Mr One-Night Stand

It was a good enough reason for him.

Striding purposefully towards the master suite, he told himself he was doing right by her and kicked open the door. Reaching his bed, he pulled the covers back one-handed and set her down.

She turned into the mattress on contact, her body relaxing as he pulled the quilt to her chin, her long, lithe form folding into the charcoal-grey as if she belonged.

A warmth spread through him, irking him to turn away and head for the door.

Since when did the sight of a woman in his bed appeal?

The truth was never.

Because he’d never let it happen before.

Behind him, she gave a soft moan, the sound lulling his resistant gaze back. She shifted, her hands hooking into the pillow beneath her head and drawing it closer. His throat closed, his body heated, and he had to force his legs to work, to stride from the room straight down through the foyer and into the living area, where his glass drinks cabinet beckoned.

He debated how much he’d consumed already. Not quite two J&Bs. He could stand another. Just one.

Pouring himself a careful measure, he went to take it up when his phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message.

He pulled it out and checked the screen, his hand clenching around it as his stomach turned over.

I’ve been calling you for a week. Since no police have rung I assume you are still alive and just being ignorant. Call me back. Gran x

A bittersweet smile pulled at his mouth—she was never one to mince her words—and guilt swamped his unease. Yes, he should have rung, but no matter how he played it, how he tried to talk himself out of it, his grandparents, for all their devotion, brought with them the past.

And the past could go fuck itself.

Still, he owed them a call.

Hell, he owed them many.

Fingers moving deftly over the screen, he promised them he’d be in touch and then placed it on the side. Taking up his glass instead, he glanced down into the swirling amber liquid and felt his stomach turn anew.

Fuck.

He swiftly put it down, the harsh twang of glass hitting glass barely registering as the memories flooded him, his hands falling into fists at his side as he tried to push them out. The painful reminders of where pain and booze could take someone, of the many beatings he’d endured with the stench of drink permeating the air, of his father, so broken and twisted—

Let it go. You’re not him. You never will be.

He strode to the glass wall, his sights fixed on the glittering city lights, and took a breath, trying to empty his mind and finding it impossible.

And then he thought of her—the distracting bundle curled up in his bed—and, no matter the trouble that was coming, he felt something inside him ease.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT WAS THE scent that hit her first—the hint of male cologne, all warm and woody and decidedly comforting to Jennifer’s sleep-addled brain. She wrinkled her nose into the plushness cushioning her head, revelling in its luxurious feel. So soft. So nice. Much nicer than the feeling coming off the rest of her.

She stretched out and froze. She was still fully clothed. The jagged edges of her underwear bit into her skin, the brush of the quilt against her stockinged legs and the pinch of her stilettos was alarmingly peculiar.

And then came a faint noise, the unmistakable sound of snoring.

Jennifer slept alone. Always alone.

And now she was awake, cocooned in the scent of male and definitely not alone!

She shot up, her hands fisting into the sheets around her, her eyes blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the darkness of the room. It was huge. The bed she was in was huge, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls taking up half of the room were huge.

And then she saw him—her Mr Wright—his sleep-slackened body reclining in an armchair at the opposite side of the room, his silhouette outlined by a view of the moonlit Thames.