What happens after midnight p. 2
Summary: after last time with Pedro you couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t get enough of him. A little red hair tie is determined for you.
Warning: cheating, alcohol, rough sex and so on…
Did you notice the little detail I made…
The drive home was a silent, suffocating thing. Pedro didn’t push, didn’t speak, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually on the center console, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. You stared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white, each one a reminder of the life you were supposed to be living, the life you had just violently betrayed.
He pulled up to your building, the engine cutting out and plunging the car into a heavy quiet. “I’ll walk you up,” he said, not a question.
You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him to leave, to disappear back into the past where he belonged. But you couldn’t. Your limbs felt like lead, your mind a chaotic mess of guilt and a terrifying, exhilarating pull that you knew would only grow stronger.
The elevator ride was agony. The mirrored walls reflected your disheveled state, your swollen lips, the wild look in your eyes. You couldn’t meet Pedro’s gaze, but you could feel it on you, intense and unwavering.
Inside your apartment, the silence was even louder. Liam’s jacket was slung over a chair, his shoes kicked haphazardly by the door. It was the home you had built together, and it felt like a crime scene.
You turned to face Pedro, your arms wrapping around yourself. “You should go.”
He didn’t move. He just watched you, his expression unreadable. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. It was a simple, thin red hair tie, the kind you used to wear all the time when you were together.
He closed the distance between you, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t try to kiss you again. He simply took your hand, his fingers warm and calloused, and placed the hair tie in your palm, curling your fingers over it.
“Wear it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “When you wear it, I’ll know. It means you’re thinking about me. It means you need me.”
Your breath hitched. It was a secret. A tangible, dangerous secret you could carry with you. A line you knew you shouldn’t cross, but one that glittered with irresistible temptation.
“You can,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “And you will.” He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was a benediction and a curse. “I’ll be waiting.”
And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dark with the red hair tie clutched in your hand, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.
Weeks passed. You and Liam fell back into a comfortable rhythm, the night at the mansion a hazy, shameful memory you tried to bury under work and domesticity. You were a good girlfriend. You were attentive, loving. But you were a ghost in your own life.
The red hair tie sat in your jewelry box, a sliver of crimson against the muted gold and silver. Sometimes, when Liam was out, you would take it out, loop it around your wrist, the stretchy material a constant, thrumming reminder of the other life you could be living.
The first time you wore it was to a gallery opening for a new firm. It was a casual affair, and you pulled your hair back into a loose ponytail, the red tie a small, almost invisible slash of color at the nape of your neck. You told yourself it meant nothing. It was just a hair tie.
You were talking to one of the investors, laughing at a terrible joke, when you felt it. A shift in the atmosphere. A prickle on the back of your neck. You turned, and there he was, across the room, leaning against a pillar, a glass of champagne in his hand. He wasn't looking at anyone else. He was looking at you.
His eyes met yours, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Your heart hammered against your ribs. He knew. He knew what the hair tie meant. And the thrill that shot through you was so potent, so immediate, it made you dizzy.
That night, after Liam was asleep, your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
It became your secret language. You didn’t see him again for another month, not in person. But the hair tie was your tether. You wore it when you felt the urge, when the memory of his hands on you became too strong to ignore. Each time you did, a text would eventually follow.
The power was intoxicating. You were living a double life, and the danger of it only made the pull stronger.
Then came the charity gala. It was a black-tie event, the kind of affair where you were expected to be a polished, perfect accessory on Liam’s arm. You chose an elegant black gown, its back dipping low. As you got ready, you stared at your reflection. You looked the part of the devoted girlfriend. But as you pulled your hair up into an intricate twist at the base of your neck, your fingers trembled as you secured it with the red hair tie. It was a declaration. A test.
Liam, ever charming, was swept away by donors and board members almost immediately. You found yourself standing by the bar, nursing a glass of champagne, the cool silk of your dress a flimsy armor against the heat building inside you.
You didn’t have to wait long.
A hand came to rest on the small of your back, a touch so familiar it made your breath catch. “Excuse me,” a low voice murmured beside you. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”
You turned, and your eyes locked with Pedro’s. He was devastating in a tuxedo, his dark hair slightly tousled, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. His gaze dropped from your eyes to the red hair tie holding your hair in place, and when he looked back at you, his expression was pure, unadulterated hunger.
“The gala is almost over,” he said, his voice a low growl meant only for you. “There’s a private lounge upstairs. Room 214. Five minutes.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply walked away, leaving you trembling with a mixture of terror and anticipation. You knew you should go find Liam, make an excuse, and leave. But you didn’t. You finished your champagne in one gulp, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and headed for the stairs.
Room 214 was unlocked. You slipped inside, and the door clicked shut behind you. The room was dark, save for the city lights glittering through the large window. Pedro was standing by the window, his back to you.
“You wore it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, even though he couldn’t see you.
He turned, and the look on his face was enough to undo you. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing down on yours. This was no gentle kiss. It was a kiss of possession, of desperation, of weeks of pent-up frustration. He kissed you like he was starving, and you were his only meal.
His hands were everywhere, tangling in your hair, his fingers tracing the line of the red hair tie before he tugged it free, letting your hair spill down over your shoulders. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he groaned against your lips. “Dreaming about seeing this on and knowing you were mine for the night.”
He backed you up against the door, his body pressing into yours, hard and insistent. His hands found the zipper of your gown, pulling it down in one smooth, fluid motion. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire of his touch as his lips trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping at your collarbone.
“You drive me insane,” he breathed, his hands roaming over your bare back, pulling you flush against him. “Walking around with this on, like a little secret just for me.”
You were lost in a haze of need, your body responding to his with a ferocity that scared and thrilled you. You fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy with desire. “I need you,” you gasped, the words torn from your throat. “Now, Pedro. Please.”
He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the plush sofa in the center of the room. He laid you down, his eyes burning into yours as he quickly shed his clothes. He was magnificent, his body hard and lean, his cock jutting out, thick and demanding.
He knelt between your legs, his gaze raking over you. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough. “So fucking beautiful. And all mine.”
He entered you in one hard, deep thrust that stole your breath. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, his strokes punishing and perfect. There was nothing gentle about this. It was raw, primal, a desperate reclaiming. He was fucking you with a purpose, erasing Liam, erasing time, erasing everything but the two of you in this dark room.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips snapping against yours. “That’s how much I’ve missed you. That’s how much I’ve wanted to be back inside you.”
You met him thrust for thrust, your body arching up to take him deeper, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly. The words were a litany on your lips, a chant of his name, a surrender you hadn’t known you were still capable of. “Yes, Pedro, yes… don’t stop…”
His rhythm was relentless, a punishing, glorious pace that pushed you to the very edge. He leaned down, his mouth hot against your ear, his words a ragged, filthy whisper that sent jolts of electricity straight to your core. “You like that, don’t you?” His hand slid down, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with a pressure that was almost too much, exactly what you needed. “This pussy is still mine, isn’t it? Still remembers me?”
You could only whimper, your mind blank, your body a conduit for pure sensation. The coil inside you tightened to an impossible degree, a spring wound so tight it was about to snap. “I’m gonna come,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Oh god, Pedro, I’m gonna come…”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it. Show me you’re still mine.”
His words were your undoing. The world shattered into a million blinding pieces of light, your body convulsing as a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost violent crashed over you. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound that was swallowed by the city's hum beyond the window. He followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, his body shuddering as he poured himself into you, his release hot and deep.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined, ragged breathing. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, the scent of him and sex filling the air.
Then, a sound cut through the haze.
A buzzing. Persistent. Annoying.
It was coming from your discarded clutch on the floor, the little purse lying beside your ruined gown. Pedro lifted his head, his brow furrowed. You groaned, pushing weakly at his shoulder. “Ignore it,” you mumbled, wanting to stay in this perfect, ruined moment forever.
But the buzzing didn't stop. It was your phone. With a sigh of profound frustration, you untangled yourself from him, your muscles protesting as you crawled off the sofa and fumbled with the clasp on your purse. The screen lit up, the name flashing like a siren in the dim room.
Your blood ran cold. Panic, sharp and icy, lanced through the post-coital haze. You scrambled to silence it, your fingers shaking, but it was too late. The buzzing stopped, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.
“Who is it?” Pedro asked, his voice low, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. He already knew.
You didn’t have to answer. The look on your face was enough. He pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his expression unreadable in the gloom. “Liam,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
“He… he probably just wondered where I went,” you stammered, clutching the phone to your chest like a shield. “I should… I should call him back.”
Pedro didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his eyes dark and intense. There was no anger, no accusation. Just a quiet, knowing sadness that was somehow a thousand times worse. He stood up, completely unashamed of his nakedness, and walked over to the window, looking out at the sprawling city below.
“You should go,” he said, his back to you. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
“Pedro…” you started, but the words wouldn’t come. What could you say? Sorry I have to go back to my other life? Sorry this amazing, destructive thing between us has an expiration date?
He turned then, his face half in shadow. “Go on,” he said softly. “Go back to him.” He gestured vaguely towards the pile of your clothes on the floor. “Answer your phone. Be the girlfriend he thinks you are.”
The cruelty in his tone was a physical blow. You scrambled to pull on your dress, your hands clumsy, the silk feeling cold and foreign against your skin. You looked like a wreck, your hair a mess, your lips swollen, your body still humming with the memory of his. There was no way you could face Liam like this.
As you zipped up your gown, you saw him walk back to the sofa. He picked up the red hair tie from the floor where it had fallen, twisting it around his fingers. He didn’t look at you. He just sat there, naked and magnificent, a king in his ruined kingdom, and waited for you to leave.
You grabbed your clutch and fled, the click of the door shutting behind you sounding like the final, damning note in a symphony of your own making. The hallway was bright and sterile, a stark contrast to the dark, passionate world you were leaving behind. You leaned against the wall, your phone still clutched in your hand, and tried to remember how to breathe. You had two choices: go back downstairs and face Liam with a lie, or keep running. And you knew, with a certainty that terrified you, that no matter where you ran, you would always be looking back at the man in the darkened room, holding your red hair tie in his hand.
The ride home was a silent, suffocating thing. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the city lights blurring through the window, each one a mocking reminder of the life you were supposed to be living. You could still feel the ghost of Pedro’s hands on your skin, the echo of his voice in your ear, the weight of him inside you. The scent of his cologne clung to you, a phantom presence that screamed of your betrayal.
Liam, drunk and happy, hummed along to the radio, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. You flinched at his touch, a wave of guilt so strong it made you physically ill. You wanted to shove his hand away, to scream at him not to touch you, but you just sat there, frozen, a statue of your own making.
Inside your apartment, the door clicked shut, and the silence was deafening. It was the home you had built together, and it felt like a tomb. Liam’s hands were on you immediately, his movements clumsy with alcohol and desire. He spun you around, his lips sloppy and wet against your neck.
“God, you look so hot tonight,” he mumbled, his fingers fumbling with the zipper of your gown. “I’ve been thinking about this all night. Thinking about you in this dress…”
Panic, cold and sharp, seized you. You couldn’t. Not now. Not when you still felt the imprint of another man’s body, the memory of a different, more desperate passion. You turned your head, his lips landing wetly on your cheek.
“Liam, stop,” you said, your voice thin, strained.
He didn’t hear you, or he chose not to. He just chuckled, his hands still working at your zipper. “Come on, babe. Don’t be like that. It’s been a long night.”
He finally got the zipper down, his hands sliding inside your gown, his palms rough against your bare back. The touch, which should have been familiar and comforting, felt like a violation. It was all wrong. It wasn’t him.
“No, really, stop,” you said, your voice gaining a sliver of urgency as you pushed at his shoulders. “I’m not in the mood. I’m tired.”
He pulled back, his eyes glassy and confused. “What? What’s wrong? You were fine at the party.”
“I’m just… I have a headache,” you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “The champagne… it’s gone straight to my head. Please, Liam. I just want to go to sleep.”
His face fell, the drunken desire in his eyes replaced by a wounded, boyish disappointment. “Oh. Okay.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, babe. I just… I missed you.”
The guilt was a physical blow, a fist to your gut. You had to force yourself not to recoil as he leaned in and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said, his voice gentle.
He helped you out of your dress, his touch now careful and completely platonic. You felt like the most wretched person on earth, a fraud in your own life. He slipped one of his old t-shirts over your head, the scent of his laundry detergent a clean, innocent contrast to the sin that clung to your skin.
He fell asleep almost instantly, his breathing a soft, rhythmic puff beside you. You lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, the events of the night replaying in your mind on a torturous loop. You could still feel Pedro’s weight on you, hear his voice in your ear, see the look on his face as he held your red hair tie. You were a stranger in your own bed, a ghost in your own relationship.
Days bled into a week, a miserable stretch of time where you went through the motions of your life like a poorly programmed robot. You smiled at Liam, you went to work, you cooked dinner. But every moment was tainted. The memory of Pedro was a constant, low hum beneath your skin, a secret ache that you couldn't soothe. You found yourself checking your phone obsessively, but he didn't text again. The silence was its own form of torture.
You were sitting on the couch one evening, scrolling aimlessly through a news aggregator on your tablet while Liam watched TV, when a headline made you freeze.
“Movie Star Pedro Steps Out with New Girlfriend.”
Your heart stopped. It was a different Pedro, you told yourself. It had to be. There were millions of Pedros in the world. But you clicked on the link anyway, your finger trembling. The article was a fluff piece, accompanied by a gallery of photos. And then you saw him.
It was him. Your Pedro. He was smiling, a genuine, easy-going smile you’d never seen directed at you. He had his arm around a stunning woman with dark, glossy hair and a perfect smile. The article identified her as Diannelys Ramírez, a former beauty queen They were getting out of a car, cameras flashing, looking like a real, legitimate couple. You felt the air leave your lungs, a sharp, painful vacuum in your chest.
You swiped to the next photo. It was a close-up of them laughing. And then you saw it.
Tied around her wrist, in a neat, casual loop, was a flash of red. A thin, simple red hair tie.
The world tilted on its axis. The tablet slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table. Liam glanced over. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You couldn’t answer. You could only stare at the image on the screen. It wasn't just a hair tie. It was *the* hair tie. The one he had taken from you, the one he had used to bind your wrist, the one he had called his mark. And now it was on her. A public declaration. A transfer of ownership.
The betrayal was a physical blow, so visceral it stole your breath. You had been a secret, a dirty little thrill, a temporary distraction. And this woman… she was the reality. She was the one he took out in public, the one he introduced to the world, the one he marked with *your* token.
“Babe?” Liam’s voice was concerned now, cutting through the roaring in your ears. “What is it?”
You tore your eyes away from the screen, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. “Nothing,” you lied, your voice a choked whisper. “Just… some surprising celebrity gossip. It’s silly.”
But it wasn't silly. It was a cataclysm. The fantasy you had been nurturing, the dangerous, intoxicating idea that what you had was something special and real, shattered into a million pieces. You weren’t his. You had never been his. You were just a willing participant in someone else’s game, a pawn he had moved and discarded with terrifying ease.
You stood up on shaky legs, the room spinning. “I… I think I need some air,” you mumbled, fleeing to the balcony.
The cool night air did nothing to calm the fire raging inside you. You leaned against the railing, the city lights a blur of mocking stars. You had been so stupid. So arrogant to think you were anything more than a conquest. The guilt you had felt over betraying Liam was now joined by a newer, sharper pain: the searing agony of being the one who was betrayed.
You looked back into the warm, lit apartment, at Liam, who was now looking at you with a worried expression. He was kind. He was safe. He was real. And you had thrown it all away for a man who had already replaced you, who had taken the secret symbol of your illicit affair and given it away like a party favor.
The red hair tie was no longer a thrilling secret. It was a brand of shame, a scarlet letter that you could now see on another woman’s wrist. And you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that the game was over. You had lost.
