Do I realize that I’m using her like some kind of sexual fifth of Vodka guaranteed to grant me several hours of forgetfulness? Yeah. And part of me feels like a douche about it. But the other part… That part has no conscience, no thought but being balls deep inside her. No concern other than my cock getting its turn at having that tight-as-a-vise pussy gripping and squeezing it.
Still, not all of me is ruled by my dick. And I’m not too far gone that I can’t make sure she understands what she’s agreeing to.
“One night,” I repeat as she again turns toward the bar’s exit. “You understand what I’m saying, Ro?” I ask, using her name for the first time since this strange but exhilarating dance between us started. “That’s all I have to give you. It’s all I want to give,” I continue, giving her the truth no matter how much of it paints me with the asshole brush.
But to not lay it all out there really does make me a douche. With all the crap going on in my life—heavy career decisions, family issues, an ex who refuses to acknowledge she’s an ex—I’m looking for an escape, not another complication. Another responsibility.
Another opportunity to disappoint.
The corner of her mouth quirks. “I understand the definition of a one-night stand perfectly,” she drawls. Then, before I can respond, she tosses my coat toward me. On reflex, I snatch it out the air. “I’ll meet you out front at two. And if you’re going to be standing out here freezing your ass off, you might need this.”
With that, she pulls open the door and disappears through it.
I stare at the spot where she stood, a little stunned, a little confused, and a lot aroused. Shaking my head, I glance down at my watch. A little under three hours until she’s off.
“Shit,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.
This—propositioning this woman—is either the most brilliant thing I’ve done today.
Or the dumbest.
For the life of me, I can’t tell which one.
Chapter Four
Cypress
Holy hellfire, I’m going to fuck an angel. I’m going to hell.
The inane condemnation of my eternal soul slides through my head as I push my arms through my coat and cinch the belt around my waist. My coat had seemed perfectly adequate to combat the winter chill before tonight. Before a certain man had draped his own jacket over mine and stood in the night air, impervious to the cold, his only concern my warmth as his huge body blocked the brisk wind.
I pull my belt tighter, as if it can quell and contain the flutter in my belly. I don’t do “flutters.” That’s too sweet, a fanciful term for romantics who don’t recognize that chivalry is not just dead, but it’s been staked through the heart, burned, and had its ashes scattered over the grave of the white knight and his steed.
But a few hours ago, in that dimly lit alley? Chivalry had somehow pulled a Jesus Christ and resurrected like it was Easter Sunday, transforming this Doubting Thomas into a believer.
I pull my phone free of my pocket now and peek at the screen. 2:03 a.m. If he keeps his word, Jay will be standing outside, waiting on me, the promise to screw me senseless in those startling emerald eyes.
A barrage of anticipation and excitement runs through me. And a long-forgotten quote pops into my head.
I was smart enough to go through any door that opened.
While I seriously doubt the late, great Joan Rivers meant throwing caution to the wind and embarking on a hopefully hot-as-hell one-night stand with a stranger—a stranger who had gifted me with one of the most brain-numbing, panty-melting orgasms of my life—her nugget of wisdom still applies.
This isn’t my first one-nighter by a long shot. Hell, that pretty much sums up my relationships with men. But it’s been over a year since I’ve been with a man. Since I’ve allowed myself to be naked, vulnerable—well, as vulnerable as I can be—with someone.
When you have to suffer harassment and retaliation every day at work, the stress, anger, and helplessness kind of kills the libido. It also detonates your trust in people.
So even though I’m long overdue to end my sexual drought, tonight… It feels different in some way I can’t pinpoint. That intuition that every woman possesses is tingling like a Spidey sense, warning me not of a super villain’s imminent arrival but of something just as important. Not dangerous—no, there’s not a hint that my safety is in jeopardy. But it’s still…important. And maybe because it does seem momentous, vital, that makes it just as ominous.
If my vagina wasn’t at this very moment reminiscing on that glorious release Jay had treated it to in the alley, I would heed that premonition of self-preservation and duck out on him. But my vagina is a greedy, reckless slut, and I’m going to walk out of this bar and give her—and me—what we want.
Him.
The warrior angel with the heart-breaking beauty and piercing gaze as sharp as his metaphorical sword.
I suck in a deep breath. Hold it. Then slowly let it go, attempting to settle my nerves.
Well, that exercise was pointless.
