Ruined Beneath Him

Episode4

Orla sat on the edge of the bed, watching the door as though expecting him to return. Her coffee had gone cold in her hand, forgotten. Outside, the city thrummed with life—morning commuters, street vendors, the distant roar of traffic. But inside her apartment, time felt suspended.

Her phone buzzed before she could even reach for it. The screen lit up with a message from an unknown number.

Stanley: Last night was… unforgettable.

Her breath caught. A thrill surged through her veins, mixing with a pinch of caution. She typed back, fingers trembling slightly:

Orla: Unforgettable can be good or bad.

Seconds later, the reply:

Stanley: Definitely good. I want to see you again.

Orla’s lips curled into a slow smile. The city outside might keep spinning, but in this moment, she felt like the center of a small, blazing sun.

The next few days blurred between anticipation and distraction. Orla found herself replaying the night in her mind—the way Stanley’s touch burned across her skin, the softness of his lips, the way he made her feel alive when everything else felt dull and gray. She caught herself smiling at her phone, waiting for a message that made her pulse quicken.

Stanley was punctual. He texted each morning—sometimes just a simple Good morning, other times teasing questions or whispered promises that set her cheeks aflame. Their conversations moved from casual to intimate with dizzying speed, peeling back layers she hadn’t known she was ready to show.

By Friday, they’d agreed to meet again, this time at a small jazz club tucked away in a side street.

Orla arrived early, nerves fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. She wore a sleek black dress that hugged her curves and a touch of crimson lipstick—bold, daring, a silent invitation. The club’s low lighting and smoky haze enveloped her as she stepped inside, a world away from her weekday routine.

Stanley appeared moments later, looking as if he’d stepped out of a dream—white shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled back to reveal more of those sinewy arms, and that same smoldering look that made her knees weak.

He pulled out a chair for her with a gentleman’s grace, but there was an edge of hunger in his eyes that told her the game was changing.

They sipped whiskey and listened to the smooth saxophone winding its way through the smoky air. Their hands found each other across the table, fingers entwined, the simple touch electric.

“I don’t do this often,” Stanley confessed, voice low. “Meaning, getting involved like this.”

Orla tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a storm,” he said. “Dangerous, unpredictable, and I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”

She studied him, the flickering candlelight dancing in his eyes. “Maybe some storms are worth weathering.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Maybe.”

The night wrapped around them like a secret. When the music slowed, Stanley pulled her close, his breath hot against her ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.

This time, Orla didn’t hesitate. She let him lead her into the night, the thrill of the unknown electrifying every nerve. When they arrived at his apartment, the air between them was thick with desire.

Clothes fell away in a trail, and the world narrowed until there was only the heat of skin on skin and the ache of need. Stanley’s hands explored like cartographers mapping a new world, and Orla surrendered to the wildness pulsing through her veins.

Their bodies moved together in a rhythm older than time—urgent, desperate, and beautiful. The intensity of their connection left her breathless, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

As dawn broke over the city skyline, Orla realized something had shifted inside her. This wasn’t just a fling. Stanley was more than a storm—he was a fire, and she was ready to burn.

Days turned to weeks, and their passion burned brighter with each stolen moment. Stanley was enigmatic, a puzzle she couldn’t stop trying to solve. There were flashes of tenderness—morning coffees on his balcony, laughter shared over inside jokes—but also shadows lurking beneath the surface. Orla sensed the ghosts he kept hidden, the edges he refused to soften.

One evening, as rain pattered against the windows, Stanley pulled her close, his eyes dark and serious.

“Orla, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

She held her breath, waiting.

“I’m not the man I pretend to be,” he whispered. “There are parts of my life that could hurt you… if you let them.”

Her heart clenched. “I’m not afraid.”

He shook his head slowly. “I want you to be. I want you to understand the risk.”

But Orla reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “I’ve already taken the risk.”

Their kiss was fierce, desperate—a promise and a warning all at once. Orla knew she was diving into something dangerous, but for the first time in years, she felt alive in a way that terrified and thrilled her.

That night, as Stanley’s arms wrapped around her, Orla made a silent vow: no matter what storms or fires came next, she wouldn’t let go. She was ready to fight for this—ready to embrace the chaos and the passion, the danger and the desire.

Because some flames, once lit, could never be extinguished.