Naomi
The door slams behind me harder than I intended, the sound ricocheting through the house like a warning shot.
But I need to gain some semblance of my dignity back.
My so-called attempt at running earlier was pathetic, and I know it.
He could’ve caught me if he wanted to—easily.
But I need him to understand, and I need my body to fall in line with the facts too—He can’t just show up at my house whenever the hell he feels like it.
How the hell did he even get in?
And why didn’t I scream? That’s the part that still haunts me. All I had to do was make a sound, and my brothers would have been at my side, ready to arrange his impromptu meeting with the Lord.
But I… invited him closer. So badly, I wanted him to touch me. And my ultimate embarrassment remained in the fact that he rejected me, so harshly in fact that I spent the rest of the night exhausting myself in ways that I wished he would have.
I drag my hands down my face, groaning softly.
I thought I’d lost that part of me—the hunger, the need.
I thought everything I’d been through had burned it out of me, leaving nothing but devastation behind.
I mean, I’ve had sex with Christian a handful of times—with him always being gone all the time—but the urge is not nearly this strong. I’m no better than a goddamn whore.
One moment I'm disgusted with myself, the next I'm remembering how it felt—that mask, those lips—and my body betrays me all over again.
Pastor Daniels' voice echoes in my head, his sermon about temptation mingling with my mother's warnings about "those kinds of men.
" I haven't been to church in months, but suddenly I imagine the wooden pews creaking beneath me, judging me, even as I wonder if the thrill was worth the damnation.
I exhale shakily and lock the door, the metallic click grounding me. Pressing my back against the cool wood, I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath and regain some semblance of dignity.
What the hell is with that damn mask, anyway? If he’s going to stalk me—fucking stalk me—couldn’t he at least have the decency to explain himself? Let me see who he is? Or if he’s hiding something horrific under that mask?
But those lips, they don’t hint at what I thought. They don’t belong to a monster.
A blurry image of him trailing kisses down my body nearly blinds me—it’s as if it were a memory.
Dark hair that my fingers curl into, but I can’t see his face, and still somehow I know it’s him.
I can feel it. The scene is followed by the eerie feeling of deja vu, but I quickly shake it away—I don’t even know him, how could that be true?
Do better, Naomi. Get it together.
I take a deep breath, forcing my mind away from the images creeping in. It’s not okay to fantasize about strange men.
Report him. Call someone. Do the logical thing.
But instead, I sigh heavily, cursing myself under my breath. Because I already know I won’t. “Today was draining,” I groan, my voice echoing faintly in my empty foyer.
Mercifully, my brothers are away for a week at some friend’s wedding, and Nan’s visiting her daughter.
So, for once, this house—usually bursting at the seams with noise and life—is mine alone.
I don’t mind the solitude. I crave it, actually.
It gives me space to think, to breathe, and, if I’m lucky, to let my mind wander enough to spark something creative.
These quiet moments are rare, but they’re when my best ideas tend to surface.
As much as I love this house, it can feel suffocating with all the people constantly coming and going. Family gatherings mean anywhere from ten to forty bodies crammed inside, a mix of my brothers, their partners, and whoever else tags along.
Max, for instance, is still living here while his dream home is under construction.
He’s building it for Shantel, and from what I’ve seen so far, it’s going to be stunning.
Of course, I’ve had my hands all over the designs, tweaking them to perfection.
It’s going to be a real showpiece once it’s finished, the kind of house people envy.
Tré, on the other hand, is knee-deep in buying a house down the block. His fiancée fell in love with the place, though it’s not without flaws. I’ve been working on updating the floor plan—having a construction team knocking down walls and opening up the space to give it the airy vibe Em wants.
Honestly, I’m thrilled. Both my brothers will still be close enough to drop by, but not so close that I’ll lose the privacy I’ve been dying for.
The Hills is all about luxury, one of the most exclusive areas in California.
The homes here are sprawling, impressive, and worth every dime of the zip code’s prestige.
But as grand as this house is, it’s not exactly newlywed-friendly.
I mean, communal living isn’t practical when you’re trying to start your happily ever after.
Not that I blame them. Shantel and Emily are amazing women, and I adore them, but I’m pretty sure neither of them would appreciate my nighttime screams echoing through the halls. Yeah, I’d love to see them try explaining that to their future kids.
“Auntie Naomi is a psycho, but your father refuses to lock her away in the sanitarium where she belongs, dear.”
I don’t see that going over well with a five-year-old.
When it comes to Tris, marriage isn’t in the cards. He’s got no interest in settling down or leaving home, which means he and his partners are here for the foreseeable future—at least until I officially become Christian’s problem.
Flor and Daveny are incredible. Tris, on the other hand, is a mess.
The most free-spirited of my brothers, whom all of us love, but the man has a hard time saying no to temptation.
I’m not the poster child for fidelity, but I’ve asked.
First Flor, back when it was just the two of them.
Then Daveny, when their relationship shifted into something more.
And every time Tris stepped out, I asked again.
Their answer is always the same: they love him.
It breaks my heart to watch two amazing people stay in a situation where they deserve so much better. But when Tris is good to them, he’s perfect. Sweet, attentive, and damn near angelic. It’s easy to see why they stay. Love makes people do things that don’t make sense to anyone on the outside.
So, I mind my business.
He’s still my favorite, though, not that I’ll ever repeat that out loud. But he lets me be me—no judgment, no expectations—and for that, I’ll always be grateful.
I push thoughts of Tris, weddings, babies, and work out of my mind as I climb the stairs to my bedroom.
It’s easy for one thought to turn into a dozen, snowballing into an avalanche that leaves me buried under the weight of it all.
My head throbs, an ache building behind my eyes, and I already know I’ll need ibuprofen to chase it away.
The solitude of the house helps. The stillness settles over me, muffling the noise in my head. Step by step, I make my way into my room, shedding the day’s weight with each piece of clothing that hits the floor.
A flicker of purple in my peripheral vision drags my focus like a hook in my ribs. But somehow, there is a sense of calm beckoning to me as I walk to my nightstand and grab the tumbler.
I unscrew the cap and find the water cloudy again—just like before. My gaze lingers on it, my reflection warped in the murky liquid. Still, my hands don’t tremble. My pulse stays even. There’s no panic, no anger—only a quiet buzz beneath my skin.
I should be afraid. I should feel violated, furious.
But I don’t. Instead, there’s a slow burn rising in me, something dark and electric.
The way he gets in without a sound, bypassing every line of defense—every lock, every sensor—sends a chill skimming down my spine.
Not the kind that warns, but the kind that awakens.
The tumbler remains in my hand, heavy and solid, grounding me. My thoughts unravel slowly, folding over one another in silence, the way waves layer across sand—soft, steady, inevitable.
If I drink it all, will he come back?
Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s one of Jaxon’s men, toying with me, finding fun in my fractured heart and twisted thoughts. The world is cruel, and the people in it are crueler.
I set the tumbler down and walk away. The air presses in, thick and unmoving, the walls inching closer with every breath.
And still, some shattered part of me—bruised and starved—aches for him to return.
He should make my skin crawl. Instead, he gets a kick out of the fact that he doesn’t—it's quite the opposite, really.
The anger finally bubbles in the pit of my stomach, replacing any heat I felt before.
You’re a joke. Tactless. A whore willing to spread your legs for even the smallest amount of attention.
The thought cuts deep, and for the first time, I realize just how much of myself I’ve laid bare for a stranger to see.
It doesn’t matter, though, does it?
That’s what he wants—my sanity.
Isn’t that what he promised he would take from me?
And the fucked-up part is…I want it anyway.
I roll my shoulders, letting the tension of the day slip away as I start cataloging all the half-formed ideas rattling around in my head.
Cranking my towel warmer to a toasty eighty degrees, I drop my robe and towel inside.
The sound of rushing water fills the bathroom as the jetted tub begins to fill. I sprinkle in Dead Sea salt and a splash of bubble bath—the earthy scent of lavender and vanilla blooming in the steamy air. My bath tray is in place, a candle flickering softly at the edge of the tub.
I ease into the hot water with a sigh, tension unwinding from my shoulders as the heat cradles my body. Reaching for my phone, I tap open my audiobook app and press play on a dark romance that’s just hit its climax.
The voice actor is a godsend—a wet dream, truly. His tone matches the energy of the novel perfectly, deep and commanding. My eyes flutter closed as I sink deeper into the story.
I shiver, my breath hitching at the way he describes her—golden skin, glossy dark waves, and a half-cocked smirk that makes his dick hard, spreading her legs on his desk as she plays with her dipping center, forcing him to watch but never touch.
A taboo romance—therapist and patient, but his patient has a dirty little secret.
What’s even more taboo is that it is supposedly based on true events.
My body reacts before I can think, my hand slipping beneath the water, brushing over my clit.
My fingers find the ache, teasing, circling, pressing just the right amount of pressure.
Warm water sloshes around me as I arch my back, my free hand clutching the edge of the tub.
My toes curl, and I press my palm against my clit, my hips rocking against the pressure as I force two fingers deep inside me.
Sex with Christian is okay, but it’s not this.
It’s never this. He’s always in a rush—like he’s in a hurry, but somehow it's still never rough enough, it’s like a gentle rat race, a half-cocked scurry to make it to the finish line.
It’s fine, but it leaves me wanting more, much more.
I pause the audiobook, guilt prickling at the edges of my thoughts as the diamond on my ring finger catches the flickering light.
Christian is everything a girl could ask for, isn’t he?
Kind. Devoted. Steady.
But my needy, swollen pussy doesn’t care about steady right now.
I press play again, the voice actor’s husky growl pulling me back into the story. My hand works faster now, and I moan softly, imagining Jaxon touching me like this—Jaxon and all the harshness he brings.
“You’re so fucking exquisite covered in my cum,” the voice actor growls, and it’s as if those words are the permission I’ve been waiting for.
I come undone, waves of pleasure crashing over me as the water splashes against my trembling thighs. My fingers keep moving, coaxing every last pulse of satisfaction until my body is spent. By the time I drag myself out of the tub, the water is lukewarm, my skin tingling.
Slipping into my warm robe, I forgo pajamas entirely and collapse into bed. My eyes are too heavy, my body deliciously exhausted. Sleep tugs me under like an anchor, and I am too tired to care if he even comes in here.
I’ll leave that to whoever Jaxon left on my detail tonight. I’m never truly alone anymore.