Chapter 2: The Nightgown Drops for Bruno
The glass was cold against her palm. Cold, and getting colder, the night air seeping through the window frame like it had somewhere better to be. She should close it. Should crawl back into bed and pretend none of this had happened.
Instead, she reached for the strap of her nightgown.
Her fingers found the thin silk, the place where it curved over her shoulder. She'd bought this nightgown for Raj—had imagined him sliding it off her, his eyes going dark the way they used to, his hands greedy and impatient. He'd never even noticed it. Hadn't looked up from his phone when she'd walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but this scrap of black silk, hadn't registered the way it clung to her breasts or how the hem brushed the tops of her thighs.
She slid the strap down. It fell with a whisper, catching on her elbow before she shook it loose.
The other strap followed. Then the whole thing was pooled at her waist, and she was standing there in the dark with her chest bare, her nipples tightening in the cold air, her skin prickling with goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.
Behind her, Raj snored on. The sound was wet and rhythmic, like a drain gurgling somewhere deep in the house. She didn't turn around. Didn't want to see his shape in the bed, the indifferent curve of his back, the way his hand was probably flung out on the empty side of the mattress where she used to sleep before she'd learned to keep to her edge.
The nightgown slithered down her hips and puddled around her feet.
She was naked now. Completely, utterly naked, standing at the window of a bedroom she'd decorated to look like something out of a magazine, the city sprawled out below her like a circuit board of light and shadow.
The window was old—original to the house, Raj had said, back when they were looking at places and he'd still bothered to explain things to her. The glass was wavy, imperfect, distorting the lights outside into smears of gold and blue and neon pink. She could see herself faintly, a ghost in the reflection, her hair down and her shoulders bare and her breasts pressed almost against the glass.
Almost.
She leaned closer, until her nipples touched the cold surface.
The shock of it went through her like a slap. Her whole body clenched, her breath catching in her throat, her hands flying up to brace against the window frame. She held there, suspended between the cold outside and the warmth she'd left behind, and she watched herself in the glass.
You look like a whore, she thought. And then, immediately after: Good.
Something warm brushed against her calf.
Bruno.
She looked down. He'd followed her from the bed, of course he had—he always followed her, always seemed to know when she needed him, his yellow eyes patient and knowing in the dim light. He pressed himself against her leg, his fur soft against her bare skin, and let out a low, questioning sound.
"Hey, buddy," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange in the quiet room. Thick. Like she'd been crying. Which she had, but that felt like hours ago now.
Bruno meowed. A real meow this time, not the little chirp he usually made—a demanding, insistent sound that seemed to say I'm here and you should pay attention to me.
She sank down to the floor.
The hardwood was cold against her bare ass, but she didn't care. She leaned back against the wall beneath the window, her knees drawn up, and Bruno immediately climbed into her lap like he belonged there. Which he did. Which was the only thing in this room that felt true.
He butted his head against her chin. She laughed, a wet sound that was half sob, and scratched behind his ears the way he liked. His purr kicked in, a deep rumble that vibrated through her thighs and settled somewhere in her chest.
"You're the only one," she said. "You know that? The only one in this whole house who actually wants me."
Bruno blinked at her. Slow and deliberate, the way cats did when they were saying I love you.
She should stop. Should put on her robe and get back in bed and forget this whole night ever happened. That was the sensible thing. The rational thing. The thing a good wife would do.
But she wasn't feeling particularly sensible tonight.
Her hand slid down her stomach, past her navel, past the soft curve of her belly that she'd spent years learning to hate and then years learning to accept. Her fingers found the thatch of dark hair between her thighs, already damp, already slick with something that wasn't just sweat.
She hadn't meant to get wet. Hadn't meant to get turned on. But there was something about standing naked at the window, about the cold glass against her nipples, about the way Bruno was looking at her with those knowing eyes—something that made her whole body ache with a need she'd been suppressing for years.
"Fuck," she whispered.
The word felt good in her mouth. Dirty and sharp and real. She said it again, softer this time, as her fingers parted her folds and found her clit.
Her hips jerked. Involuntary, uncontrollable. She pressed her head back against the wall, her eyes falling closed, and let herself feel it—the slick heat of her own cunt, the swollen nub under her fingertips, the way her inner walls clenched around nothing.
Bruno licked her wrist again. Soft and warm and totally accepting, like he was telling her it was okay, like he understood exactly what she needed and he wasn't going to judge her for taking it.
"At least one creature in this house is desperate for me," she muttered. Her voice was rough, breathy, hitching with every stroke of her fingers. "At least one."
She circled her clit slowly, then faster. Harder. Her other hand came up to her breast, palm scraping over the nipple, pinching it between her fingers until it ached. She imagined it was someone else's hand. Someone who wanted her. Someone whose touch didn't come with a side of indifference, whose eyes didn't slide past her like she was part of the furniture.
She imagined a mouth on her neck. Teeth. A rough, low voice telling her how fucking good she looked like this—naked and spread open and desperate.
"I'd fuck you so good," she whispered to the empty room. To Bruno. To herself. "I'd make you beg for it. I'd make you come so hard you'd forget your own name."
Her fingers slipped lower, sliding through the wet heat of her folds, circling her entrance. She didn't push inside yet. Just teased herself, the way she wished someone would tease her. Slow. Deliberate. Making her wait.
She'd been waiting for years.
Waiting for Raj to look at her. Waiting for him to touch her like he meant it. Waiting for the hollow ache in her chest to go away, to be filled up with something other than disappointment and resentment and the slow, creeping realization that she'd married the wrong man.
But here, alone on the floor with her cat in her lap and her fingers between her thighs, she wasn't waiting. She was taking.
She pushed two fingers inside herself.
The stretch was good. Perfect. Exactly what she needed. She curled them upward, finding that spot that made sparks burst behind her eyes, and she moaned—low and long, not caring if Raj heard, not caring about anything except the way her body was finally, finally responding to her.
"Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, fuck, right there."
Her wrist cramped from the angle. She ignored it. Her thumb found her clit again, rubbing tight circles while her fingers pumped in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Bruno was still purring, still pressed against her stomach, still licking little stripes across her forearm like he was grooming her while she fell apart.
She thought about a stranger. Someone whose face she couldn't see, whose hands she couldn't predict, whose body would be hot and hard against hers. Someone who'd push her up against this window and fuck her from behind while the city watched, who'd pull her hair and call her names and make her feel something other than this endless, exhausting loneliness.
But the face that came to her wasn't a stranger's. It was Raj. Raj the way he used to be, before the job and the promotion and the slow accumulation of years had turned him into a stranger who shared her bed.
Raj with that hungry look in his eyes. Raj pinching her nipple between his knuckles while his tongue slid through her folds. Raj saying her name like it was a prayer instead of an afterthought.
She came with his name caught in her throat.
Not that she'd married. Not the man who snored in their bed. The one who used to exist. The one who might still exist somewhere, buried under deadlines and stress and the assumption that he didn't have to try anymore.
We would've been okay, she thought, as the waves receded and her body went slack. If he'd kept trying.
Bruno meowed again. Demanding. He'd stopped purring and was staring at her with an expression that clearly said You're done now, so pay attention to me.
She laughed. A real laugh this time, not the hollow thing she did for guests.
"Diva," she said, and scooped him up. He went limp in her arms, the way cats did when they trusted you completely, and she pressed her face into his fur.
She was still naked. Still sitting on the cold floor in front of a window that overlooked a city that didn't know she existed. Still married to a man who'd probably forgotten she was in the room.
But something had shifted. Something small and quiet and dangerous.
Tomorrow, she would figure out what came next. Tomorrow, she would—
Bruno squirmed. She let him go, and he padded over to the bed, hopping up onto the foot of it and curling into a tight ball.
Right next to Raj's sleeping feet.
Ruby watched him for a moment, then stood. Her legs were shaky. Her cunt was still throbbing, the aftermath of her orgasm making everything feel raw and open.
She didn't get back into bed.
Instead, she walked to the closet and pulled out a silk robe—pale blue, the one she'd bought on a whim and never worn because Raj hadn't liked the color. She pulled it on, cinched the belt tight, and walked out of the bedroom.
The hallway was dark. The whole house was dark, except for the faint glow of the streetlights bleeding through windows. She made her way down the stairs by memory, her hand trailing along the banister, and ended up in the kitchen.
She poured herself a glass of water. Drank it standing at the sink, looking out at the backyard. The pool gleamed darkly, a rectangle of ink framed by perfectly manicured hedges.
Tomorrow, she would start looking for a job. Maybe. Or maybe she would call an old friend and ask if she could crash on their couch. Or maybe she would just get in the car and drive, no destination, no plan, just away.
Or maybe she would stay. For another year. Ten years. Until she was old enough to look back at this night and wonder what the fuck she'd been so scared of.
The water was cold. It settled in her stomach, heavy and real.
Behind her, the house creaked. The way old houses did. Settling, shifting, adjusting to the weight of the people inside it.
She didn't turn around.
She stood at the sink until the glass was empty and her feet were numb, and when she finally went back upstairs, she lay down on the couch in the den instead of the bed. It was too short for her—her feet hung over the edge—but she didn't care.
She fell asleep watching the moonlight crawl across the ceiling, and she dreamed of being someone else.
Someone who had never learned to be quiet.