No Names

The bedroom was darker than the living room. No windows. Just a bed that seemed to float in the center of the space, dressed in white sheets that glowed from the city light bleeding under the door.

He did not turn on any lamps. He did not need to.

Aria stood in the doorway, still wearing his sweater, her dress somewhere behind her on the living room floor. Her heels were off. Her feet were bare. She felt unmoored, untethered, like she had stepped out of her own life and into someone else's dream.

He walked past her into the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face her.

Last chance, he said. His voice was low. Rough. If you want to leave, I will call you a car. You can go anywhere. I will not ask your name. I will not ask where you came from. Tonight will be nothing.

She looked at him. At the scars on his chest. At the way his hands hung at his sides, not reaching for her, waiting.

She stepped into the room.

The door closed behind her.

He did not move. He let her come to him. She stopped inches away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. She reached up and placed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It was beating fast. Faster than she expected.

You are nervous, she said.

He caught her hand. Held it there. I have not done this in a long time.

Done what?

Been with someone I did not want to forget.

The words settled into her chest. She thought about Ethan. About five years of sleeping next to a man who had never once looked at her the way this stranger was looking at her now. Like she was something rare. Something worth seeing.

She rose on her toes and kissed him.

This kiss was different from the ones in the living room. Those had been hungry, desperate, the kiss of two people trying to outrun their own ghosts. This one was slower. Deeper. His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, tilting her head so he could kiss her better.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, Show me.

Show you what?

What you have not done in a long time.

He made a sound low in his throat. Then his hands were in her hair, pulling the pins loose, letting it fall around her shoulders. He gathered it at the nape of her neck and tugged gently, tilting her head back.

His mouth found her throat. He kissed the pulse point, then sucked gently, then bit down just hard enough to make her gasp. Her hands fisted in his hair. Her hips pressed into his, and she felt him, hard against her thigh. He groaned.

He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat down. He knelt in front of her.

His hands slid up her bare thighs, pushing the hem of his sweater higher. She had nothing on underneath. He stopped when he reached the tops of her thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there.

Look at me, he said.

She looked. His gray eyes were nearly black in the dim light.

I want to remember this, he said. I want to remember every sound you make. Every place you like to be touched. Every way you fall apart.

She could not speak. His hands were moving again, pushing the sweater up over her hips, her stomach, her breasts. She lifted her arms and let him pull it over her head. She was naked beneath him.

He sat back on his heels and looked at her. Not the quick, hungry glance of a man cataloging what he was about to take. Something slower. Something that made her want to cover herself and spread herself open at the same time.

Beautiful, he said. Just like I imagined.

She almost asked what he meant. Just like he imagined? He had imagined her? But then his mouth was on her inner thigh, and she forgot the question.

He kissed his way up her leg, slow and deliberate, his stubble scraping against her sensitive skin. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he paused. Looked up at her.

Is this what you want? he asked.

Yes, she breathed.

He lowered his mouth to her.

She cried out. Her back arched off the bed. Her hands flew to his hair, not pushing him away, pulling him closer. He hummed against her, a low vibration that sent shockwaves through her entire body. She had never felt anything like this. Ethan had never done this. Ethan had never even asked.

She said his name—not his real name, because she still did not know it, just a sound, just a breath. He answered with his tongue, his fingers, the gentle pressure of his teeth.

When she came, she saw stars behind her closed eyelids. She did not know she could make sounds like that. She did not know her body could do that. Her thighs trembled around his head. He held her hips steady, not letting her go, drawing out every last shudder.

He climbed up her body, kissing his way over her stomach, her ribs, the space between her breasts. When his face was level with hers, she tasted herself on his lips.

He kissed her. Deep and slow.

I want to feel you inside me, she said.

He reached down between them. She heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, his pants opening. Then he was pressing against her, bare skin against bare skin, and she held her breath.

He pushed inside her slowly. Inch by inch. She gasped at the stretch of it, the fullness, the way he filled her completely. He paused when he was buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged.

Okay? he asked.

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper.

He moved. Slow at first, then faster, then a rhythm that made the world disappear. She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, her cries swallowed by his mouth. He whispered her name—Aria, Aria, Aria—like a prayer, like a promise, like something he had been waiting years to say.

She felt another orgasm building, coiling low in her belly. He must have felt it too, because he changed his angle, driving deeper, and she shattered again, crying out against his shoulder.

He followed moments later, his body tensing above hers, a groan torn from his throat. He held her so tight she could not breathe.

They lay tangled in the sheets afterward, his arm around her waist, his face buried in her hair. Her body hummed. She had forgotten what this felt like. She had forgotten that she could feel at all.

He was asleep within minutes. She stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, tracing the scars on his arm with her fingertips.

She should leave. That was the agreement.

But she did not move.

In the darkness, she thought about the photograph she had seen earlier. The one on his nightstand, facedown. She had not looked at it. She wished she had.

Who are you? she whispered.

He did not answer. He was asleep.

She turned her head. The nightstand was close. The photograph was still there, facedown. She reached for it.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the frame. She pulled it toward her. Turned it over.

The woman in the photograph was her. Five years younger. Standing in front of her gallery, arms spread wide, head thrown back, laughing at something she could not remember.

She had never seen this picture. She did not know anyone had been there that day.

But someone had. He had.

Her hands shook. She looked at the man sleeping beside her. The stranger who was not a stranger. The man who had been watching her long before she walked into that bar.

He knew her name before she gave it to him. He knew who she was married to. He knew everything.

And he had said nothing.

She should wake him. She should demand answers. She should run.

Instead, she set the photograph back on the nightstand, facedown. She lay back down. She pressed her body against his, felt the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

She would ask him in the morning.

But when morning came, she was gone. The only trace of her was a single pearl earring on the bathroom floor.

And the photograph, still facedown, waiting.

She slipped out before dawn, pulling her dress over her cold skin, stepping into her heels. She did not look back at the bed. She could not. If she looked back, she would stay.

The elevator carried her down. The lobby was empty. The street was gray with early light.

She walked. Her body ached. Her lips were swollen. She could still feel his hands on her, his mouth, the way he had said her name.

She reached Sofia's apartment. Let herself in with the spare key. Closed the door. Leaned against it.

Sofia appeared in the hallway, still in her pajamas, her hair wild. Her eyes widened.

What happened to you? Sofia asked.

Aria looked at her sister. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

She reached up and touched her left ear. The diamond was still there. The pearl was gone.

She had left it behind. On purpose or by accident, she did not know.

But she knew one thing.

She would go back for it.

And when she did, she would find out who he really was.