Sleepless Nights

Three nights later the house had stopped pretending to be empty.

I lay in the dark of the master bedroom with the sheets twisted around my thighs and Ben’s breathing steady beside me - too steady, the careful rhythm of a man who knew better than to reach for me. The argument earlier had been the usual one, sharper this time. Money. Violet’s closed door. The way he looked at me like he was still waiting for permission to touch what used to be his without asking. I’d told him to sleep on the couch. He’d stayed anyway, stubborn and silent on his side of the mattress, the gulf between us wide enough to drown in.

I couldn’t sleep. The air felt thicker after dark, as if the walls exhaled something warm and metallic that settled low in my belly. Every creak of the old wood sounded like a footstep. Every shift of the curtains felt like fingers trailing across skin.

I slipped out of bed barefoot, the floorboards cool under my soles, and went downstairs without turning on a light. The kitchen still smelled faintly of the sage Constance had left. I hadn’t burned it. I hadn’t thrown it away either. It sat on the counter like a dare.

I poured a glass of red wine I didn’t particularly want and leaned against the island, nightgown thin enough that the air raised gooseflesh along my arms. The house was listening. I could feel it the way Constance had promised—patient, intimate, offering.

A soft sound at the back door.

Not a knock this time. Just the quiet turn of the handle, as if whoever stood there already knew it would open for them.

Constance stepped inside wearing a black silk robe that clung to the curves of her body like it had been poured on. No pearls tonight. No polite smile. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, and her eyes found me in the dark immediately.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” she said, voice low, almost fond. “The house doesn’t let the restless ones rest. Not until they take what they’re owed.”

She crossed the kitchen without hurry. The robe parted slightly with each step, flashing the pale inner line of her thigh. I should have told her to leave. Instead I set the wine down and watched her come closer until the heat of her body met the cooler air between us.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she murmured. “That ache under the anger. The part of you that wants to be broken open just so something can finally get inside.”

Her hand rose and rested against the side of my neck, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. I didn’t pull away. The contact sent a sharp, unwanted bolt of heat straight between my legs. Ben was upstairs. Violet was upstairs. And I was standing in my kitchen letting the neighbor touch me like she already knew every filthy thought I’d been trying not to have.

Constance’s other hand found the tie of my nightgown and tugged. The silk slipped from one shoulder, then the other, pooling at my elbows. Cool air kissed my breasts. Her gaze dropped, unashamed, and her mouth curved.

“Pretty,” she said. “And so tense. All that fury locked up with nowhere to go.”

She leaned in and dragged the tip of her tongue along the tendon of my throat. I made a sound I didn’t recognize - half protest, half surrender. Her teeth followed, a careful scrape that made my nipples tighten hard. One of her hands slid down, cupped my breast, squeezed just short of pain. The other slipped between my thighs without asking, finding me already slick.

“There it is,” she whispered against my skin. “The house knew. I knew. You need to be used until the shame feels like pleasure.”

Two fingers pushed inside me in one smooth, ruthless stroke. I gasped, hips jerking forward against her hand. She fucked me like that against the island - slow, deep, curling against the place that made my vision blur - while her mouth moved to my breast and bit down just hard enough to leave a mark Ben would see in the morning. The wet sound of her fingers working me filled the quiet kitchen. I came hard and sudden, thighs shaking, a broken moan trapped behind my teeth so no one upstairs would hear.

Constance didn’t stop. She kept stroking me through it, slower now, almost tender, until the oversensitivity made me whimper. Only then did she withdraw her fingers, glisten them between us, and press them to my lips.

“Taste what the house is giving you,” she said.

I did. Salt and heat and something darker underneath. Her eyes stayed on mine the entire time.

When she finally stepped back, the robe still open, she looked almost satisfied.

“This is only the beginning, darlin’. The house has so much more planned for you. For Ben. For all of you.” She tied her robe closed with deliberate care. “Next time you feel that ache, don’t fight it. Let it take you. Let it show you exactly how far you’re willing to go.”

She left the same way she came - quiet, certain - leaving the back door unlocked behind her.

I stood there half-naked in the dark kitchen, nightgown around my waist, thighs still trembling, the mark of her teeth blooming on my breast. Upstairs Ben slept on. Violet’s door stayed shut.

The house breathed around me, warm and approving.

And for the first time since we’d moved in, the division between me and everything I was supposed to want felt like it might finally, deliciously, crack wide open.