Ruined Beneath Him

It all began with a one night stand… It all began with a one night stand. Orla had never intended for her Saturday night to end under unfamiliar sheets, but when Stanley’s hand found hers across the crowded bar, the world outside ceased to matter. The neon glow of the city pulsed through the windows, painting dancing reflections on the polished wood floors, but all she saw was him—tall, dark, and exuding a dangerous magnetism that both frightened and thrilled her. She arrived at The Ember Lounge just past nine, intent on emptying her mind. The week had been a relentless blur of spreadsheets and deadlines, broken only by the humdrum routine of her nine-to-five life as a junior marketing coordinator. She’d told herself she needed a break, a chance to feel something raw and real. The Ember’s reputation for dim lighting, artisanal cocktails, and an eclectic crowd drew her in like a moth to a flickering flame. Orla squeezed through the throng of people, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. The air was warm, with a faint hint of jasmine and spilled bourbon. A drummer thumped in the corner, setting a steady beat that vibrated through her chest. She ordered a gin and tonic, nursing the crisp bitterness while her gaze drifted around the room. Friends laughed in clutches of bright color; strangers shared sparks of connection in shadowed alcoves. She felt strangely removed, an observer rather than a participant. Then she saw him. Stanley leaned against the bar’s edge, his back to the room. The way he held himself—broad shoulders squared, posture confident—made it impossible not to stare. He wore a charcoal-gray button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal sinewy forearms. His dark hair was tousled, as though he’d run his fingers through it at least once that evening. The faint lines around his eyes suggested someone who’d lived a little, experienced more than most. He turned, and their eyes met. For a heartbeat, Orla felt the thrum of something powerful—electric, urgent, as if he recognized a kindred restlessness within her. He offered a slow, crooked smile, one corner of his mouth tilting just enough to be inviting, yet guarded. She felt a charge pulse through her, setting her pulse racing. A few minutes later, he stood beside her at the bar, arms brushing lightly as he ordered a whiskey neat. The amber liquid caught the light. She glanced at his drink and then at his face, trying to read the unreadable expression in his hazel eyes. “You’re Orla,” he said, as if he already knew. She blinked. “I—did you hear me say it?” “On the phone,” he replied, voice low and slightly amused. “When you ordered a round of drinks for your table, you gave your name.” Oh. Right. She had said her name. She offered a polite smile. “I’m sorry. You weren’t with me, though.” His gaze softened imperceptibly. “I know. I’m good at observation.” Orla chuckled, a little off-balance. “I’d be flattered, but I’m starting to feel like I’m on stage.” He held up his hands. “I apologize for staring. I just…” He hesitated, then shrugged as though words felt inadequate. “You’re different from everyone else here.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Very good.” The tension between them coiled like a spring. Orla felt her breath catch. She wanted to step back, to retreat to safety, but curiosity drew her closer. She sensed that meeting him tonight would change something in her, though she had no idea how or why. “May I buy you a drink?” he asked, pulling her back from the edge of her spiraling thoughts. She studied him for a long moment, weighing impulse against reason. Reason would have told her to decline and slip away. Impulse won. She nodded. They retreated to a small table in a dim corner, where a single candle flickered. They talked—first in fragments, then in sentences, until Orla felt as though she’d known him for years. He asked about her job, her quirks, her favorite books. She asked about his travels, the subtle tattoos peeking beneath his collar, the origin of a faint scar on his jaw. He answered each question with a touch of mystery, revealing just enough to keep her attention without divulging too much. At some point, Stanley leaned forward, and their knees brushed beneath the table. He reached out, fingertips grazing her hand. The thrill of his touch sent heat pooling between her legs. It felt like an ignition, sparking a need she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked, voice rougher than before. Orla swallowed, heart beating hard. She’d spent months denying herself—denying intimacy, denying passion—telling herself she needed to be prudent. But when Stanley’s gaze held hers, she felt a giddy recklessness. She nodded, barely trusting her voice to say yes. Outside, the air was cool against her skin. They walked in silence, the streetlights casting elongated shadows along the pavement. Orla felt exposed and alive all at once—like she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t fully comprehend. Stanley’s hand grazed her lower back, guiding her toward an unmarked building across the street. “Is this your place?” she asked, voice cracking with anticipation. He glanced back, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Something like that.” They climbed a narrow flight of stairs, each step reverberating in her chest. The door to his apartment opened with a soft click, and he pulled her inside. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp whose shade cast a golden halo across the hardwood floor. Orla took a moment to look around: the walls were painted midnight blue, adorned with framed black-and-white photographs—cityscapes, distant beaches, a storm crashing against a rocky shore. A low bookshelf held leather-bound volumes, and a potted fern in the corner gave a surprising touch of warmth to the otherwise masculine space. Stanley closed the door behind her. She felt the hush settle between them, the muted world beyond forgotten. He moved closer, closing the distance until Orla could feel his breath, warm against her cheek. “Do you trust me?” he asked, lips brushing her ear. She closed her eyes, chest tight with longing. “Yes,” she whispered, though she wasn’t entirely certain what trust meant in this moment. He captured her lips with his, and it was as though a fuse had been lit. One hand went to her waist, the other tangled in her hair. Their kiss was slow at first—exploratory, electric—then deeper, more insistent, as though they were both trying to memorize every inch of each other through that single connection.