Touch me and burn

‐Ciaran POV I stepped through her door with a grin, a flat beer in my hand and trouble on my mind. The neon sign outside was blinking “Lilith’s,” or something equally tacky—a tired red flicker against the grime-slicked glass, humming like an old TV set no one remembered to turn off. A reminder of how far I’d sunk. Nice clothes, nowhere to be, just me and a stranger waiting for anonymity to shut down. I closed the door on whatever was left of my day. She sat on the edge of the bed in the gloom, the dying streetlamp outside casting diagonal shadows across her ribcage. Black hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, and she wore a loose lace bra and that practiced smile—eager, desperate, but tuned to match the low energy of the room. Her bright eyes flickered up when she saw me. “W-wondering when you’d show, boss,” she slurred, eyes a bit glassy. I didn’t reply. Of course she knew that line. Heard it from half a dozen others this week, maybe more. But I just nodded like I believed every word. Some nights, lies were warmer than truth. I walked in slowly, the door clicking shut behind me. On a whim I tossed the beer into the sink. It foamed, hissing in protest, and left a faint, sticky pattern on the bottom—like the whole night was already falling apart in my hand. Red carpet, cigarette smoke, peeling posters of bygone rock stars on the wall—this flat had the charm of a second-hand sin. You didn’t come here to remember things. You came here to forget them. She took a breath before speaking again, probably nervous. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, biting her lip. I raised an eyebrow. Yeah, right. Heard that one too. But I didn't stop her. Her voice, soft and cracked, still held a thread of something real beneath the varnish. Loneliness, maybe. Same as mine. Without a word, I moved toward her. She was thin, a bit bony at the hips, but with full breasts and a pulse of need flashing in that dim light. I reached out and brushed a finger along the top of her lace bra. It slipped down her shoulder, the fabric rustling like dry leaves. “Something I said?” she teased, rolling her hips forward as if she could hustle things along. In response, I slipped a finger under the waistband of her skirt and yanked it up. She stood and let it fall, the cheap zipper catching before giving way with a sigh. Her skirt hit the floor, followed by her bra with a silk swoosh. She stepped closer, and I caught the scent of her: vanilla-floral perfume undercut by sweat and s*x and the ghost of a cigarette someone else had smoked earlier. I captured her wrists against the headboard, holding them gently but firmly. She whined softly in the hush of the room, her body arching toward me like a flower straining for a gutterlight. “Relax, love,” I murmured, my lips brushing her ear. “Or don’t. Doesn’t bloody matter to me.” My hands slid down her hips, guiding her back onto the bed. She obeyed, trembling slightly under my fingers. The room swam as I leaned down. Her nails dug shallow furrows in the pillows while I kissed the hollow of her throat, feeling her skin flush under my lips. The lace slid down her arms in one smooth motion, her body shifting beneath me. I cupped a breast in my palm, rolling the hard pink n****e between my fingers. She gasped, arching up into me, hands trying to move but pinned under mine. Down into her I went. Her panties tore during the scramble—cheap lace, no match for urgency. I pushed into her slowly at first, letting her adjust, letting myself feel the tight heat coil around me like a vice. Then with purpose. She moaned, a desperate little sound, but I held steady, huffing against her neck, my breath hot and heavy. It was always like this. Slide in, pull out, done. No heart, no guilt—just that mechanical moment. A clockwork f**k in a city that forgot how to care. She squeezed her eyes shut and gasped. Moans echoed slightly off the walls, mingling with the clink of a bottle rolling off the nightstand. I didn’t match them. Instead, I held steady, letting each thrust do the talking. My body did what it knew—what it always knew—but somewhere beneath the rhythm was something darker. Not pleasure. Not even hunger. Just need, scraped raw. “f**k,” I muttered, driving into her harder. She cried out, and the mattress groaned under us. Then it happened: a low growl from the back of my throat I hadn’t known I had. She screamed—a small, sharp sound, raw and real. I tensed, staying inside her through the quake. A vicious shudder rippled through me and I came, hot and sudden. Everything went white and red and was gone. I pulled out and collapsed onto my side, breathing hard. She lay there, panting next to me, wet where I’d left her, staring blankly at the ceiling. The emptiness in my chest yawned wider. I rolled onto my back and lit a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, my hands already cold with sweat. She didn’t move. You could say it was a job well done, but nothing about this felt like an accomplishment. Just another night in a long, slow death spiral. My phone buzzed on the dresser. Caller ID: unknown. Figures. I answered on the third ring, voice low. “Talk.” “Vale?” said a scratchy voice. “Yeah.” “Boss, we got another one.” Every muscle in me tightened. “Where?” “Canal by Brixton, around midnight. Female, early thirties. Charred symbol carved on her wrist—same as the others.” Lightning cracked outside, splashing the room in harsh light. In the jagged flash I saw her—her face, in the mirror behind me—the one I’d been dreaming about. Pale lips parted, eyes burning like hellfire. And then she was gone. I sat up, heart pounding. My cigarette trembled between my fingers. As I stood, I thought I heard something behind me. A whisper. A breath that didn’t belong. Touch me... and burn. I shook my head, buttoning my jacket, ignoring the chill spreading under my skin like frost. “No rest for me,” I muttered. She stirred behind me, her voice small. “You gonna call again?” I didn’t answer. The city was waiting. I stepped out into the rain, cigarette hanging from my lips, coat collar up. The sky was bleeding ash. Somewhere in the distance, a siren screamed. The shadows twisted beneath the streetlamps like they were trying to tell me something. Another body. Another symbol. Another night haunted by that phantom face. And me? I was just trying to outrun the fire already inside.