Page 39 of What You left in Me

The lamp on her dresser casts a dim glow, throwing the room in honey and shadow. The shoes she’d been wearing earlier today lay strewn, abandoned by the threshold—one on its side like it tried to leave and failed. Her sweater, tossed on thechair near the window. A book lies open on the nightstand like it passed out mid-sentence… And then there’s the bed.

Julian’s only half out of his shirt. But he’s propped over her, careful, elbows braced like a gentleman in an old painting. Ariane beneath him, hair loose and wild against the pillowcase, in a silken robe she must’ve changed into rucked up around her thighs.

“Julian—” she whines, quiet and torn, a name that isn’t mine. “I…I don’t…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, and there it is, the politician’s lullaby. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. You’ve been so strong all day…”

He kisses her. There is no passion to it. And she lets him. Her hands come up slow, as if they’re waking, and slide to his shoulders. Her eyes are closed. Maybe she thinks if she keeps them closed, the night will reset itself. She’s trying to outrun the hospital monitor that branded itself on the back of her eyelids. Trying not to think at all.

Something in me swivels from anger into something worse. Rage coils, sure, but not absolute jealousy; that’d be almost decent. This is a darker thing, possession and hunger.

I stand there and watch ten seconds of a life that isn’t mine like a sinner at the back of a church, and it undoes me. I cannot stand the sight of her giving herself to anyone else. Because I know how she sounds when she stops performing. Because I know what her mouth tastes like when she forgets there’s a world.

“Julian,” she tries again, softer, almost pleading, and he mishears it as consent.

“I’ve got you,” he says, fingers sliding to the knot of her robe, slow, reverent, stage-ready. “You don’t have to think.”

She flinches. It’s small. Another man might miss it, but I don’t.

I could knock. I could storm in and knock him out. Make an excuse, kill the moment, laugh and saySorry, wrong room, and watch how fast he edits the story to make me a footnote. I do none of it. I just stand there, frozen, and watch.

Julian has her robe off in record time. I’d consider appreciating the quick work he makes of the clothes beneath it—first, her shorts and then her shirt—if I didn’t hate his fucking guts. As it is, every shred of my attention finds itself dominated by the glimpse he grants me of her naked body.

Fuck.

Ariane’s naked, her body sprawled beneath him, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her like this.

She’s fucking breathtaking. All glorious curves and smooth skin, glowing in the faint light filtering through the window. Her full breasts rise and fall with her heaving breaths, and he rears back from her parted legs—and I can see her,allof her, her slick cunt exposed in a way that makes my chest tighten.

She’s beautiful, more than I imagined, and it’s almost too much to take in.

My eyes pore over her, lingering on the delicate lines of her body, the way her hips curve, the glimpse of her core that feels like a secret I shouldn’t be stealing.

Julian doesn’t let me have the view for long.

Before I know it, he’s on top, moving in missionary already, his body positioned at the bottom of the bed. His grunts are low, animalistic, breaking the quiet of the room. He’s not big, his average fucking dick barely seems to fill her, and the thought makes my jaw clench.

She deserves more, deserves someone who’d worship every inch of her, not this half-assed rutting.

Ariane’s quiet, barely making a sound, her face turned slightly to the side, eyes half-closed.

She’s not lost in it, not like she should be.

Her hands rest loosely in the crooks of his elbows, not even gripping or pulling him closer.

It’s mechanical, like this is just another part of her routine.

Fuck. She deserves to be destroyed.

He leans down, kissing her mouth, and I want to shove the door open, drag him off her. His lips don’t belong there, not on hers, not claiming what isn’t his. My fists ball at my sides as he moves lower, mouthing at her tits, his mouth sloppy and undeserving against her perfect skin.

She doesn’t arch into him, moan, or give him anything. Good. She shouldn’t.

He’s not taking the time to savor her, to explore her the way her body demands, slow, careful, and fucking reverent.

He doesn’t eat her out, doesn’t trace her curves with his tongue, doesn’t worship her like she’s a goddamn temple.

He’s just taking from her and it’s not enough. Not for her.