Julian #2
My hotel is a fifteen-minute walk from hers, and the contrast is stark.
Where her hotel is all luxury and elegance, mine is functional and unremarkable.
Clean, but basic. The kind of place I always choose when I'm traveling—anonymous, forgettable, easy to disappear from if I need to.
I let myself into my room and drop my phone on the bed.
My backpack is sitting by the door where I left it yesterday.
I need to shower, change, get some food.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. This is insane.
I've killed people for a living for over a decade. I've done things that would make most people sick. I've walked away from jobs without a second thought, without a shred of guilt or remorse. And now I'm sitting here, obsessing over a woman I don't even know, because of one night of sex.
It wasn't just sex.
The thought comes unbidden, and I try to push it away. But it's true. It wasn't just sex. It was something more, something I can't quite articulate even to myself.
There was a connection. A spark. Something that made me feel... alive. I haven't felt that in years.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the street below. People are walking by, locals going about their day. The world is moving on, indifferent to my internal turmoil.
I should be moving on too. After my mother died, after I left the military, after I became what I am now—control has been everything.
It's what keeps me from falling apart, from becoming the kind of man who loses himself in grief or guilt or any of the other emotions that normal people feel.
I don't do emotions. I don't do attachments. I don't do this.
And yet here I am.
I need to eat. Shower. Clear my head. Maybe then I'll be able to think straight, to make a rational decision about what to do next.
I strip off last night's clothes and get in the shower, trying to ignore the way my cock swells at the scent of her perfume washing off my skin and lingering in the steam.
But before I know it, just that smell has me so stiff my cockhead is nearly touching my abdomen.
I groan, wrapping my hand around it, and wince at the soreness from everything we did last night. I haven't fucked like that in…
God, I can't even remember the last time I fucked a woman with that kind of wild abandon. Definitely not more than twice in one night… I remember her sucking me off, too. I haven't come three times in one night since my early twenties.
And now I have my hand wrapped around my dick again, like I'm still desperate to come after all of that.
It's moving before I even make the conscious decision to jerk off again, and I let out a hiss of pleasure between my teeth, pain lacing it as my hand moves over my aching length.
Just one more time. God, one more, thinking about—
Champagne glittering on her lips. Sweat on her back as she arched underneath me.
How wet and tight and fucking perfect her pussy felt.
I feel my balls tighten at that memory, and I stroke harder, faster, heedless of the fact that it hurts as well as feels fucking good. I just need to come again. Need to—
I groan as I start to spurt against the tile, toes curling against the shower floor as I feel the pleasure race down my spine and out of me. Fuck.
I slow my strokes, squeezing the last of my cum out of my throbbing dick before rocking back on my heels and drawing in a long, shaky breath.
Fine. I got that out of my system. But it doesn't feel like I did. Not even once I've dried off and dressed and grabbed my wallet so I can head out and find some food. It still feels like she's lingering on the periphery of my thoughts, waiting there to drive me insane again.
Doing my best to ignore it, I head down the street until I find a small café a few blocks from the hotel. I order a sandwich and a Bloody Mary, and sit at a table by the window so I can watch the people pass by.
None of them are her.
The sandwich is delicious, hot chicken doused in a thick, mustardy sauce and piled high with grilled mushrooms and onions on thick, crusty sourdough bread, with a pile of crispy fries next to it, shimmering with the duck fat they were fried in.
It's exactly the kind of greasy hangover food I need right now, but I barely taste it.
All I'm thinking about is the way she tasted last night.
By the time I finish eating, it's past two in the afternoon. I should go back to the hotel, pack my things, head to the airport. But instead, I linger at the café, sipping another Bloody Mary and watching the people pass by, the scenery around me.
The island is beautiful in the daylight. Whitewashed buildings with blue shutters, narrow cobblestone streets, the smell of salt and sunscreen in the air. Tourists everywhere, laughing and taking photos, living their best lives.
I'm not one of them. I've never been one of them. But for a moment—just a moment—I let myself imagine what it would be like. To be normal. To be someone who could meet a woman in a club, have an incredible night, and then actually pursue something more.
To be someone who wasn't a killer.
The thought is absurd, and I push it away. I am what I am. I've made my choices, and I've lived with the consequences. There's no going back, no changing who I've become.
And yet…
I can't stop thinking about her—the way she laughed. The way she moved. The way she felt against me… fuck. I want more of that. I've never wanted more.
Until now.
I finally head back to my hotel and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my duffel bag. I should pack. I should leave.
But I don't. Instead, I pull out my phone and open the browser, searching for flights to Barcelona. I still have some time before I need to be back. I could reschedule my flight. Get there tomorrow, instead. I'd still get to New York in time.
I could go out and see if I could find her at the clubs again. Fuck her one more time before I go. How long will it be before I meet someone who makes me feel that fucking good, that alive, again? Maybe never—I've never felt anything that intense before.
One more night can't hurt.
I stare at the screen, my finger hovering over the button to reschedule, and before I can stop myself, I press it.
And then I close the browser. Fuck it.
I'm not leaving. Not yet.
I shower again, rinsing off the sweat from the walk back, and get dressed to go out.
When I head out, the streets are busy, filled with people heading out for the night.
Music spills from open doorways, laughter echoes off the buildings, and the air is thick with the smell of perfume and alcohol.
I keep my head down, my hands in my pockets, and try not to think about how fucking ridiculous this is.
I'm a professional. A killer. I don't do this. I don't chase women. I don't obsess over one-night stands.
And yet here I am.
The club is already packed when I arrive, the music spilling out onto the street and the line to get in stretching around the block.
I bypass the line again, slipping the bouncer a hundred euros, and he waves me through without a word.
Inside, it's chaos. Bodies pressed together, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the smell of alcohol.
The music is deafening, the bass vibrating through the floor, and the lights are strobing in a way that makes my head ache all over again.
I scan the crowd, looking for her, but it's so packed that it's hard to pick out any one person in the flashing lights and press of bodies, even though I'd recognize her anywhere.
I push through the crowd, making my way toward the bar, my eyes constantly moving, searching.
Every woman with dark hair makes my pulse spike, but none of them are her.
She's not here. Not that I can see, anyway.
I order a drink—whiskey, neat—and lean against the bar, watching the crowd. Maybe she'll show up later. Maybe she's just running late.
Or maybe she's not coming at all.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, and I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from the disappointment.
This is pathetic.
An hour passes. Then another. I nurse my drink, watching the crowd, and feel the frustration building with every passing minute. She's not here. She's not coming.
I order another drink and keep watching. The club is a blur of faces, none of them hers. Women approach me—beautiful women who make it clear they're interested—but I brush them off. I'm not here for them.
I'm here for her.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly, and wonder if I've lost my fucking mind.
I'm sitting in a nightclub in Ibiza, searching for a woman whose name I don't even know, because of one night of sex that shouldn't have meant anything.
I signal the bartender for another drink, and he pours it without a word.
I take a sip, the whiskey burning down my throat, and let my eyes drift over the crowd again.
She's still not here. I should go. But even as I tell myself that, I know I won't leave.
Not yet. Not until I've exhausted every chance that she might walk through that door.
Because for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt something last night.
Something that made me feel like more than just a weapon, more than just a killer.
So I sit at the bar, nursing my drink, watching the crowd, and wondering if I've lost my mind over a woman whose name I don't even know.