The place I live in is an overwhelming extravagance and bigger than anything I’ve ever stepped foot in, let alone called mine.
Every inch of this penthouse screams wealth and power and is way beyond my dreams, let alone reality.
The decor is a blend of beige, deep black-blue, and layered shades of blue, probably Dahlia’s doing. She must’ve told Kane that blue is my favorite color.
Despite my acting strong being on my own, like when I abandoned our movie night the other day, I’d rather have her than this place.
I don’t know how to describe it, but when we used to live in shabby, creaking houses with black mold and health hazards, I was happy knowing she was sleeping under the same roof.
That I wasn’t alone.
That, no matter how hard it gets, she’s just there, trying to make me laugh, and buying me ginger ale while tasting the food I cook.
It’s not that we don’t have that anymore, and I can still spend time with her, but she also has her own life and a dashing boyfriend that I don’t want to annoy, because he’s only treated me well.
But as I walk around the new home that doesn’t feel like home, I just miss my sister.
The walls are smooth, the lighting soft, casting a moody, elegant glow over pristine floors that never creak and furniture that looks too expensive to touch.
The kitchen is a chef’s wet dream, fitted with state-of-the-art appliances, glossy marble countertops, and large cabinets. The island is massive, a centerpiece of luxury, but it’s cold because no one has ever leaned against it, laughed over coffee, or made a mess of flour and sugar.
Or ginger ale.
I close my eyes, refusing to get consumed by that memory.
It might seem ancient in real time, but the months I spent sleeping feel like a couple of hours in my brain. I still can’t force myself to think of that time as months.
My feet are sluggish as I walk out of the ensuite bathroom, draped in a towel. I throw one last admiring glance at the jacuzzi set against a backdrop of ivory marble, brushed gold faucets, and sleek glass panels that reflect too much of my unsightly body back at me.
The bedroom is even more extravagant, draped in soft, rich fabrics and subtle gold accents that glimmer under dim lighting.
Beyond the bedroom, the balcony stretches into a massive terrace, offering an uninterrupted view of Graystone Ridge’s skyline.
From up here, the town is breathtaking—a sprawl of glittering lights, the sky vast and endless in a way I’ve never seen before.
It should feel freeing and beautiful.
But as I slip into the oversized bed, journal and pen in hand, all I feel is discomfort.
The sheets are too soft, the silence too heavy, the air too still.
Because, no matter how stunning this place is, I don’t want to get used to it.
It’s not mine.
And I’d trade it for my old life with Dahlia in a heartbeat.
My eyes skim over the lines I wrote a couple of days ago.
I saw him today. Jude.
It was the first time I’ve seen him since I woke up.
All this time, I’ve waited for him to barge in uninvited and I’ve been…on edge. No, I’ve been hopeful?
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the way he completely ignored me.
It was the first time I’ve truly felt that I actually spent months sleeping.
The world moved on, and so did he. Which is good. Right?
I slam the journal closed, frowning. Why the hell would I be this bothered by that encounter?
The look in his eye.
The way he seemed mad?
I’m the one who’s supposed to be mad, especially after the attempted murder thing. Well, I don’t know about that, really. I never believed Julian a hundred percent, because I feel like if Jude wanted to kill me, he’d make it personal.
I also like to think he wouldn’t hurt Mario like that.
But then again, my name was on his damn list, so…
I open my journal again and scribble a few other notes about the strange erotic dreams I’ve been having since that encounter and how a part of me wants them to come true even if the other part is ashamed I’m even having these thoughts.
The man in my dreams has a name, but I don’t write it.
I can’t make it real.
After I finish scribbling down everything muddying my brain, I pause upon seeing rivulets of water sliding down the bedroom window.
I check the time and frown. The Vipers’ game Dahlia went to see is ending soon, and she didn’t take an umbrella, no matter how many times I’ve told her to.
With a sigh, I put the journal on the nightstand and put on a hoodie and jeans, choosing to forgo the glasses because they’d fog up.
Armed with two umbrellas, I take a taxi to Vipers Arena.
I arrive when the masses are exiting the arena. Crowds of people head to their cars or run in the rain. Some have umbrellas, but most of them hide by the building overlooking the parking lot.
But apparently, the Vipers won, considering all the excited commentary.
“Callahan was a beast.”
“I swear I get so fucking excited whenever he checks someone.”
“And the way he fights? Fucking awesome!”
Callahan this and Callahan that.
Yes, some others praise Preston and Kane, but most people seem to have a boner for Jude. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand hockey, because why is a notoriously violent player everyone’s favorite?
It takes me a while to slip through all the fans and stand on an empty corner, holding one of the umbrellas over my head. I text Dahlia.
Me
You forgot your umbrella, Dahl. It’s raining. I’m in the arena’s parking lot near Kane’s car. Come pick it up.
Dahlia
Aw, thanks, Vi. You didn’t have to.
Of course I did. I don’t want you to catch a cold.
On my way.
The moment I look up, I nearly drop the phone.
I’m holding the umbrella so low, I can only see sneakers, jeans, and the hem of a leather jacket. But I know it’s him, even before I tilt the umbrella up, watching the rain cascade down.
Jude stands in front of me, fully drenched, absolutely unconcerned about the rain that beats down on him. His hair is glued to his temples and his face is tight.
Too tight.
“What are you doing here, Violet?”
I pause because his voice sounds rougher, deeper. I wish I didn’t recognize that, and I wish my heart wasn’t beating so damn loudly right now.
“That’s none of your business.” I turn and start walking.
I don’t know where I’m going or why I’m running away from him.
Maybe it’s because a part of me felt a crushing weight lift off my chest upon seeing him.
Maybe it’s because, really, I knew Kane could have an umbrella and Dahlia wouldn’t have been walking in the rain, but I still chose to come here anyway.
Whatever it is, I realize I don’t truly want to face Jude right now.
A large hand grasps my wrist and spins me around. The umbrella falls from my grip and hits the ground as Jude slams me against the wall.
I’m drenched within seconds, rain falling on my face and hair, gluing my clothes to my body, but I’m consumed by Jude.
He’s so close, I can smell him, the scent of wood and leather provokes memories I wanted to ignore until the end of my days.
“Why is it yellow this time?” His gruff words slip beneath my skin, feeling too intimate, too raw.
“What?”
He doesn’t speak, just watches me as if I’m not real. The place where he grips my wrist tingles and burns, not even the rain is able to douse it.
The silence stretches for long, suffocating moments, and the tension wraps around my throat like a noose.
I can’t read his expression.
But I can feel the tightness in his emotions spreading from his hand to my wrist, to my soul.
“Why did you do that to Mario?” I ask. I don’t blurt it out, don’t shout, just ask in a low, steady voice.
“Do what?”
“Let him be collateral damage. I know you hate me and want to kill me, but Mario was following your orders; he didn’t deserve to be hurt by you.”
“Hurt by me?”
“Yes! He’s in a coma because you sent people to attack us—”
Jude grips my chin, slamming his other hand on the wall above my head. “You believe that?”
“That’s what Julian said.”
“And you believe whatever the fuck Julian says?”
No. But if it’s not Jude, who else would want to hurt me?
“Believe whatever you want, but, Violet…” He leans down, his breaths skimming my skin. “I better not see you parading yourself around the team, looking for a boyfriend like your sister.”
Slap.
I don’t know how I do it, how I lift my hand and just slap him, but I do. Because how dare he insinuate anything about my sister? I’ll stab him to death if he ever hurts her, even with words.
My breaths are heavy as I stare at him, expecting his usual anger, but I’m slammed with a smile.
Almost as if he’s…proud of me? Why would he be proud?
I think he’ll say something, but Dahlia runs in our direction and drags me to her side. “Go away, Jude!”
My heart thunders when he glares at her. I swear I’ll turn into the most toxic person if he causes her harm.
And I tell him that with my eyes when he looks at me. Touch her and I’ll hurt you, Jude.
I don’t know how I’ll do that, but I’ll figure out a way.
Instead of using his fists or force like he usually does, Jude actually walks away, and I release a long, fractured breath.
I’ve been overthinking since last night.
Dahlia joined Kane and the others to celebrate the Vipers’ win but then came straight here to spend the night with me. She was visibly concerned about the way Jude cornered me.
I told her not to worry and even said I’d be fine on my own today, catching up on orders and sleep.
And while it’s true I need to fulfill the order for one of my favorite clients, UnderTheUmbrella, who keeps paying me more than I deserve, I don’t like being alone.
“I should probably get up and change from the bathrobe I threw on last night into my pj’s, but I don’t feel like it.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trembling slightly, because the thought of sleep still terrifies me. I can feel the shadows lurking in the room, even though I keep the light on low.
Ever since Mama died, I’ve always had some form of light on when I go to sleep, having spent too much time in that oppressive closet. Pitch darkness sends a shiver of trepidation down my spine.
As I drift off, I keep picturing Jude’s face from last night.
And as I fall into slumber, I feel big hands wrap around my waist.
He’s always rough and impatient in these types of dreams, his massive body looming over me like a threat.
A promise.
A possibility.
And it makes me rub my thighs together, the friction doing nothing to scratch at the hidden ache.
The need for…something.
Hot breaths, warm skin, and that intoxicating cologne I can’t help but sniff and breathe into my lungs.
God, he smells good.
Feels good.
And forbidden.
I shouldn’t want a monster this deeply, shouldn’t wish for him to visit me in my dreams instead of the ghost of my mother.
Because unlike her, he doesn’t call me names, doesn’t remind me that I’m back to being alone, that I’ll die alone, that someone like me doesn’t deserve any form of companionship or happiness.
No.
Not like that.
The Jude of my dreams touches me sensually, like right now, his hands running up and down my sides, his muscular body pressing into my softer one, his breaths skimming my skin in a low, intimate whisper.
I’ll wake up and feel shame later.
I’ll wake up and question my sanity and beat myself up.
But since this is a dream, I fall into his touch, feeling the pad of his fingers, his presence, letting him awaken that insatiable hunger that’s chained in self-imposed shackles.
I truly thought I didn’t care about sex, and I had extremely bad first impressions of it. Whether with my mom’s job or with my bad choices of men.
And yet these dreams, coupled with the strange sensations I felt whenever Jude touched me, have awakened a beast inside me.
And I’m starting to accept this different part, even if it’s only in my subconscious or I talk about it in my journal.
My hand slides down, parting the bathrobe, and I flinch when the pads of my fingers stroke my folds.
“Mmm…” My dream Jude’s voice is all rough and deep, and I’m wet now, my fingers rubbing and circling my clit.
“Are you dripping for me, sweetheart?”
“Y-yes…” I say, falling into those dark eyes from memories, picturing him looking at me with intense lust.
I don’t want to open my eyes, because the second I do, he disappears.
Or worse—the momentary bliss transforms into a nightmare.
“Open your legs wider, let me see how you touch that wet pink cunt.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I do as he asks, stroking myself faster, the obscene noise of my horniness echoing in the air.
“Push a finger inside you. Fuck that tiny cunt for me like a very good girl.” His voice is rougher now, more gruff, and I think I hear a choked breath as I thrust a finger inside me.
“Mff…” My lips part.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yeah…”
“Add another finger, sweetheart, we have to stretch that cunt so you can take my cock.”
“Okay…”
The second finger makes me feel so full, and I arch my back, feeling my nipples rub against the bathrobe I’m wearing.
“You’re dripping all over the place.”
“C-can’t help it. It feels good.”
“It does?”
“Mmm.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re watching me. Your gaze makes me so turned on.”
“Fuck, sweetheart.”
He shifts above me, and I hear the sound of unbuttoning and can imagine him pulling out that huge cock of his or tugging down on it.
“Spread that cunt for me. How else will you be able to fit this big cock?”
“Fuck…”
“You will take my cock, Violet. You’ll open and stretch and moan when I stick it in your soaking pussy, won’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Fuck yourself for me like a very good girl.”
“Mmm.” I rub on my clit with my thumb, pressure building inside me faster and more persistent.
I’m going to come from these dreams again.
I’ll feel shitty again.
But I can’t seem to give a damn.
“Are you going to come for me, sweetheart?”
“Y-yes…”
“Because you love how I watch you?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like it, but you have fucked-up fetishes, don’t you?”
“Mff, yes.”
“You like being ambushed in the dark? Fucked while you sleep like a dirty little whore?”
It’s screwed up, but it’s my dream and I can be myself in my dream. I can let my subconscious roam free a la Freudian, so I nod, touching myself faster.
“I do.”
“You like being fucked hard and deep until you’re screaming?”
“Y-yeah…”
“Who do you think about when you’re dreaming, when you’re rubbing that clit and moaning?”
“Y-you…”
“Am I the one you write about in the journal? Your forbidden fantasy?”
“Yeah…mmm, please…keep coming over, okay?”
“Oh, I will, sweetheart. I fucking will.” The rough edge of his voice makes me delirious. “Come for me. Let me watch how I make you feel.”
Not sure if it’s his dirty talk or the way I can smell the sex, too potent and more real than any other dream, but my orgasm is paralyzing.
It rushes through every inch of me, my belly and legs going stiff, then erupting in tremors as the waves of pleasure roll through me.
I think of his face when he was eating me out on the kitchen counter. Of how I was reflected in his rich brown irises when he looked fucking gorgeous just staring up at me. Or how he grunted and moaned when I had his cock in my mouth and he made me come like I’ve never come before.
This time is similar.
“You look so beautiful when you break apart for me, sweetheart.” His voice sounds closer, his breath sending goosebumps along my skin.
I know I shouldn’t, I know I should hold on to this dream for a while longer, but I open my eyes.
And my heart stutters.
Because Jude doesn’t disappear.
His massive body looks ethereal in the low glow of the light as his knees straddle my face, his jeans open, his cock so hard, the veins are bulging.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Like the night, with tiny flecks of bright gold.
I can see myself in them again as he jerks himself roughly. “Fucking Christ, you’re addictive. I can’t quit you.” He places the tip at my mouth. “Open. Take my cum.”
I let my lips part and he comes deep inside my mouth, his body tightening, and he releases gruff noises that make my spent pussy throb.
Cum trails on either side of my mouth as he pulls out and tucks himself in. I’m watching in pure bemusement as to why I can still see him in my dream when I already opened my eyes.
Not that I’m complaining.
This is not a bad development per se. And I certainly love this over the tension I sensed from him at the arena last night.
He gathers the cum and thrusts it back into my mouth, watching me suck his fingers clean with darkened eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
A noise of protest leaves me when he pulls out his fingers and stands up.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Violet.”
And then he’s out the door, and I close my eyes, a weird sensation wrapping around my throat like a noose as I drift off.
That was a dream…right?
