Chapter Two #2
By the time I finally made it home, my head was spinning from more than just champagne.
I kicked off my heels, dropping my keys in the ceramic dish painted with daisies, and tried to shake off the lingering thoughts of my friends' comments.
My apartment welcomed me back with its familiar silence. No wild laughter, thumping bass, or green-eyed man with hands that seemed to burn through fabric.
I should have been exhausted, but my body hummed with restless energy. I moved to the bathroom, peeling off my dress and scrubbing away my makeup.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, eyes too bright.
His touch lingered on my throat; the careful pressure of fingers wrapped around my neck. He'd held me like I could break, but I'd felt the strength coiled beneath that restraint. The promise of what those hands could do if I asked for it.
Noah had never touched me like that. Never even looked at me like Adrian had, like he was starving and I was a feast laid out just for him.
Noah had appreciated my body the way someone might appreciate a nice painting, with admiration rather than desperate hunger.
Without thinking, I grabbed my phone and typed "Adrian Catalyst boxer" into the search bar.
The results filled my screen: Videos, articles, and fan sites.
I clicked on the first link, a news article. There he was, looking directly into the camera with that half-wild smile, tattoos crawling up his neck, and his brown hair perfectly tousled to match his energy.
I scrolled through the article, learning that Adrian the “Catalyst" was 27, undefeated, and known for his unpredictable fighting style and even more unpredictable personality.
He attended press conferences in outrageous outfits, donated some of his winnings, and once bought a box of cupcakes for his opponent after knocking out most of his teeth.
The article noted that he went by only one name professionally—no last name, no family history mentioned. Just Adrian, like he'd materialized from nowhere.
"He's boxing's beautiful contradiction," the article concluded. "Deadly in the ring, a playful force of nature outside it."
I clicked on a video next, an interview after his most recent fight. Adrian lounged in the chair, a jacket open over his bare chest, revealing a tapestry of muscle and ink.
He answered questions with quips and laughter, but something in his eyes seemed to look right through the interviewer, right through the camera.
Something sharp and assessing that had nothing to do with his cheerful words.
I recognized that look. I'd seen it tonight, right before he'd wrapped his hand around my throat and made me forget my own name.
My thumb hovered over a new video, Adrian and his friends at a celebrity event.
I pressed play, watching as the camera panned across three enormous men in tailored suits. He stood between them, slightly taller than one, slightly shorter than the other, all three radiating the easy confidence of apex predators.
Then the camera focused on two women joining them. Both smaller and beautiful, both looking up at the men with such open adoration.
The men's faces transformed as they looked at the women, all traces of hardness melting away. They looked so tender; it felt almost intrusive to watch.
I clicked on one more video, a collection of fight highlights.
He moved like liquid death, each punch something forceful that made my breath hitch .
Adrian's face was pure predator, eyes bright with a ferocity that made my core clench with want.
The careful control he'd shown with me at the club was nothing compared to this. This was what he was truly capable of.
He won, arms raised, that feral grin splitting his face as the crowd roared. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat making his tattoos gleam under the arena lights.
He looked like a god of war, beautiful and terrible and completely untamed.
I pressed my thighs together, heat flooding through me as I imagined those same hands, hands that could knock a man unconscious, holding me down, gripping my wrists, wrapping around my throat with just enough pressure to make me gasp his name.
With Noah, I'd always felt like I was performing desire rather than truly feeling it. Going through the motions because that's what couples did, not because every cell in my body was screaming for his touch.
But watching Adrian fight, seeing that wild gleam in his eyes, I wanted to know what it would feel like if he let go of that control.
If he held me like he meant to own me, to mark me, to make me his in ways that would leave bruises I'd cherish.
The video ended, and I set down my phone with shaking hands, suddenly aware that I was standing in my bathroom in just my underwear, falling down an internet rabbit hole at three in the morning, while aching for a man I'd run from.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I had everything I ever fantasized about right there in my arms. A man who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world, who'd held me like I was his, who'd kissed me like he wanted to devour me whole.
And I'd run.
The regret hit me with full force, stealing my breath. I gripped the bathroom counter, staring at my reflection with growing horror .
I'd found him, my perfect match, the one person who'd made every nerve in my body sing with want, and I'd run away.
I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, but sleep remained elusive. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him and the intensity in his gaze, the careful strength in his hands, the way he'd growled when I'd kissed him.
I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat pooling down there.
What would have happened if I hadn't run? If I'd given him my number, my last name, a way to find me?
Would he be here with me now, those massive hands mapping every curve while he showed me exactly how rough he could be?
Noah was gentle, almost boring, like he was afraid of wanting me too much.
Even when I'd tried to encourage him to be rougher, to take what he wanted, something had always held him back. Like he was performing the role of lover rather than actually being consumed by need for me.
He always made me wonder if something was wrong with me. If I were broken somehow because we never felt that desperate, all-consuming need for each other.
But tonight, Adrian had awakened something in me that felt like coming alive for the first time.
The strange, familiar hurt followed me, but this time mixed in with heated questions about Adrian as I finally drifted off to sleep.
In my dreams, Adrian found me again and again.
But this time, when I tried to run, he caught me. Pinned me against the wall with his body, his hand around my throat, his voice a dark growl against my ear: “Found you, angel.”