The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance

by Stefanie London

  “The cut-off is 10:00 p.m.” His jaw ticks. “There’s a reason for that.”

  “Oh, really? Please tell me about it. Was it The Great Garbage Chute Incident of 2006? I heard quite a few people lost their lives over it.”

  I want to know what Mr. Suit’s deal is. He’s got this weird mix of blistering heat and uptight, almost stuffy rigidity about him. I’ve never met anyone like him before. Most guys seem to fall into only one camp, but he’s got a foot squarely in both.

  Tonight he’s not in suit, however. He’s wearing a soft crew-neck jumper with a shirt underneath and jeans with boots. Faded denim clings to his muscular thighs and makes his long legs look even longer. It’s a damn sight, let me tell you.

  “I would think that you’d be on your best behaviour considering this isn’t your apartment,” he says drily. For some guys, there might’ve been a hint of threat in a statement like that. But Mr. Suit is grouchy, not menacing.

  “Good behaviour isn’t my forte.” I place a hand against his chest, giving him the gentlest shove so I can exit the chute room. “As you well know.”

  Mistake. His jumper is soft and snuggly, covering a hard wall of muscle. My mind spins off into a fantasy, but I have to remain strong. I will not let Mr. Suit best me in a verbal beatdown.

  “And what exactly is your forte?” He steps back, freeing himself of my greedy hands. “Semi-goth makeup? Getting stuck in stairwells? Not wearing pants?”

  He wants to judge me? Fine, it’s not like I give a shit what he—or any other man—thinks of me. “Very perceptive. I’m a two-time gold medallist in going pantsless.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re like a stubborn teenager.”

  “You didn’t seem to have a problem with me when you called the other night,” I purr. “In fact, why don’t we add that to my list of fortes. Dirty talk. What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”

  Unfortunately, none of those talents count for much. I’ve got a PhD in emotional self-defence, a black belt in pushing people away, and several medals for snark, sarcasm, profanity and beer drinking. Useless skills, except for when it comes to keeping my heart protected...or so I’d thought.

  But I’m not going to lay those weapons down ever again.

  Mr. Suit’s gaze burns right through me, like he sees past my trolling. Past my smudgy eye makeup and the hard stare that tells people to stay away. Like he’s drilling through all of that to the stuff I don’t want anyone to see.

  Ever.

  “That’s usually my job,” he says with a smirk. “It was interesting to be on the receiving end for a change.”

  “Well, Mr. Suit, consider yourself lucky. Try to get some rest, if you can. I know it’ll be hard with all the irresponsible people throwing out their trash at such an inconvenient hour.” I turn on my heel, heading back to the apartment with an exaggerated swing of my hips.

  My whole body prickles with the sensation of being watched—it’s like fire in my blood. Like jumper leads have been attached to my nervous system. I like being watched by him. Being consumed by his eyes.

  I reach for the handle of the front door and turn. Nothing. I try again, rattling it slightly. Still nothing. A dark chuckle comes from behind me and I sigh, letting my forehead bump against the wood as I sag in defeat.

  I’ve locked myself out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Flynn

  I DON’T SAY a word. I don’t even breathe. Instead I lean against the wall and watch as Blondie realises she’s locked herself out of her apartment. I’m guessing a rule-breaker like her didn’t bother to bring her keys with her—after all, where would she put them if she’s not wearing pants?

  I can tell by the style of the lock that there’s an automatic dead bolt installed. The desire to laugh bubbles up inside me.

  Blondie turns, barely able to raise her ethereal blue eyes to mine. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” It’s a total lie and I can barely choke the words out without snorting. After her high-and-mighty display a second ago, it’s more than a little fun to see her toppled from her pedestal.

  “Someone has a master key, right?” Her eyes are pleading.

  “Yes, the office manager starts work at ten a.m. on Sunday mornings.”

  “Of course you would know that,” she grumbles. “What about security?”

  “They don’t have access to it, because they’re usually contracted through a third party. It’s too risky to give them the master.” I cross my arms. “Your options are to ask security to call the office manager and wake them up. They’ll probably charge a penalty to the person who owns the apartment, if you can get a hold of them. Otherwise you can call a locksmith and have the locks changed.”

  “I can’t do that.” Blondie bites her lip.

  “Midnight emergency callout won’t be cheap.”

  “It’s not even my apartment. Will they let me do it without the owner here?” She swears and scrubs a hand over her face.

  “You don’t have a great track record with locked doors, do you?” I can’t help it, the jab is wide open and I take it. To my surprise, Blondie isn’t pissed. Instead, she laughs so hard that tears form in her eyes.

  “I really don’t.” She sags back against the door and shoots me a black, sooty stare. “I don’t suppose you’d mind having a misbehaving, anti-responsibility, potty-mouthed guest on your couch tonight?”

  The universe is determined to test me, I’m sure of it. But I’m not about to let her sleep in the hallway.

  “Come on.” I motion for her to follow. “Let’s get inside before you give the guys watching the security cameras too much of an eyeful.”

  “What were you doing out here so late, anyway?” she asks. “Or did you really come out here to tell me off?”

  “You think I’m some cave troll who waits around for people to break a rule so I can yell at them?” When I glance at her mischievous grin, I shake my head. “Don’t answer that.”

  Actually, I was about to go for a walk—I do that sometimes when I’m feeling cagey and stuck. On a Saturday night, South Melbourne is bustling. I like to wander along Clarendon Street, enjoying the lights and the sounds of life around me. As much as I say I want a quiet, work-focused existence, sometimes the silence becomes too much.

  I open the door to my apartment and hold it for Blondie. I try not to look at her incredible bare legs as she pads into my space—a space where no woman has come since my last failed attempt at a long-term relationship two years ago. My place is spare—less “design-y” than the apartment she’s staying in. It’s like me—functional, to the point.

  Gabe would probably say it needed a bit more personality, but frankly I don’t spend enough time here to warrant finding a designer I would trust enough.

  “It’s very...white.” Blondie bobs her head. “Minimalist.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find my couch more comfortable that the hallway floor,” I say drily.

  “I’m afraid to touch anything.” Her laugh sounds a little tight—like she’s nervous being here. It’s a far cry from the feisty woman I’ve encountered thus far. But I guess there’s a difference—here, she’s on my turf. Under my roof. “It’s so pristine. Do you really live here?”

  “Of course I live here.”

  She turns to me, subtly tugging down the hem of her jumper but all it does is draw my attention to her slender thighs. Her white-blond hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head and a few tendrils have escaped around her face and down the back of her neck. I’m struck by how beautiful she is—even while looking like sin and smelling like cocktails.

  I shouldn’t be attracted to someone like her. She screams party girl, wild child. She’s a sexy hot mess of a woman and fucking hell, it’s got me all knotted up.

  “Don’t most people have a book on the coffee table or a cup of cold tea dis
carded somewhere? Maybe a jacket slung over the back of a chair?” There’s that nervous laugh again. “You know, normal people things. I bet if we sent the Mars Rover through here it would come back reporting no signs of life.”

  I roll my eyes. “Excuse me for not living in a pigsty. Do you want to stay here or not?”

  “Sure, thank you.” She nods. “I, uh...”

  “Spit it out.”

  “I was about to have a shower. I smell like pizza and I really don’t want to ruin that pretty white couch.”

  Christ. How am I supposed to function with the thought of her naked in my shower? What the hell did I do wrong to be saddled with this temptation?

  I clear my throat. “Of course. I’ll get you some towels.”

  “I guess I already know where the bathroom is.” She bites her lip again. “When I saw into—”

  “I know.”

  The vision of her on her balcony, her hand down the front of those ridiculous pink undies, is etched into my memory in permanent ink. A fleeting thought dashes through my brain—I wonder what colour she’s wearing right now. My muscles are wooden as I head to the linen cupboard and pull out some fresh towels.

  “Here.” I shove them toward her, averting my eyes.

  “They’re white. What a surprise,” she teases softly.

  I ignore the dig. “I’ll leave a blanket and some pillows on the couch when you’re done.”

  And then I will make sure I am in my bedroom with the door closed so that I don’t have any more sexy images of her to add to my growing collection.

  Instead of heading straight to my room, I decide to pour myself a drink. I reason that it’ll help me sleep. Okay, fine. Seems legit. But then I walk to my balcony and pull the sliding glass door open.

  The air outside is heavy, warning of a late-spring storm. It’s cool but not cold, the scent of grass and flowers and lemons wafting up from the big garden below. Although I don’t spend much time at home, I enjoy the view of the property, which is far greener and more lush than most places around here. There’s a communal vegetable patch and a barbeque area and a big indoor swimming pool surrounded by glass.

  I sip my drink, listening to the sound of water running in my bathroom. My throat is tight, but the drink relaxes me. I’m still stinging from my brother’s assessment earlier today—mostly because I know he’s right. Every decision I make, everything I do, is for Zoe. It’s part of the reason I don’t do casual dating, because my niece gets attached to people easily, and she’s desperate for a mother figure. The first time it happened was about six months after Monique left. I brought a woman to a barbeque and Zoe was smitten. A month later we were over, but Zoe asked about her constantly.

  It’s exactly why Gabe hasn’t dated since the split. We might not have long with Zoe—and neither of us wants to waste that time.

  I swish my drink around in the heavy glass. It clings a little to the edges, glowing like an ember in the glittering city lights. I’ve not once regretted sacrificing my old job, my old ways of partying and dating and hookups. The past few years have changed me. I’ve thrown everything into my company, I’ve poured all my money into hiring the best and brightest medical researchers.

  What if it’s not enough?

  It’s the thought that keeps me awake at night and no matter how hard I try to shove it away, it haunts me.

  “Mr. Suit?” Blondie’s husky voice calls me back to the present, luring me with the perfect way to forget about my worries. “I don’t suppose I could borrow a T-shirt to sleep in.”

  When I turn, she’s standing in the door of the bathroom, backlit so the edges of her hair glow like they’ve been touched by God. She’s an angel. Surreal and so perfect I wonder if it’s all a figment of my imagination. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without makeup—well, there are slight traces of it around her eyes. But otherwise she’s fresh-faced, her full lips bare and parted, her pale eyes wide.

  I swallow and down the rest of my drink. “Sure.”

  It takes every bit of willpower to walk into my bedroom, instead of what I want to do—which is tug at the towel until it slips from her body. But as I stand at my chest of drawers, hunting out a T-shirt, I feel her presence behind me. It’s like flames licking at my back.

  “Aren’t you even a little bit tempted?” she asks. There’s a curiosity to her voice, and I’m certain she’s never been short on men finding her attractive. Maybe my reasons don’t make sense to anyone else—hell, I’m not even sure they make sense to me anymore.

  What if your work isn’t enough?

  Today has worn me out. The stress of dealing with my idiot cousin and the wedding, and waiting impatiently for progress on our trials and then seeing Zoe and my brother today, seeing just how in pain he is...

  I reach down deep for the strength I need, but I’m empty.

  “Blondie, tempted doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have called the other night if I wasn’t tempted out of my fucking mind.”

  “But you have your rule.”

  I turn. She’s leaning against the door frame, water droplets dotting her shoulders and chest. Her hair is damp. My towel swamps her, covering her sexy thighs and trim waist and small perky breasts.

  “I guess you’re used to men falling at your feet, huh?” I say.

  To my surprise, she laughs. “I’m a novelty. They might fall at my feet but the second they’ve got what they wanted, they’re out of there. So I figured, why not set the terms myself? Not all women need to be looking for a husband.”

  “And not all guys need to be looking for a quick fuck.”

  “I’m happy to take my time with you.”

  I bite back a moan. “You didn’t lock yourself out on purpose, did you?”

  “Nope. I really was trying to dispose of a pizza box.” She draws her fingertip across her chest. “Cross my heart.”

  Would it really hurt to break my own rules just one time? She’s not staying for long so there’s no chance of it getting messy. I want her. There’s absolutely no denying that—my cock’s been like a soldier snapping to attention since the night I rescued her from that stairwell. Every time I think about her—think about the peep show and the dirty phone call...bam!

  That’s what you get from self-imposing celibacy for so long. When was the last time I had sex? I can’t even remember. And now my body is starved. Desperate. Coiled like a hungry animal with a big, tasty deer in its path.

  Only this deer wants to be caught.

  “I don’t know anything about you,” I say in a last-ditch attempt to put some distance between us.

  Her lip quirks and she steps into my room, one hand at the knot holding the towel closed. “I’m a Pisces who enjoys long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners.”

  “Liar.”

  “See, you do know something about me.” Her grin is wicked. “Doesn’t that sound a whole lot better than jaded rebel who doesn’t believe in relationships and only wears black?”

  “The second woman sounds a whole lot more real to me.”

  She’s close now, and I trace my finger along the top edge of her towel, skirting the knot and soft skin behind it.

  “And that’s exactly why I’ve stayed away,” I add. “You’re not my type.”

  “How’s your ‘type’ working out for you, then?” She tilts her face up to mine.

  “Horribly.”

  “Exactly what I thought.” Her hands slide up my chest.

  “Why do you keep chasing a guy who’s doing his best to push you away?” I close my hands over hers, halting her. My bedroom is dim, the only light coming from the hallway. It’s intimate here, in the shadows, and I feel like a different man. Looser, less inhibited. Like the old me. “Why put in that much work?”

  “Ah, you think I’m a glutton for punishment.” She ducks her head. “May
be I am. But here’s what I figure—you want long-term, but not with a girl like me. So I’m safe, and things won’t get awkward. We can have some fun, then I’ll take off and you won’t ever see me again. I need a palate cleanser and you’re also not my type.”

  “Then how the fuck is this chemistry so hot?” It doesn’t make sense—we both know we’re wrong for one another on a visceral level. I want a serious woman, a career-driven, family-oriented, long-term woman. The total opposite of her. She probably wants a man who’s light and fun and makes her laugh.

  And yet...she has me salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs. She has me thinking about her, reaching for my harder than steel cock every damn night.

  “I honestly don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “But you feel it, right?”

  “I wish I didn’t.” I let out a breath. “But there’s something about you, Blondie. Something crazy sexy. You’re like a thorn.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve lost the ability to care.” I lean down, still holding her hands against my chest. She tilts her head back and opens her lips, inviting me in.

  The kiss is sweeter than I thought it would be—tentative and soft. Like she’s testing me. I’m sure this prickly woman isn’t so hard on the inside; she’s tender and delicate and clearly trying to protect herself.

  Aren’t we all?

  I reach for the towel and I tug it until the fabric falls open and slips to the ground. Her naked body is pressed hard against me and I slide my hands down her back, delighting in her smooth skin and the pert, round curve of her butt. When I pull her toward me, she sighs into my kiss. My tongue is dancing with hers, lips firm and willing.

  “Hmm, smooth,” she whispers. “What is that?”

  “Cognac.”

  “I like it.”

  I pull back to take her all in. My God, she’s magnificent. Pale as anything, but her breasts are tipped with dark pink nipples and there’s a small black tattoo on her hip. I drop to my knees and trace it with my finger, pressing my lips to the delicate yet intricate design.