Chapter 5 – Wet Hair, Wrong Hands
I didn’t go out looking for him.
I didn’t go out looking for anyone in particular.
I just didn’t want to go home.
Not to my own silence.
Not to his messages that came late and meant less.
Not to the bed that still smelled like five minutes of effort and nothing after.
So when Amanda texted, “Zouk again? Ladies’ Night. You need it.”, I didn’t even hesitate.
I wore black.
Not too short. Not too loud.
Just a snug mini dress that hugged the right places. A real bra underneath — laced, black, matched the panties. I straightened my hair, added a little gloss, and sprayed that perfume I used to save for dates.
Not for anyone.
Just for me.
The club was the same.
Bass too loud, boys too eager, lights flickering like someone couldn’t decide on red or blue. Amanda was gone the moment we entered, already dancing with some guy in cargo pants and New Balance.
I moved through the crowd, drink in hand, half-swaying to the music.
Then I saw him.
Isaac.
Leaning against the bar, nursing a drink, shirt rolled to the elbows, collarbone peeking slightly. Same sharp jaw, same clean scent I remembered even through the sweat and smoke.
He noticed me second.
Then smiled — slow and familiar.
I didn’t roll my eyes.
Didn’t walk away either.
We talked. Briefly.
“Didn’t expect to see you again,” he said.
“I wasn’t looking,” I replied honestly.
“Still good to see you.”
I held his gaze. “Buy me a drink?”
He did.
And just like that, the night shifted.
It didn’t take long.
The dancing turned into touching.
His hands knew where to land — not desperate, not unsure.
My lips found his neck. His fingers brushed under my dress.
By the time he asked, “Wanna leave?”, I was already nodding.
He booked a hotel. Small but clean. City view. Dim lights and chilled air-con the moment we stepped in.
We didn’t talk.
I pushed him down onto the bed. Straddled him. Pulled off my dress slowly.
His hands reached up to undo my bra — I let him.
His lips were all over me. My thighs. My chest. My neck.
He undressed like he meant it. Fucked like he knew I hadn’t been touched right in weeks.
He slid into me slow. Deep.
Held my wrists above my head and moved like he had all the time in the world.
He kissed everywhere. Said things in my ear that I didn’t even register — not because I didn’t like them, but because I was already too far gone.
I came twice before he did.
First on top of him.
Then on all fours, his hand on my hip, pulling me back against him until I shook.
He came with a grunt, pulled out, and finished across my back.
I didn’t flinch. Just lay there, breathing hard, cheek pressed against the sheets.
We didn’t cuddle.
We didn’t say much.
He ordered water bottles from the front desk. I drank one, naked under the covers. Then we slept.
In the morning, the sun was too bright.
My hair was a mess. Makeup smudged.
And I felt good.
Not loved.
Not adored.
Just satisfied.
He stirred beside me, half-asleep. I shifted under the blanket and slid down slowly, pulling his cock into my mouth without a word.
He groaned immediately. Hand reached down, but didn’t push.
I bobbed my head, deeper than I ever had for anyone.
I let him hit the back of my throat. Took him all.
When he whispered, “Shit, I’m close,” I didn’t stop.
I felt him twitch. He came hard — thick, warm — and I swallowed.
No grimace. No pause.
Just… done.
He looked down at me like he couldn’t believe it.
I wiped the corner of my mouth with my thumb and kissed his stomach once before getting up to shower.
As I dried my hair in the mirror, I thought about how I’d never done that for my boyfriend.
Not even once.
And the worst part?
I didn’t feel guilty.
Not even a little.
To be continued.