Episode Two: Lingering feeling
924 Words
Ava didn’t remember leaving.
She remembered the heat of his hands. The way his voice turned commands into gospel. The chill that hit her skin when he finally pulled away. But after that—just flashes. Her heels clicking against the club’s marble floor. The sting of night air on her bare shoulders. A cab ride where she said nothing at all.
Now she stood in the shower, scalding water burning her skin, as if she could rinse off the memory.
She couldn’t.
His scent was gone. But not his presence. That lingered—on her skin, her lips, her tongue. Inside her. In the ache between her thighs. In the back of her mind where every rational thought had once lived.
She should have said no.
She should have left when he first spoke to her.
But she hadn’t.
She wanted to blame the alcohol, but she wasn’t drunk. She wanted to blame curiosity, but that felt too innocent. The truth was uglier. Simpler.
She wanted him.
And now, she hated herself for it.
Two days passed.
She went to work. Smiled at coworkers. Answered emails. Typed reports. Sat in meetings.
Pretended.
But everything felt different. Like she was just playing human, while part of her still lay naked in that room, legs open, moaning his name into silk sheets.
She kept checking her phone.
No texts. No missed calls. No mysterious numbers.
He hadn’t reached out.
Not that she expected him to. She knew what last time was: a one-night power trip. She was the girl who said yes too fast. The one who got used and discarded. She’d walked straight into it—and now she’d pay the price.
Still, she kept checking. Every five minutes.
By the third day, she told herself she was over it.
She wasn’t.
So when she stepped into her apartment that evening and saw a single white envelope on the floor, slid beneath her front door, her stomach dropped.
No address. No name. Just a card inside.
One word, written in perfect black ink:
Tonight.
A time and an address followed.
No explanation. No signature.
But she knew.
It was him.
The address led to a hotel. Not a flashy one—exclusive. Quiet. The kind that doesn’t ask questions when beautiful women walk in alone at 10 p.m. and take the elevator to the top floor.
Room 1702.
She paused outside the door. Her hand hovered over the handle.
She could still leave.
This was her out. Her last chance.
She didn’t take it.
She walked in.
He was already waiting, sprawled across a leather armchair like he owned the building. No tie. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Whiskey in hand.
He didn’t stand. Didn’t greet her.
He just looked at her with those eyes—black, unreadable—and said, “Lock the door.”
She did.
“Take off your coat.”
She obeyed.
“Come here.”
When she stood in front of him, he took his time. Eyes dragging up her legs, across her hips, lingering on her chest. He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
“You came,” he said finally.
“You invited me.”
“You didn’t have to show up.”
“I almost didn’t.”
He leaned forward, fingers trailing up her thigh. “But you did. Because you can’t stop thinking about me.”
Ava swallowed hard. “You’re arrogant.”
“I’m right.”
She hated that he was.
He rose slowly. Towering. Magnetic.
“I thought about you too,” he said. “Every night. Every time I was inside someone else, I still heard your voice.”
That burned. But it thrilled her too. That sick contradiction she didn’t want to name.
“You didn’t call.”
“I don’t chase. I summon.”
“And what am I?”
He smirked. “My favorite toy.”
He didn’t take her to the bed.
He pushed her against the window—floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city, lights blinking far below.
She gasped as the cold hit her back.
“Let them watch,” he whispered. “Let them see who you belong to.”
His hands were everywhere—rough, insistent. He kissed her like he was punishing her for leaving. Bit her lip. Pulled her hair. Made her cry out.
But she didn’t stop him.
She arched into him.
Begged.
And when he finally took her, it was fast, hard, brutal. Not love. Not even s*x.
Possession.
When he finished, he didn’t kiss her. Didn’t comfort her. He just turned and walked to the bar.
Ava slid to the floor, trembling.
“You don’t love me,” she said softly.
He poured another drink. “No.”
“Then why am I here?”
He turned, glass in hand. “Because you like how I make you feel. And I like watching you fall apart.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It’s all you get.”
He let her stay the night. But not in the bed.
She slept on the couch. Half-naked. Bruised. Exhausted.
In the morning, he was gone.
No note. No goodbye.
Just another white card on the nightstand:
Next Friday. Same time. Different room.
No signature.
Just a command.
Ava stared at it for a long time.
Then she tucked it into her purse.
By the following Friday, she’d already picked out a dress.
Black this time. Shorter. Tighter.
She didn’t ask herself why.
She knew the answer.
She was his now.
And maybe she always had been.
- Writer
