The sensations blur together—pressure, warmth, movement. I don’t float away this time. I stay just grounded enough to participate, to finish this. If this is the life I’m stuck in, I might as well stop pretending I’m above it. Adriana is kind of right, in that respect. Still, my mind screams…
This isn’t intimacy. It’s anesthesia.
But before long, my suit is gone, and so is her dress. She moves against me, panting, nails digging into my chest. I keep my eyes open. If I close them, I might see the wrong woman—and that would break whatever spell this is.
She shifts, her weight settling fully on my hips. Her fingers find the waistband of my boxers, sliding them down with a practiced ease I don’t bother to help with. I just watch the window, the endless grid of lights. My head is spinning.
I don’t move. I let her do what she’s going to do.
She sinks down onto me, and a sigh escapes her lips, warm against my cheek. The feeling is immediate and intense, dragging a groan from my throat despite my fucking self. My hips jerk upward involuntarily, as much as I hate it.
There it is. The stupid, base reaction.
My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her steady as I finally meet her with thrusts of my own. A relieved sound falls from her lips. She’s probably happy I’m finally reciprocating.
I focus on the physical details. The way her head tilts back, exposing her throat. I watch it all from a distance, even as my own body is pulled into the current. I hate myself and accept this shit at the same time. I’m a goddamn contradiction. My own need builds, and I pull her down harder onto me, forcing myself deeper.
I hate you so much. I hate this.
“Jude,” she pants, her rhythm fracturing.
Ugh, don't say my fucking name. It sounds wrong on your tongue.
I don’t answer. I just watch her come apart. I give in to the pure, mindless sensation of it. I try not to think of another voice.
A softer, sweeter one.
The one that makes my name sound like a melody.
When it’s over, she collapses against me, satisfied, her breathing slowing. I don’t move. And somewhere deep inside me, buried under drugs and noise and resignation, a brutal truth slaps me in the goddamn face:
This is what it means to survive here. Not living...justenduring.
Chapter six
JUDE GRAVES
I wake to a headache that feels like it’s splitting my skull in half. The room is dim, curtains still drawn, Moscow reduced to a gray blur behind glass. My mouth still tastes like alcohol, and the sheets are twisted around our bodies. Adriana is sprawled beside me, naked, one arm across my chest.
I stare at the ceiling for a long moment, cataloging sensations instead of feelings. I’m trying to escape the ability to feel those. I carefully slide out from under her arm. She doesn’t stir, thankfully.
I find my underwear on the floor, pull them on, then my sweatpants. I don’t bother with a shirt. I just need to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like last night. The living room isquiet, and I cross it barefoot and grab what I came for. I sink into the couch and rub my face with both hands, elbows braced on my knees.
Morning dose.
My hands know what to do for this little ritual even when my brain doesn’t want to be awake yet. By the time I’m injecting the heroin, my gaze has shifted to the vastness before me out the windows.
I exhale slowly and pull out the needle. This is the part of the day that always feels the most real to me. Before expectations. Before I have to perform being someone’s investment, someone’s boyfriend, someone’sproperty. I sink deeper into the cushions and let the numbness spread, because it’s easier than thinking. I’m forcing certain people out of my mind constantly, and they’re honestly hard to keep at bay, sometimes. I’m hoping it will get easier with time.
My phone rests on the glass table in front of me, screen dark, with the only people texting me being criminals. I roll my shoulders, rubbing my face with both hands.
Footsteps shuffle behind me. I glance back and notice Adriana in the hallway, hair a mess, eyes squinting against the light. She's wearing one of the hotel robes, half-tied and clinging to her hips. She looks rough.
“Jesus,” she mutters. “You look like shit.”
“You're one to fucking talk.”
She pads into the kitchen, rummaging for water, aspirin, anything that might make her head stop pounding. I watch her without really seeing her. This morning feels different. Like I’m settled into this arrangement. Especially after I finally fucked her last night.