Chapter 6: The Hideout
The night air was cool against my skin as I slipped out the back gate of my parents' house, the metal latch clicking softly behind me. I'd told my mother I was going to bed early with a headache, a lie that tasted bitter on my tongue but slid out easy enough. She'd patted my cheek and told me to rest, and I'd felt the weight of her trust like a stone in my chest.
But I couldn't stay in that house. Not when I knew he was waiting.
Hugo had texted me the address earlier that evening, a string of numbers and street names that led to the wrong side of town. I'd typed it into my phone, stared at it for ten minutes, and then deleted it so no one would find it. Paranoia was a new habit I was developing, one that came with a slick of shame and excitement every time I thought about why I needed it.
The streets grew darker as I walked. The neat rows of suburban houses gave way to cramped apartment buildings with rusted fire escapes and windows covered in duct tape. I'd never been to this part of the city before, never had a reason to. Now I was walking through it in a thin jacket and jeans, my heart hammering against my ribs with every step.
His building was the last one on the block, a squat brick structure that looked like it had been abandoned and then reclaimed by people with nowhere else to go. The front door was propped open with a cinder block, and the hallway smelled like stale smoke and fried food. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, my footsteps echoing in the dim light, and found his door at the end of the hall. Apartment 3B. The numbers were peeling.
I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated. What was I doing here? This was Hugo Vidal's apartment. The man I'd called a thug, a reckless waste of space, a bad influence on my brother. The man I'd let fuck me twice, no three times now, on surfaces that should have been sacred. I should turn around. I should go home and pretend this never happened.
The door swung open before I could decide.
Hugo stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of his apartment. He was wearing a worn t-shirt and sweats, his hair mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. His hazel eyes found mine, and something in his expression shifted, softened, sharpened all at once.
"You came," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't expected it despite the text he'd sent me.
"I said I would."
He stepped aside, and I walked past him into his apartment.
The space was small, cramped, with a single window that looked out onto a fire escape and the brick wall of the building next door. The couch was sagging in the middle, covered in a blanket that had seen better days. There was a kitchenette in the corner with dirty dishes stacked in the sink, and a hallway that led to what I assumed was his bedroom. The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, leather, and something else, something uniquely him. Cheap cologne, maybe. I couldn't tell.
I turned to face him, and he was already watching me.
"Nice place," I said, the lie thin.
He laughed, a low sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's a shithole. I know. But it's mine."
I walked deeper into the room, my fingers trailing over the back of the couch, the dust on the windowsill. This was where he lived. Where he slept, ate, existed. It was so different from my world, so far from the clean lines and polished surfaces of my parents' house. And yet, somehow, it felt more real than any room I'd ever been in.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," Hugo said, his voice low behind me.
I froze, my hand stilling on the windowsill.
"All day," he continued. "Every fucking second. I kept checking my phone, waiting for you to tell me you changed your mind. Kept thinking about how you'd look walking through that door."
I turned to face him. He was closer than I'd expected, barely a foot away, his arms crossed over his chest like he was holding himself back. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something I couldn't name.
"This isn't just a game anymore, is it?" I asked.
He shook his head slowly. "No. It stopped being a game the second I saw you watching me in that study. I've been lying to myself, telling myself I could just fuck you and walk away. But that's not..."
He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. It was the most unguarded I'd ever seen him, the most human. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but so was something else. Something fragile.
"What is it then?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't know." He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw the boy he must have been before the world hardened him. "But I know I can't stop. And I know I'm tired of pretending I want to."
My chest tightened. I'd come here expecting sex, expecting the rough hands and the dirty words and the rush of being taken by a man who shouldn't want me. I hadn't expected this, the raw honesty that left me feeling like I was standing on the edge of something I couldn't name.
I stepped closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. "Show me," I said. "Show me why you can't stop."
His eyes flared, and then his hands were in my hair, pulling me into a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was desperate, hungry, like he was trying to devour me and memorize me all at once. I moaned against his mouth, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and he backed me up until my hips hit the edge of the sink.
"Fuck, Ada," he breathed against my lips. "You don't know what you do to me."
"Show me," I said again, and he lifted me onto the counter, spreading my thighs with his hands and pressing himself against me. I could feel him through the thin cotton of his sweats, hard and insistent, and I arched into him, wanting more.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving. "You're really here. In my place. After everything."
"I'm here," I said, and I meant it.
He stared at me for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Then he moved, sliding his hands under my thighs and lifting me off the counter like I weighed nothing. I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist and gripping his shoulders as he carried me through the apartment.
His bedroom was smaller than I'd imagined, just enough space for a bed with rumpled sheets and a nightstand cluttered with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a worn paperback. The window was open a crack, letting in the cold night air and the distant sound of traffic. There was a framed photograph on the wall, a woman with dark hair and kind eyes, and I recognized the shape of her face in his.
"My mom," he said, noticing my gaze. "Only thing I kept from her place."
I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't have sounded hollow.
He lowered me onto the bed, his body following mine down until he was braced over me, his weight a warm pressure against my thighs. The mattress sagged beneath us, the springs creaking, and I felt the rough cotton of the sheets against my bare arms. Everything smelled like him here, concentrated, like the air itself had absorbed him.
"You have no idea how many times I've thought about having you in this bed," he said, his voice rough. "Imagined you here. In my space. Where I sleep."
"I'm here now," I reminded him, my hands sliding up his arms, tracing the coil of the snake tattoo.
He lowered his head, his lips brushing my jaw, my throat, the curve of my shoulder. He kissed me like he was memorizing the feel of my skin, slow and deliberate, and I tilted my head back to give him more access. His hands found the hem of my shirt, and he pulled it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to drag it over my head.
His eyes traveled down my body, taking in the plain black bra I'd chosen, the curve of my waist, the way my jeans hugged my hips. "You're so fucking beautiful, Ada. Every time. I can't get over it."
I reached for him then, pulling his shirt off and running my hands over his chest. His skin was warm, the muscles tensing under my touch, and I traced the lines of his body like I was reading a map. The scar above his eyebrow, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his breath hitched when my fingers grazed his nipples.
"Take these off," I said, tugging at his sweatpants.
He laughed, low and rough, and shifted back just enough to shove them down his hips. His cock sprang free, already hard and leaking, and I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around the length of him. He groaned, his head dropping forward, and I stroked him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightened.
"Fuck, Ada. You're going to kill me."
"That's the plan," I said, and he laughed again, but it dissolved into a groan as I leaned forward and took him in my mouth. I'd never done this before, not until him, not until the night I'd found him on that balcony and everything had changed. But I'd learned fast, and the sounds he made, the way his fingers twisted in my hair, told me I was doing it right.
I worked my mouth along his length, taking him deep, my hand twisting at the base. He swore under his breath, his hips bucking slightly, and then he pulled me off him with a rough sound, dragging me up the bed.
"Not like that," he said, his voice strained. "Not the first time in my bed. I want to be inside you."
He stripped off my jeans and panties in one motion, leaving me naked beneath him, and then he was between my thighs, his mouth finding my clit. I cried out, my back arching off the mattress as his tongue worked me, slow and teasing, like he had all the time in the world. He spread me open with his fingers, licking and sucking until I was trembling, my fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Please," I gasped. "Hugo, please."
He looked up at me, his mouth slick, his eyes dark. "Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
His grin was wicked, and then he was moving up my body, his cock pressing against my entrance. He held my gaze as he pushed inside, inch by inch, filling me until I couldn't breathe. I'd taken him before, but it never got easier, that initial stretch, that overwhelming fullness. I clawed at his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You feel even better than I remembered."
He started moving, slow and deep, his hips grinding against mine with each thrust. His hand found my thigh, hiking it higher, and he angled himself to hit that spot that made me see stars. I moaned, my head falling back, and he leaned down to kiss my throat, my chest, my mouth.
"You're so tight," he groaned against my lips. "So fucking perfect."
I could feel the tension building, coiling low in my belly, and I dug my nails into his back. "Harder," I demanded. "Fuck me harder."
He obliged, his movements roughening, losing the careful edge. The bed creaked beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall, and I didn't care who heard. I let him take me, let him pound into me until I was nothing but sensation, nothing but the feel of him inside me.
"Come for me," he said, his voice a command. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
I shattered. My body convulsed around him, my cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed me through it. He followed moments later, his thrusts stuttering as he spilled inside me, a guttural groan torn from his throat.
We lay there afterward, tangled together, our breathing ragged. His head rested on my chest, his hand tracing lazy circles on my hip. The room was quiet, except for the distant traffic and the sound of our hearts slowing.
"Stay," he said softly. "Tonight. Don't go home."
I should have said no. I should have gotten dressed and slipped back through that gate before anyone noticed I was gone. But his bed was warm, and his arms were around me, and for the first time in days, I didn't feel like I was lying to anyone.
"Okay," I whispered.
He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes, letting the weight of the night pull me under.