her clit, a slow, circling torture. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a sharp counterpoint to the building pleasure. She arched her back slightly, subtly, her hips rocking a tiny, desperate rhythm against her own hand. The image shifted. Now he was behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his cock, thicker than she remembered, pushing back inside, stretching her open, claiming her from behind—
“You awake?”
Dominic’s voice, slurry with sleep, shattered the fantasy.
Her hand froze. Her eyes flew open. She stared at the faint silhouette of the framed photo across the room—her and her mom, all smiling teeth and trophies. A lifetime ago.
“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice stran-gled. “Just… can’t sleep. Long day.”
He shifted, his arm tightening around her. He nuzzled into the back of her neck, and she stiffened. Would he smell Oliver there? Beneath the vanilla, beneath his own cologne?
“Mmm. You feel tense.” His hand, warm and familiar, slid down from her waist, over her hip. “Want me to help?”
It was a sweet offer. A loving offer. It made her want to scream.
“I’m okay,” she said, too quickly.
But his hand kept going, dipping under the elastic of her shorts, his fingers seeking the very place hers had just been. He stilled. He knew her body, every fold, every response. The excessive wetness he found was not the slow build of sleepiness, not the result of his touch.
His breathing changed. The sleepy rhythm was gone.
“Brooke.” His voice was clear now. Alert.
“Dom, I’m just tired,” she said, trying to wriggle away, but his arm became an iron bar.
“You’re soaking.” There was no warmth in the observation. It was an accusation.
He rolled her onto her back before she could protest. In the dim light from the window, his face was all shadows and hard lines. The beloved childhood friend was gone, replaced by a stranger with jealous, searching eyes. He pinned her wrists to the pillow on either side of her head.
“Did you touch yourself?” he asked, his knee pushing her thighs apart. “Thinking about something? Someone?”
“No,” she breathed, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs. “It’s just… the dance. The physicality gets me worked up sometimes. You know that.”
He studied her face. She could feel the lie, oily and thick, between them. With a grunt, he released one wrist and yanked her shorts and underwear down her legs in one rough motion. He didn’t undress. He just unbuttoned his pajama pants, freed himself, and guided his cock to her entrance. He was hard, but it was an angry, rigid hardness.
“Dominic, wait—”
He didn’t wait. He shoved into her with none of Oliver’s calculated, devastating control. This was pure, unadulterated possession. A reclamation. It was dry where she wasn't ready, a burning, unpleasant stretch that made her gasp in pain.
“Fuck,” he muttered, feeling her resistance. He pulled out, spat into his own hand, slicked himself, and pushed back in. It was marginally better, wetter, but the gesture was so crude, so transactional, it turned her stomach.
He fucked her with a steady, punishing rhythm, his eyes on her face, watching for a flinch, a flicker of dishonesty. She turned her head to the side, staring at the bookshelf, at the dance manuals. Technique. Form. Discipline. She felt split in two. The lower half of her was a vessel, being used. The upper half was floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching this sad, angry boy try to fuck a ghost out of her.
“Look at me,” he demanded, gripping her chin, forcing her face back to his.
She met his gaze. Her eyes were dry. Wide. Blank.
This seemed to enrage him further. His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming shallower, more frantic. He was chasing his own release, using her body as a means to an end. The headboard knocked a dull, rhythmic tattoo against the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a failing heart.
His climax, when it came, was a silent, tense shudder. He buried his face in her neck with a muffled groan, his hips stuttering against hers. He didn't kiss her. He just collapsed, his weight suddenly heavy and suffocating.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The smell of sex was different now. It was theirs. It was bitter.
He rolled off her, onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The space between them in the bed felt like a canyon.
“Where were you today?” he asked, the question hanging in the dark like a guillotine blade. “Really.”
She closed her eyes. The phantom scent of citrus soap and steam filled her nostrils. She saw the water beading on Oliver’s shoulders, the dismissive coldness in his eyes after he’d taken what he wanted.
“At the studio,” she said, the truth and the lie twisting together. “Just dancing.”
Dominic didn’t answer. The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation. It was the sound of trust fracturing, a hairline crack spreading through the foundation of everything they’d built. She knew he didn’t believe her. And lying there, feeling his come leak out onto her thighs, she found she didn’t have the energy to care.
The clock glowed 2:49 AM. The night stretched on, endless and hollow. Somewhere across town, in a sleek, silent penthouse, Oliver Payne slept the untroubled sleep of a man who had already gotten what he wanted.
Brooke lay perfectly still, caught between the weight of the arm Dominic eventually threw back over her, and the searing, shameful memory of a shower stall that felt more like home than this pristine, pastel room ever could.