His House, His Rules
850 Words
His house wasn’t what I expected.
No cold marble. No sharp edges. No designer sterility. Just worn leather, books stacked in uneven piles, and a soft orange glow from a standing lamp in the corner. It felt lived in. Human. A contradiction to the man who answered the door like a shadow.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Adrian said.
“I wasn’t either.”
He stepped aside. I walked in.
The door clicked shut behind me, locking us inside something more dangerous than silence.
“You got another note?” I said.
He nodded once. “It was taped to my car window this time.”
“You think it’s Liam?”
Adrian poured a drink—scotch, neat. He didn’t offer me one. “It’s not his style. Liam likes to make a scene. Whoever this is, they’re hiding in the shadows.”
“So are you.”
That made him pause.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something. But instead, he took a slow sip and set the glass down with a thud.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then why did you invite me?”
“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “And because I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
My breath caught.
He stepped toward me slowly, his expression unreadable. “Do you know what I told myself after that night?”
“That it was a mistake?”
“That it was the last time I’d ever feel alive.”
The words landed somewhere between my ribs.
“I shouldn’t touch you again,” he said, his voice low, “but I will.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just waited.
Then he was on me.
His hands slid under my coat, pushing it off my shoulders as his mouth claimed mine with a hunger that made me forget every reason I should walk away. I wrapped my arms around his neck, tasting scotch and secrets as he backed me toward the couch.
We crashed down together, mouths still fused. His hands roamed my body like he needed to memorize it—like this wasn’t just lust but survival.
“You feel like sin,” he whispered against my throat.
“And you feel like punishment.”
His laugh was dark and quiet. “Maybe we’re both.”
He kissed down my neck, nipping the skin where my pulse raced the fastest. When he slipped my shirt over my head, his breath caught.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, but it sounded like a confession.
I leaned back, legs parting as he slid between them, his body heavy and hot and far too tempting. I tugged at his shirt, and he let me peel it away, revealing a chest marked by time and tension.
Then his mouth was on my skin—down my collarbone, over my breasts, slow and reverent. My hips lifted involuntarily when his hand slid between my thighs, teasing over the lace of my underwear.
“Adrian—” I gasped.
“I know,” he murmured.
He pulled my panties aside and slid two fingers inside me—deep, slow, and deliberate. My back arched as he found a rhythm that made me forget my name. I clutched at his shoulders, at the edge of control, and then—
“Let go,” he said, voice rough.
And I did.
I shattered against his hand, breathless and raw.
But he wasn’t done.
He stood, unzipped his pants, and freed himself—hard and thick and already dripping. He grabbed a condom from a drawer beside the couch and slid it on in one practiced motion.
When he hovered over me again, I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t expected.
Fear.
“This is a line I can’t uncross,” he said.
“You already did,” I whispered.
He pushed inside me in one slow, punishing thrust.
And everything else disappeared.
I don’t know how long we stayed there, wrapped in each other. Moving like we’d been made for this exact moment. When we came again, it was together—his name falling from my lips like a secret, mine clenched in his teeth like a prayer.
He pulled me into his chest afterward, still inside me, our bodies tangled and warm.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then his phone buzzed.
He didn’t move.
It buzzed again. A third time. Reluctantly, he reached for it.
His face paled as he read the screen.
“What is it?” I asked, chest tightening.
He didn’t answer. Just handed me the phone.
A text from an unknown number.
You think she’s the first?
Check your inbox, Professor. She deserves to know.
He leapt off the couch and grabbed his laptop from the kitchen counter. I followed him, still half-dressed, heart racing.
He opened his email.
Clicked.
And froze.
My eyes scanned the screen.
Photos. Blurry. Grainy. Dated.
Adrian. In a classroom.
With another girl.
A different girl.
Younger.
Pinned to a desk.
His hand on her throat.
- Writer
