Ruined Beneath Him

Episode2

Clothes became a blur of fabric and skin. His hands—strong, sure, and unafraid—traced the curves of her body, sending shivers down her spine. Orla felt herself melting under his touch, layers of doubt and restraint peeling away. By the time they tumbled onto the bed, sweat slicked their skin, breaths ragged, the tension between them pressing like a living thing.

“Stanley,” she murmured, arching up to meet him.

“Orla,” he replied, his voice low enough that she sensed he was as undone as she was.

He leaned down, pressing soft kisses along her jaw and collarbone. She arched toward him, need pooled between her legs, every nerve ending alive. His name on her lips became a mantra, repeated with mounting urgency. She felt the world tilt, boundaries dissolving until there was nothing but him and the wild music of her heartbeat.

He entered her with a slow, deliberate movement—something fierce and consuming. Orla held onto him, mind spinning, emotions colliding. Pleasure ripped through her body, hot and relentless, dragging her toward a crescendo she could not control. He whispered her name with each movement, a pulsing rhythm against her senses, until the world faded to a blur of sensation and desire.

When they reached the edge of release, it felt like a flash of white light: raw, all-consuming, a surrender that left her trembling and laid bare. She felt ruined beneath him, but in that ruin, she found a strange kind of rebirth: a permission to feel, to want, to live beyond the constraints she’d imposed on herself.

They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs. Orla’s breath came in ragged gasps. She felt every fiber of her being extend outward, as though she could feel the electricity humming in the air around them. Stanley brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and gazed down at her with an expression that was part reverence, part hunger.

“Orla,” he whispered. His voice trembled, betraying a vulnerability she hadn’t expected. “You’re… incredible.”

She offered him a wry half-smile. “You’re not bad yourself.”

He chuckled, that deep, rumbling sound that stirred something protective in her. They lay there for a long time, bodies entwined, the soft hum of the city drifting through the open window. The cool night air brushed against their heated skin, and Orla soaked in every sensation—the scent of him, the warmth beneath her fingertips, the steady beat of his heart against her ear.

Morning light filtered in through the curtains, painting Orla’s skin in pale gold. She stirred, eyelashes fluttering as she became aware of Stanley’s steady breathing beside her. She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling and remembered: the night, the heat, the way it had ended. Her heart skipped when she realized she was naked beneath him, his arm draped over her hip. A rush of exhilaration pulsed through her.

Stanley shifted, waking. His gaze hovered on her face, eyes dark and loaded with something she couldn’t name. He brushed his thumb across her cheek before leaning in to capture her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was as though he was imprinting himself on her.

“Good morning,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Morning,” Orla replied, her voice husky. For a moment, neither of them spoke as they soaked in the new day. The air felt charged, as if the night had rewound the world and given them a chance to truly see each other.

Finally, Stanley sat up and reached for his shirt. Orla watched as he dressed with a casual ease that both charmed and frustrated her—she didn’t want him to leave her side, but she also wasn’t sure she could ask him to stay.

“I’ll make coffee,” Orla said, pushing back the covers. She slipped off the bed and wrapped a robe around herself.

Stanley nodded, eyes darkening with something she couldn’t quite place—longing, regret, determination. “Okay.”

The kitchen was small but inviting, and the French press he’d bought for her last birthday sat on the counter, waiting. As she ground the beans, the familiar ritual grounded her, offering a semblance of normalcy in a morning that already felt surreal. The earthy aroma of coffee filled the apartment, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.

When she brought two steaming mugs back to the bedroom, Stanley was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor. For a moment, she wondered if she shouldn’t have come back from the kitchen—that maybe he would disappear instead of sitting with her. She crossed the room and sat beside him, offering the mug.

He took the coffee without looking up. “Thank you.”

She settled beside him, their shoulders brushing. “You don’t have to go,” she said softly. “We don’t have to pretend this was just a one-time thing.”

Stanley’s gaze lifted to hers, and in his eyes she saw a conflict she couldn’t ignore: desire tangled with fear, need brushed with caution. “I’m not sure I can do… what this is,” he admitted, his voice thick with honesty. “I’m not good at… permanence.”

Orla swallowed. “What about right now? Is right now okay?”

He lifted his coffee cup to his lips and took a slow sip, as if gathering courage. “Right now is… right now.” He set the mug down and turned to face her fully. “God, Orla, you’re… you’re something else.”

She nodded, heart fluttering. “You too.”

Silence stretched between them, filled with questions neither was brave enough to ask. Finally, Stanley stood, moving toward the window. He opened it and let the morning air wash over them. The city hummed below, oblivious to the tangled desires and fragile hopes unfolding on the twelfth floor.

Orla watched him, feeling both powerful and terrified. She could make him leave by turning away now, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to take the chance—even if it was unwise, reckless, and dangerous.

Stanley turned back to her, eyes shadowed with conflict. “I have to go,” he said with reluctant finality.

She nodded, though the pit of her stomach twisted. She’d seen this coming. “Okay.”

He moved toward the door. She stood as he paused, hand on the doorknob. She reached out, fingertips brushing his chest. “Stanley,” she whispered.

He turned, and for the briefest moment, the world stilled. He leaned down and kissed her—a slow, deliberate press of lips that spoke volumes more than words ever could. When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and intense.

“I’ll call you,” he promised, voice low. “I want to see you again, Orla.”

Her heart lifted. “I’ll be here.”

He gave her a small, bittersweet smile and slipped out the door, leaving behind the lingering scent of cedar and something ineffable. The door closed softly, a final punctuation that felt both conclusive and pregnant with possibility.