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UnHoly Thoughts

Janelle

I kept wakin’ up with his name on my lips. Fontaine.

Sweat beaded down my neck, stickin’ to my silk pillowcase. My thighs clenched under the covers, soaked in the afterglow of dreams that ain’t had no business feelin’ that real.

It was always the same. Me pressed against a wall, his thick lips at my ear, whisperin’ filth so raw it made my chest burn. The way he slid inside me in them dreams—slow, deep, like he was tryna break every piece of me down. I’d wake up gaspin’, heart racin’, nipples hard under my tank top.

I hated it.

I hated how much I wanted it.

It ain’t even make sense. That night in the club bathroom should’ve been a one-time, drunk, bad-bitch mistake. A quick fuck. A wild memory I buried and prayed don’t come up again. But that man? That demon in a designer suit? He ain’t just touch my body—he branded it.

Fontaine was dangerous. Crazy. Obsessive.

And I shoulda been scared of him.

But I wasn’t.

I was scared of me . Scared of how every time I thought about the way he growled “Speak up for me, baby” while fuckin’ me from behind, I damn near came without even touchin’ myself. Scared of how my body remembered him when I was supposed to forget.

And now Carlos was gone.

They told us at work that morning. He ain’t show up for his shift. HR got the call. Dead. No foul play yet. “Still under investigation,” they said.

I blinked. Sat there with my mouth halfway open. We were just with eachother, he’d just hugged me. And now he was… gone?

I left work early that day. Cried a little in the car. I wasn’t super close to Carlos, but it still hit. Death always do.

The streets was slick with night when I pulled into my driveway. My house sat quiet up in View Park. Big windows, long-ass porch, and that soft glow of “ain’t-nobody-home” comin’ from the entryway light. My husband’s car was gone, again. Another “working late” night. I ain’t even question it. I was too tired to care.

I kicked off my heels, slid outta my blazer, and poured a fat-ass glass of wine. My satin robe clung to my curves like it had somethin’ to prove. I curled up on the couch, TV on low, tryna distract myself from the ache that never really left.

Ring. Ring.

My phone lit up next to me. Unknown number.

I answered slow. “Hello?”

Silence.

I sat up a little. “Hello?”

Then a voice.

“Where’s that husband of yours, baby?”

My blood turned ice. I looked around the room, heart thumpin’.

“Stop calling me.”

Click. Call ended .

I stared at the phone like it owed me answers. My hands were shakin’. I stood up, pulled my robe tighter, turned off the TV. The walls suddenly felt too close.

Ring. Ring.

Same number. I hesitated. Picked up.

“Is that any way to answer me, princess?”

His voice. Deep. Smooth. Fontaine. I felt it in my stomach first.

I snapped. “Look, Fontaine—”

“You look so fuckin’ sexy right now.”

I froze. My breath hitched. My eyes darted around the room.

“W-what?”

He chuckled, low and evil. “Yeah… that soft pink robe, that wine on your lips… You always look so good.”

My knees almost buckled. I took a step back, like I could run from his voice.

“I’m not playin’ with you.”

“But I am playin’ with you,” he murmured. “In my head, I got you on your knees right now, lookin’ up at me with those big beautiful eyes while I fuck that pretty-pretty mouth of yours.”

“Stop it—”

“I ain’t even started. You know what I’d do to you if I was there, baby?”

“Fontaine—”

“I’d fuck you right there on that rug. Face down, ass up. Spit in your mouth. Eat that pussy till your legs shake. Make you squirt on this tongue like it’s mine , ‘cause it is . You know it is.”

My hand trembled, phone pressed so tight to my ear I could feel my pulse in it. My thighs clenched involuntarily. Heat bloomed between them.

“Stop,” I whispered.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he growled. “You want me to bend you over and fuck you. While you cum again, again and again. ”

I hung up.

My chest was heavin’. Pussy thumpin’. I dropped the phone on the floor and backed up till I hit the wall.

This man was sick. Sick in the head.

But I was the one that was wet .

I tried to shake it off. Took a shower. Washed my hair. Lit a candle like that could kill the memory of his voice.

My husband came in ‘round midnight, smellin’ like liquor and bullshit excuses. Kissed my cheek, said he had a late meeting with the execs. I ain’t say nothin’. I just nodded, climbed into bed, and turned off the lamp.

He knocked out five minutes later, snorin’ low and sloppy.

But me?

I laid there with my panties soaked.

Face turned toward the window. Sheets barely coverin’ me. My fingers slid slow under the hem of my underwear, findin’ that spot that Fontaine had marked.

I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and whispered, “Fuck…”

It was his voice I heard.

His hands I imagined.

That same evil, beautiful devil in a black-on-black Tom Ford suit, blunt burnin’ between his lips, laughin’ low while he fucked me like I was the only thing that existed in his fucked up little world.

I came hard. Silently. My toes curled and I clenched around nothin’, grindin’ into my own fingers like they was him.

When I opened my eyes, I felt ashamed.

Ashamed… and satisfied.

That man was poison. And I was already drinkin’ from the bottle.