Chapter 2: The Chase
The bathroom mirror showed me a stranger. Someone with wild eyes and parted lips, cheeks flushed so deep the color crawled down my neck. I'd scrubbed my hands raw under the cold tap, but I could still feel the ghost of my own touch beneath my dress, the slick evidence of what Hugo Vidal had done to me with nothing but his voice and the sight of him buried inside that woman.
I couldn't stay in there. The paper-thin walls of the guest bathroom pressed in on me, the party's laughter and clinking glasses leaking through like accusations. I needed air. Real air, not the recycled kind that tasted of expensive perfume and Chidi's anxiety.
The balcony at the end of the hall was mine. I knew it because no one ever used it. Too small for the social butterflies, too exposed for the smokers who preferred the discreet corner of the garden. It jutted out over the back lawn like an afterthought, a stone ledge barely wide enough for two people.
I pushed the door open and stepped into the night.
The cool air hit my skin like a blessing, raising goosebumps along my bare arms. The garden party shimmered below, fairy lights strung through the hedges, bodies swaying to music I couldn't quite hear from up here. I gripped the balustrade and let the breeze comb through my hair, trying to breathe it all away. The image of Hugo's back flexing. The wet sound. The way he'd looked at me over his shoulder with those hazel eyes, daring me to watch.
The sound of a zipper stopped my heart.
I turned. Hugo stood at the far corner of the balcony, his back to me, one hand braced against the stone. He was pissing off the edge, stream arcing into the darkness below, the pale light from the hallway catching the ripple of muscle under his black t-shirt as he held himself.
I should have walked away. I should have turned on my heel and vanished back into the party, pretended I'd seen nothing. That was the sane thing. The good-girl thing, the one Chidi would have wanted.
Instead, I stood frozen. And watched.
The low hiss of liquid against stone. The casual arrogance of his posture, like he owned this balcony, this house, the air itself. A cigarette burned in his free hand, smoke curling up into the night. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge me at all, even though he must have heard the door open, must have felt my presence settle into the space beside him.
My mouth went dry. My thighs pressed together of their own accord, and I hated myself for it. Hated that the same heat that had flooded me in the study was pooling again, lower and hotter, just from watching him do something so crude.
"No fucking privacy in this house," he said finally, still not turning. His voice was rough, smoke-scarred, the same voice that had purred at me to keep touching myself. "Thought I'd get away from the crowd."
"Obviously not." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Should I leave?"
He laughed, low and short. The sound of the stream stopped, and I heard him zip up, the metallic rasp of it loud in the silence. He turned then, and the sight of him nearly undid me.
He was all shadows and angles, the cigarette glowing orange between his fingers, the scar above his eyebrow catching the light. He leaned against the balustrade, arms crossed, and studied me like I was something funny.
"Hiding from your own party, princess?"
"It's not my party. It's Chidi's."
"Same thing. Everyone here's staring at you, waiting for you to trip and spill something so they can whisper about it." He took a drag. "You always run from the spotlight like a scared deer."
"I wasn't running." I crossed my arms over my chest, mirroring him, feeling the flimsy straps of my dress pull against my shoulders. "I was getting air."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" He dropped the cigarette, ground it out under his boot. "Thought you'd be catching your breath a different way. Alone in that bathroom, thinking about what you saw."
The words hit me like a slap. My cheeks burned, and I was grateful for the dim light that might hide it.
"I wasn't thinking about anything."
"Liar." He stepped closer. Not fast, not aggressive, just a slow drift into my space that somehow swallowed all the distance between us. "You were touching yourself when I saw you. Hand under that green dress, eyes locked on me. You think I forgot that? You think I don't still feel you watching?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" One more step. Close enough now that I could smell him, smoke and leather and something sharp and masculine. "You got hard just watching me swing a leg over that desk. Imagine what you'd do if I had my hands on you instead."
I should have pushed past him. Should have walked back inside, found Chidi, pretended none of this existed. But my feet were rooted to the marble, and worst of all, I could feel it. That treacherous heat between my thighs, damp and aching and utterly unwilling to listen to reason.
"You're disgusting," I said, but my voice came out breathless, and we both heard it.
"Yeah." He was inches away now, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at my temple. "And you're standing here, princess. Could've walked away. Didn't."
His hand came up, and I flinched. But all he did was hook a finger under the gold chain at my throat, the one my grandmother gave me, and tug it gently. The weight of the pendant rested against his knuckle.
"My mother had a necklace like this," he said, almost to himself. "Before everything went to shit."
I stared at him. Somewhere downstairs, someone laughed, bright and careless, and the sound felt a thousand miles away.
"You should go back inside," he said, letting the chain slip from his finger. "Before someone comes looking for the good girl and finds her out here with the bad guy."
There was something in his voice. Not the taunt I expected, but something almost tired. He started to move past me, shoulder brushing mine, and the contact sent a jolt through my whole body.
I caught his wrist.
I don't know why I did it. I just knew I couldn't let him walk away, not with that look on his face, not with my blood still singing from watching him.
He stopped. Turned. His hazel eyes dropped to where my fingers wrapped around his wrist, then rose to meet mine.
"You should have run when you had the chance," he said softly.
Five years of hatred. Five years of sniping and glaring and telling myself I despised him. It all compressed into the space between us, and I tightened my grip on his wrist.
"I'm not running," I said.
The words hung between us, heavier than the smoke that still lingered on his clothes. For a moment, neither of us moved. The distant music from the garden drifted up, a lazy saxophone crooning something mournful, and I could feel the pulse in his wrist jumping under my fingers.
Then his hand closed over mine, rough and warm, and he pulled me toward him.
"Last chance, princess."
I didn't answer. I shoved.
It wasn't graceful. My palms hit his chest, and he stumbled back a step, caught off guard, and his shoulder thudded against the door frame. The sound was loud in the quiet hall, and I half expected someone to come investigate, some nosy aunt or hovering cousin. But the corridor stayed empty, shadows and carpet and the soft ticking of the old grandfather clock.
Hugo stared at me. His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, more like a wolf catching a scent.
"There it is," he said. "The real you."
"Shut up."
I pushed him again. Harder. He let me drive him backward down the hall, his boots scuffing against the runner, until his back hit the door to the guest bedroom. The one nobody used, the one with the heavy oak door and the lock that actually worked.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, breath already rough.
"We're going somewhere."
His eyes flashed. He reached behind himself, twisted the handle, and the door swung open. He caught me by the shoulders and pulled me in after him, and the door clicked shut behind us.
The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow from the streetlamp outside the window. A big bed with a white duvet took up most of the space, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust. It was the kind of room you passed by without thinking, the kind of room that had never seen a single secret.
That was about to change.
Hugo backed me against the wall before I could get my bearings. His hands bracketed my head, caging me in, and he was close enough that I could count the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. The heat of him rolled off in waves, and the scent of smoke and leather flooded my senses.
"Once we start this," he said, voice low and dark, "I'm not stopping because you change your mind. You understand?"
My breath came short. My body thrummed with a current I'd never felt before, a wild electric thing that made my fingers tremble.
"I understand," I said. Or maybe I just mouthed it. I couldn't tell anymore.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I understand, Hugo."
Saying his name felt like breaking a rule. Like giving him something Chidi would never have given away. His jaw tightened, and something hot flared in his eyes, and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and pressure, a claiming that brooked no argument. His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, and he bit my lower lip hard enough to sting. I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping in like he owned the space.
I grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him closer, kissed him back just as fierce. Five years of hatred poured into it, every insult, every glare, every time he'd made me feel small and stupid and seen all at once. I bit him back, tasted copper, and he growled low in his throat.
"Little hellcat," he rasped against my mouth. "All that fire and you hide it behind a cocktail dress."
"It's not a cocktail dress."
"It's coming off."
His hands found the straps, pushed them down my shoulders. The green fabric followed, sliding over my breasts with a whisper of silk, and the cool air hit my skin a second before his mouth did. He kissed down my throat, along my collarbone, his teeth grazing the tendon at the base of my neck.
"Fuck," he muttered, and the profanity sent a shiver down my spine. "You been hiding these all night?"
His thumbs found my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra, rolled them until I gasped, until my hips bucked forward against his. I was already soaked. Embarrassingly, desperately soaked, the wetness of it slick against my thighs, and when his thigh pressed between mine, he felt it.
He pulled back, eyes dark, a smirk curling his mouth.
"All this for me, princess?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Never." He dropped to his knees in front of me. "You'll always be my princess. The one who watches me from the doorway and touches herself anyway."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to deny it. But then his hands hooked into the waistband of my underwear and tore them down my legs like they were nothing, and every thought in my head scattered like sparks.
He looked up at me from between my thighs, his mouth wet, his eyes burning. The streetlight caught the scar above his eyebrow, and I'd never hated anything more beautiful in my life.
"I'm gonna taste you," he said, like it was a fact. "And you're gonna let me."
My hand fisted in his hair. "Just shut up and do it."
He laughed, short and wicked, and then he buried his face between my legs.
The first lick was slow and deliberate, a wide stroke of his tongue that dragged through my wetness and pressed flat against my clit. Heat exploded through me, a shockwave that made my knees buckle, and I grabbed the door frame behind me to stay upright.
"That's it," he murmured against me, the vibration of his voice making me clench. "Let go. I've got you."
He ate me like he'd been starving. His tongue circled, flicked, drove into me, his nose grinding against my clit as he groaned, the sound vibrating through my core. I could feel the snap building, the pressure coiling tight in my belly, and I was seconds away.
"Not yet," he said, pulling back just enough to slick his fingers in me. "I want you on the bed. On your hands and knees."
I almost protested. Almost. But my body moved before my brain could catch up, stumbling toward the bed, my dress pooling around my waist, my knees sinking into the duvet. I heard his belt buckle clink, the rasp of his zipper, and when I looked back over my shoulder, his cock was in his hand.
Long and thick, the head glistening in the dim light. My mouth went dry.
"Watch," he said, and he'd never sounded more like himself. "Watch me put my cock inside you, princess."
The head pressed against my entrance, slick with me already. He didn't push. He just held it there, teasing, and I could feel myself pulsing around nothing.
"Hugo," I breathed. "Just do it."
He did.
He drove in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the root, and the sound I made was animal. The stretch was blinding, a white-hot burn that turned to pleasure fast, and he filled me like he'd been made for the shape of me.
"Fuck," he gasped, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking tight. And you said you hated me."
"I do," I gasped.
"No you don't." He pulled out slow, then slammed back in, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet room. "Look at you. Taking all of me. This is what hate looks like?"
I couldn't answer. Just moaned and pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, my nails shredding the duvet. The world narrowed to this, to the drag of his cock inside me, to the heat building between my legs, to everything I'd denied myself for five stupid years.
The world narrowed to this, to the drag of his cock inside me, to the heat building between my legs, to everything I'd denied myself for five stupid years.
His hands found my hips and yanked me back harder, meeting each thrust with a violence that should have scared me. It didn't. It lit me up, turned my blood to something molten, and I pushed back against him with everything I had.
"That's it," he growled, his voice ragged and wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it."
The bedframe slammed against the wall with every drive of his hips. The sound of us, wet and obscene, filled the room, and I was beyond shame, beyond thought, beyond anything but the thick, aching fullness of him inside me.
"Hugo," I gasped. "Hugo, I'm going to... I can't..."
"Good." His hand slid around my hip, fingers finding my clit, and he worked me in rough circles while he fucked me. "Come for me, princess. Come all over my cock, and I'll give you what you need."
The pressure snapped. My orgasm crashed through me like a wave, stealing my breath, my sight, my sense of the world. I came with a cry that I couldn't swallow, my body clenching around him in violent pulses, my thighs shaking as he kept driving into me through the aftershocks.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, yes."
I was still trembling when he pulled out. The sudden emptiness made me whimper, and I collapsed onto my forearms, my cheek against the duvet, my ass still raised in the air.
"Not inside you," he said, and his voice was dark and thick with want. "Not yet. I want to see it on you."
His hand wrapped around his cock, and I watched over my shoulder as he stroked himself. The slick sound of it, the way his jaw was tight and his eyes on me, made my breath catch.
"Don't turn away," he said. "Watch me come on your ass, princess."
The first rope of it hit my lower back, hot and thick, and I gasped. The second splashed across my ass cheek, the third landing lower, smearing against my crack. He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and pumped himself until he was empty, streaks of white painting my skin.
"Fuck," he panted. "Fuck."
I lay there, cheek pressed to the duvet, feeling the slick warmth of him cooling on my skin. My body was still thrumming, my thighs slick with my own wetness, and the sight of his come dripping down the curve of my ass made something in my chest twist.
He collapsed onto the bed beside me, not touching, just breathing hard. The streetlight cut across his face, catching the scar above his eyebrow and the sheen of sweat on his throat. He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"Come here," he said finally, voice rough but softer than before.
I didn't move. I couldn't. The weight of what we'd just done pressed down on me, heavier than the come drying on my skin.
"Adaeze."
My name in his mouth was strange. He'd never said it before, not like that, not with something almost gentle underneath the smoke and grit.
I turned onto my side, looking at him. He was looking at me too, and for once, there was no taunt in his eyes. Just something tired. Something raw.
"I should go," I whispered.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "You should."
Neither of us moved.
The clock in the hall chimed, distant and muffled through the door. The party still raged downstairs, and I knew Chidi would be looking for me soon, the devoted brother checking on his baby sister.
"Aren't you going to say something?" I asked. "Make a joke about it?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out, his thumb brushing the curve of my hip, wiping a smear of his come away. He lifted it to his mouth, tasted it, and his eyes stayed on mine.
"No joke," he said. "You're not as good as everyone thinks you are. And I'm worse than you think I am. We're even."
"Is that what this was? Evening a score?"
The thumb on my hip stilled. Something flickered across his face, too quick to name.
"It was whatever you want it to be, princess."
I hated him for that. For putting it back on me, for making me decide, for the way his come was still cooling on my skin and I still wanted him.
The door clicked open. I scrambled for my dress, pulling it up over my shoulders, not bothering to find my ruined underwear. Hugo sat up, watching me with dark, hooded eyes, his cock soft and glistening between his thighs.
"We can't tell Chidi," I said.
"Never." He said it without hesitation, and something in my gut twisted. He'd say that about any girl. I was just another notch.
"Good," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt.
I walked to the door, my bare feet silent on the carpet. My hand was on the handle when he spoke again.
"Adaeze."
I stopped. Didn't turn.
"Come back tomorrow night." His voice was low, almost too quiet to hear. "Same place. If you want."
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I didn't answer. I opened the door and stepped out into the hall, and the lamplight of the corridor blinded me after the darkness of that room.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I stood there, hand pressed to my chest, and the come on my skin was just starting to dry. I could feel it in the space between my thighs too, my own wetness still slick, the evidence of what I'd done printed on me like a confession.
I walked back toward the party, and I didn't let myself think about whether I'd be back tomorrow night.
But I knew the answer.