Chapter 2: He Texts, She Dares Him to Come
The Uber smelled like stale cigarettes and vanilla air freshener, a combination that made Vera's stomach turn. She cracked the window, letting the cold night air slap her face, but it didn't help. Nothing helped. The city lights blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, and she watched them without really seeing them, her mind stuck on a loop she couldn't break.
His mouth. His hands. The way he'd looked at her like she was something to be consumed.
She pressed her thighs together, a futile attempt to suppress the ache that had settled deep in her bones. It didn't work. It only made it worse.
The driver, an older man with graying temples and a quiet demeanor, didn't try to make conversation. Vera was grateful for that. She didn't have the energy to pretend she was okay. She didn't have the energy to be anything other than what she was—a mess of contradictions, a woman who'd just been used as a pawn and couldn't stop thinking about the man who'd moved her across the board.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out, squinting at the screen.
Bree: Vera please talk to me
Bree: I'm so sorry
Bree: I didn't know he was going to do that
Vera stared at the messages, her jaw tightening. Didn't know. Bullshit. Bree had known exactly what was going to happen. She'd orchestrated it, served Vera up on a silver platter like a goddamn hors d'oeuvre.
She typed back, her thumbs jabbing at the screen: You knew. Don't lie to me.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then:
Bree: I didn't know he would do THAT. I swear. Damien just said his boss wanted to meet you. That's all.
Vera: And you didn't think to warn me?
Bree: I thought it would be fine. I thought you'd just... talk.
Vera: Talk. Right. Because that's what happened.
She shoved the phone back into her clutch and didn't wait for a response. The Uber pulled up to her building—a crumbling brick walk-up on the edge of the city, the kind of place that had more character than safety—and she practically threw herself out of the car.
The stairs creaked under her heels as she climbed to the third floor. Her apartment was a disaster, as always. Half-empty wine bottles lined the kitchen counter, their dark contents catching the dim light from the flickering bulb in the hallway. Crumpled receipts and takeout menus covered the coffee table. The air smelled like cheap perfume and something faintly burnt from the stove, a reminder of the time she'd tried to make pasta at 3 AM and passed out before the water boiled.
She kicked off her heels, tossed her clutch onto the couch, and headed straight for the bathroom.
The shower was scalding. Perfect.
Steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror, blurring the world into something soft and indistinct. Vera stepped under the spray and let the water pound against her skin, her shoulders, her back. She scrubbed herself raw, trying to wash away the memory of his mouth, his hands, the way he'd looked at her like he could see straight through to the marrow of her bones.
It didn't work.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The dark eyes. The rolled-up sleeves. The way he'd dropped to his knees without hesitation, without asking, without anything but that raw, predatory certainty.
She'd never been wanted like that before.
She'd never wanted to be wanted like that before.
Vera turned off the water and stood there, dripping, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The mirror was useless, a fogged-up blur. She wiped a hand across it, revealing her own reflection—dark hair plastered to her face, green eyes wide and wild, lips still swollen from his kiss.
Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
She reached for it, her hand still wet, and squinted at the screen. Unknown number. No name, no contact, just a string of digits that made her pulse spike for reasons she couldn't explain.
The message was a single line: You left before I finished.
Vera's heart slammed against her ribs.
She stared at the words, her mind racing. How did he get her number? Damien. Of course. Damien had given it to him, just like Damien had given him everything else. Her location. Her name. Her body.
She should ignore it. She should block the number and pretend this never happened. She should—
Her thumbs moved before her brain could catch up.
You're gonna have to do better than that.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
The response came almost instantly. I know exactly what you taste like. And I'm parked outside.
Vera's breath caught in her throat.
She walked to the window, her towel—the only thing she'd grabbed after her shower—wrapped tight around her body. The street below was quiet, a few cars parked along the curb, a streetlamp casting a pool of yellow light on the cracked pavement.
And there it was. A black SUV, sleek and expensive, idling at the end of the block. The windows were tinted, impossible to see through, but she knew. She knew he was in there. Watching. Waiting.
Her phone buzzed again.
Open the door.
Vera's hand trembled as she lowered the phone. She should say no. She should tell him to fuck off, to go back to whatever dark corner of the world he'd crawled out of. She should be smarter than this.
But she wasn't.
She was tired of being smart. Tired of being careful. Tired of pretending she didn't want exactly what he was offering.
She walked to the door.
The lock clicked open. The chain rattled as she unhooked it. And then she was standing there, her towel the only barrier between her and the cold air of the hallway, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
He was already there.
She didn't know how he'd gotten up the stairs so fast—maybe he'd been waiting, maybe he'd followed her, maybe he'd done this a hundred times before. She didn't care. All she could see was him, filling the doorway like a shadow given form, his dark eyes fixed on her with that same predatory intensity she'd seen on the balcony.
He didn't say a word.
He just stepped forward, into her space, into her apartment, and she fell back instinctively. The door clicked shut behind him. The lock didn't turn. She didn't care.
His hand came up, fingers brushing the edge of her towel where it met her collarbone. Then he pushed.
The towel dropped.
Vera stood there, naked, exposed, her skin still damp from the shower. She should have felt vulnerable. She should have felt ashamed. She felt neither. She felt alive.
His eyes moved over her, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of her body like he was memorizing it. The curves of her hips. The fullness of her breasts. The phoenix tattoo that arched across her back. The octopus that curled around her hip. He looked at all of it, and his jaw tightened.
"You got in the shower," he said. His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraping against silk. "Trying to wash me off?"
Vera lifted her chin. "Trying to remember what soap felt like."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Then he moved.
He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, pushing her back toward the bedroom. She stumbled, her bare feet catching on the edge of the rug, but he didn't let her fall. He just kept moving, his hands firm on her hips, guiding her until the backs of her knees hit the edge of her mattress.
She fell onto the bed, her dark hair splaying across the rumpled sheets. He stood over her, his frame blocking out the dim light from the hallway, and for a moment, he just looked at her. Watching. Deciding.
Then he grabbed the towel from the floor and tossed it aside. It landed in a heap by the door, forgotten.
He knelt on the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of her thighs. His hands found her wrists, gripping them tight, and he pinned them above her head.
"You want to know what I'm going to do to you?" he asked.
Vera's breath came in short, sharp bursts. "Enlighten me."
His eyes darkened. "I'm going to take my time."
He lowered his head.
This time, when his mouth found her, it wasn't the frantic, desperate hunger of the balcony. This was slower. Deliberate. Methodical. He licked a long, slow stripe up her slit, his tongue flat and warm, and Vera's hips bucked off the bed.
He pressed her back down with one hand on her stomach, holding her in place.
"Stay still," he murmured against her skin.
She tried. God, she tried. But the way he moved—circling her clit with slow, lazy strokes, dipping lower to taste the slick heat of her, then back up again—it was maddening. She was already wet, already aching, and he was in no hurry.
He brought his other hand into play, two fingers sliding inside her while his tongue kept working her clit. She gasped, her fingers curling into the sheets above her head.
"Fuck," she whispered.
He didn't respond. He just kept going, his fingers curling inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur, while his tongue flicked and sucked and drove her toward the edge.
She was close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in her belly, and she was right there, right on the precipice—
And then he stopped.
Vera let out a frustrated cry, her hips grinding against nothing. "What the fuck—"
"Not yet," he said.
He pulled his fingers out and sat back, leaving her empty, wanting, dripping. She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already moving, flipping her over onto her stomach.
His hand came down on her ass. Hard. The crack of skin against skin echoed in the small room, and she gasped, her fingers clutching the sheets.
"Don't move," he said.
She felt him shift behind her, felt the mattress dip as he moved. Then his hand was in her hair, fisting it tight, pulling her head back just enough to make her gasp.
And then he was inside her.
The first thrust was hard. Brutal. Perfect.
Vera screamed into the pillow, her voice muffled by the fabric, her body arching against his. He didn't give her time to adjust. He just started moving, his hips slamming against her ass with a rhythm that was fast and furious and completely unforgiving.
His hand tightened in her hair, pulling harder. His other hand gripped her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, sure to leave bruises.
"You feel that?" he growled, his voice rough with exertion. "You feel how deep I am?"
She couldn't answer. She couldn't do anything but take it, her body rocking with every thrust, the headboard slamming against the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. She was going to get noise complaints. She didn't care.
He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot against her ear. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? From the moment you saw me, you wanted to be fucked like this."
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to say something clever, something sharp, something that would reclaim even an ounce of power.
Instead, she moaned.
He laughed, low and dark. "That's what I thought."
He moved faster, harder, his hips driving into her with a force that made her whole body shake. His free hand slid around her waist, his fingers finding her clit, and she nearly came apart right there.
"Don't you dare," he said, feeling her tighten around him. "Not until I tell you to."
"Fuck you," she gasped.
He pulled her hair harder. "What was that?"
She couldn't answer. She could barely breathe. The pressure was building again, higher this time, her body coiling tight like a spring wound too far. She was going to break. She was going to shatter into a thousand pieces, and he was going to keep going, keep fucking her until there was nothing left.
"Tell me you want it," he said.
"I want it."
"Tell me you've been thinking about this since I walked out of that party."
"I've been thinking about it."
"Tell me you touched yourself before I got here."
Vera hesitated. He rewarded her with a hard thrust that made her see stars.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, I touched myself."
"Good girl."
The words sent her over the edge.
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him, her vision going white. He kept going, kept pounding into her, riding out her orgasm with that same relentless rhythm until she was boneless and trembling and couldn't tell where her body ended and his began.
And then he came.
A guttural groan, his hips stuttering, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. He emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering against hers, and for a long moment, they stayed like that—him buried deep, her melted into the mattress, both of them gasping for breath.
Then he pulled out.
Vera collapsed onto her stomach, her cheek pressed against the damp pillow, her entire body humming with the aftershocks. She heard him move behind her—the rustle of clothing, the click of a belt—and then footsteps heading toward the door.
She rolled over, just enough to see him.
He was standing in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light from the hallway. He'd already tucked himself back into his pants, already buttoned his shirt. He looked immaculate. Composed. Like he hadn't just fucked her into next week.
"The next time you run," he said, his eyes meeting hers across the room, "I'll chase you."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut. The lock didn't turn. His footsteps faded down the hallway, down the stairs, out onto the street.
Vera lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, her body still trembling. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—Bree again, still apologizing, still not understanding. She ignored it. She ignored everything. She just lay there, naked and sore and completely, utterly wrecked.
And for the first time all night, she smiled.
The smile faded slowly, dissolving into the ceiling fan's lazy rotation. Her body felt like a crime scene—evidence of him everywhere. The ache between her thighs. The raw throb on her ass where his palm had landed. The tender spots on her hips where his fingers had dug in, sure to bloom purple by morning.
She should shower again.
She didn't move.
The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat and something else. Something that was already cooling against her skin, trickling down the inside of her thigh. She could feel it—him—still leaking out of her, and the thought sent a fresh pulse of heat through her exhausted body.
She pressed her thighs together, trapping the sensation.
Her phone buzzed again. And again. The vibrations rattled against the nightstand, insistent and annoying. Vera groaned, rolling onto her side, and grabbed it.
Three messages from Bree. One from an unknown number she didn't recognize. And one from Damien.
She opened Damien's first.
Damien: He left. You okay?
Vera stared at the words. You okay? Like he hadn't just pimped her out to his boss. Like he hadn't handed her over like a party favor and waited for the fallout. She typed back with one thumb, her hand still trembling slightly.
Vera: Define okay.
The three dots appeared immediately. Whatever Damien was typing, he was typing fast. She didn't wait to see it. She switched to Bree's messages instead.
Bree: Vera please
Bree: I know you're mad
Bree: Just tell me you're alive
Vera exhaled slowly. The anger was still there, simmering under her skin, but it was quieter now. Exhaustion had dulled its edges. She thought about the balcony, about the way Damien had stood in the corner watching, about the way Bree had disappeared into the crowd the moment Vera stepped outside for air.
They'd set her up. Both of them. And yeah, it was fucked up. It was manipulative and invasive and a complete violation of every boundary she'd ever tried to set with people who claimed to love her.
But.
But she couldn't stop thinking about the way his voice had dropped when he said her name. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. The way he'd fucked her like he was trying to leave a mark on her bones.
She should be furious. She was furious. But underneath the fury, there was something else. Something that felt dangerously like gratitude.
She typed: Your forgiven best friends d forever
She hit send before she could overthink it.
Bree's response came within seconds—a string of heart emojis, a crying face, a "I love you" and a "thank you" and a "I'll explain everything tomorrow." Vera didn't respond. She'd said what she needed to say. The rest could wait.
She switched to the unknown number.
The message was simple: Good girl.
Two words. That was all. Two words that made her stomach flip and her thighs clench and her mind spiral back to the way he'd growled them against her ear while he was buried inside her.
She knew who it was. She'd known the moment she saw the number on the balcony, the moment she opened the door, the moment he pushed her onto the mattress. Damien's boss. The man with the rolled-up sleeves and the eyes that saw too much. The man who'd watched her all night and then decided he was going to have her.
She should be terrified. She should be blocking the number and filing a police report and checking herself into witness protection.
She wasn't.
Vera sat up slowly, her body protesting the movement. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded naked to the bathroom, her feet cold against the worn floorboards. The mirror was still fogged, her reflection a ghost behind a veil of steam.
She wiped it clear with her palm and looked at herself.
Her hair was a disaster—tangled and wild from his hands. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, her neck marked with a faint red bloom where his stubble had scraped. There were fingerprints on her hips. A bruise forming on her wrist where he'd pinned her.
She looked ruined. She looked alive.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She picked it up, still staring at her reflection.
The unknown number again: You're thinking about me.
She typed: Maybe.
Him: You're touching yourself.
She wasn't. Not yet. But her hand had drifted to her thigh without her noticing, fingers resting just inches from where she was still sore and slick and aching.
She typed: Arrogant.
Him: Honest.
She leaned against the sink, her free hand gripping the cold porcelain. The mirror showed her everything—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her nipples had hardened against the chill, the undeniable heat in her eyes.
She typed: I wont run
She hit send.
The response was immediate: I know.
Vera laughed—a short, sharp sound that echoed off the bathroom tiles. She set the phone down on the edge of the sink and turned on the shower again, stepping under the spray before it had a chance to warm up. The cold water hit her like a slap, shocking her system, waking her up.
She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know what any of this meant—the texts, the sex, the way he'd looked at her like he already owned her and was just waiting for her to catch up.
She didn't know if she cared.
Her phone buzzed one last time. She didn't check it. She just stood there, letting the water run over her, washing away the sweat and the ache and the evidence of everything she'd done tonight.
She stayed under the spray until the hot water ran out.
The cold water numbed her skin, but it couldn't touch the heat still coiled low in her belly. She stood there until her teeth chattered, until the shivers wracking her body had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the temperature. When she finally stepped out, the mirror had cleared. Her reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, wild hair, a mouth that still tasted like salt and something darker.
She grabbed the towel from the floor where he'd tossed it. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and whiskey and the faint, musky undertone of sex. She pressed it to her face without thinking, inhaling deep, and immediately felt like an idiot. She threw it in the hamper and walked naked to her bedroom.
The sheets were a disaster. Tangled and damp and carrying that same scent. She stripped them off, balled them up, and shoved them in the closet. She'd deal with them tomorrow. Or never. Never was looking pretty good.
Her dress from the party was still on the floor by the couch, a crumpled heap of black and red lace. She picked it up, fingered the torn strap, and tossed it in the trash. She wouldn't be wearing that again. Not after tonight.
She pulled open her dresser drawer and grabbed the first things her hands touched. An old Nirvana t-shirt, faded and soft, the hem riding up her stomach. A pair of black boyshorts that had seen better days, the elastic slightly stretched, the cotton thin from too many washes. She pulled them on without looking in the mirror.
The apartment felt too quiet. Too still. She could hear the tick of the clock on the wall, the distant hum of traffic outside, the drip of the faucet she'd never bothered to fix. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. They felt obscene after what had just happened.
She grabbed the remote and dropped onto the couch. The cushions swallowed her, still warm from earlier, and she pulled her knees up to her chest. The TV flickered on—some reality show about people renovating houses, all fake drama and manufactured stakes. She watched without seeing, her mind still stuck on the way he'd said her name.
He hadn't asked for it. He'd just known.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She reached for it, half-hoping, half-dreading. Bree again. She opened the message.
Bree: I'm sorry. I know sorry doesn't fix it. But I'm sorry.
Vera stared at the words. The anger was still there, buried under exhaustion and something that felt dangerously close to contentment. She thought about the balcony. The way Bree had hugged her goodbye, the way Damien had refused to meet her eyes. They'd known. They'd both known exactly what they were doing.
But she'd also seen the way Bree's hands had shaken when she'd handed over the shot glass. The way Damien's jaw had tightened when his boss walked into the room. They weren't monsters. They were just people who'd made a terrible, selfish choice.
She typed: I'm not mad anymore. At either of you guys. Thanks for the introduction.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
The response came fast. A string of heart emojis. A crying face. A "I love you so much" and a "I'll call you tomorrow" and a "you're the best friend I don't deserve." Vera smiled despite herself. She set the phone face-down on the couch cushion and turned back to the TV.
The show had moved on to a commercial break. Some ad for car insurance, all cheerful families and staged accidents. She zoned out, her eyes unfocused, her body finally starting to relax into the cushions.
The ache between her legs had faded to a dull throb. A reminder. A good one.
She reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it around her shoulders. It smelled like laundry detergent and dust. Normal. Ordinary. She pulled her knees tighter and let her head fall back against the cushion.
The TV droned on. Another show started—a crime drama, all dramatic music and grim-faced detectives. She watched a woman in a lab coat examine a bloodstain. The camera zoomed in. The music swelled. Vera yawned.
Her phone buzzed again. She didn't check it. She already knew who it was. She could feel it in the way her pulse quickened, the way her stomach flipped, the way her thighs pressed together under the blanket.
She let it buzz. Let it go to silence. Let the anticipation build.
Two minutes later, she checked.
Unknown: You're on your couch. Wearing something old. Something soft.
She typed back: How do you know?
His response was immediate: Because I know you.
She stared at the screen. The words should have creeped her out. They should have sent her running for the deadbolt, the pepper spray, the police. Instead, she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. Something that felt like being seen.
She typed: That's a bold claim.
He replied: It's not a claim. It's a fact.
She bit her lip. The crime drama played on, forgotten. The detective was interrogating a suspect now, but Vera couldn't hear a word they were saying.
She typed: What else do you know?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. She watched them, her breath held, her fingers gripping the phone so tight her knuckles went white.
Then: You're not going to sleep tonight. You're going to lie in that bed and think about my mouth. And when you finally touch yourself, it won't be enough. Because your fingers aren't mine.
Vera exhaled slowly. The words burned through her, igniting everything the cold shower had tried to extinguish. She shifted on the couch, the blanket falling away, her thighs pressing together hard.
She typed: You're very confident.
He replied: I'm very right.
She didn't respond. She couldn't. She just sat there, the phone clutched in her hand, the TV flickering in the background, her body humming with something that felt like hunger and something that felt like fear and something that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and being told to jump.
The phone buzzed one more time.
Unknown: Goodnight, Vera.
She stared at the words. Three syllables. Simple. Final.
She typed: Goodnight.
She didn't expect a response. She didn't get one.
She set the phone on the coffee table and pulled the blanket back around her shoulders. The crime drama was ending—the detective had solved the case, the bad guy was in handcuffs, the city was safe. She clicked off the TV and sat in the dark, listening to the tick of the clock and the distant hum of traffic and the steady beat of her own heart.
She should go to bed.
She didn't move.
She sat on that couch for a long time, her knees pulled to her chest, her Nirvana t-shirt soft against her skin, her black boyshorts riding up just a little, the ghost of his hands still on her hips, the taste of him still on her tongue.
When she finally stood, it was past three in the morning. She walked to her bedroom, crawled between the bare mattress and the old quilt she'd pulled from the closet, and closed her eyes.
She dreamed of dark eyes and rolled-up sleeves and a voice that said her name like it was something worth keeping.