3. Scarlet
SCARLET
A t first, I felt like a whore. Not in the moment, but after. Once he’d gone and I could still feel him between my thighs, taking me like no man ever had.
Not that I was a virgin, but he was brutal, relentless, he was all consuming.
I slept with a man I didn’t know at all. One who chilled me down to the bone, yet with a single look lit every nerve ending inside of me on fire.
He didn’t even give me his name or a number. One night, he was mine and the next he was gone. I woke up naked, with both a noticeable ache and disbelief.
All he left behind was a note and a burner phone he must have bought while I was sleeping.
Use only this phone. My number is in the contacts.
He called himself Grim. I remember laughing when I saw his name under the contacts. There was no way it was his real name, but I liked it. It fit him. It suited what had happened.
The shame came shortly after. When I realized all I had was an old phone and a fake name.
The questions bombarded me and I hesitated to message him. I didn’t know what to say or how I felt about what happened.
It was everything and yet I felt like I was left with nothing.
I’d planned on not messaging him at all, but every night, I pulled the phone from the drawer of my nightstand and I debated it. Three nights passed before I sent the first message, if for no other reason than to know the truth.
Are you married? I asked him.
No. I don’t believe I ever will be.
It’s an odd feeling that came over me, partly relief, partly sorrow.
Then why this phone?
I would rather not say. You may ask questions that I won’t be able to answer. I have secrets but what I do is to protect you. You need to know that and be okay with some of your questions not being answered.
Over a series of days and messages a number of things became clear.
I was right, he was a dangerous man.
More importantly, which he made clear in no uncertain terms: he wanted me.
And lastly, I wanted him as well.
Every doubt I had, he vanquished. It was as if he knew what I was thinking before I did. From the very moment I felt like what we were doing was wrong, he’d do something to prove I had no reason to worry.
Every night he wished me to dream of him.
Every Sunday he sent fresh red roses.
If I told him I missed him, he would tell me he’d come for me at a certain time, within the next day or so and he was always there. Exactly when he said he would be.
Even if he told me very little, every small secret he confided in me felt like he’d trusted me with his world and I did the same, telling him every secret I had, knowing he’d keep it.
It was like a trance, like some magical spell had been cast. One day this man laid his hands on me, showed me pleasure I didn’t know existed and told me I was his.
And suddenly, that’s all I was.
My days in and days out hardly changed, apart from my thoughts of him and what he’d do to me when he came back.
It’s been nearly every other week for two years now. It’s not the romance story for a princess’ tale. He’s a dark knight with a tortured soul.
I’m not the one who needs saving in this story.
The keys jingle in my hands as I turn the lock and test the door. The harsh night brings a chill that sends shivers down my spine but I welcome the cold.
With the snow crunching beneath my feet I make my way around the side of the bar, to the parking lot where a car is parked next to mine, running but empty. He stands beside it, waiting for me.
Waiting for a night of debauchery with a man who holds secrets and pain I’ll never know. A man who craves me and who never leaves me wanting anything but more of him.
He takes three large strides as I near him, eating up the distance and crashing his lips against mine under the street lights.
With my head tilted back, his hand splayed on my lower back, the other slipping between my legs, I shiver and then moan into his mouth.
His answering groan is sinful as his fingers push past the elastic of my underwear and meet my hot center. He whispers against my lips, “You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t miss me too.”