by Grey, R. S.
I meet his eyes head on.
God, he’s so good-looking with that rough edge to him. He’s a man’s man. Broad chest, veined forearms, tall frame. Even now, he’s not smiling. His brows are furrowed and his supple mouth—arguably the only soft thing about him—is marked by a terse frown. It’s like he’s mad at me for putting us in this position, mad at me for making him want to stay.
I could aim the same resentment right back at him. I’ve never had a one-night stand before because I’ve never met a guy who made me want to do it. This man is seductive without even trying, sensual even as he sits half a bar away from me, partially reclined, assessing me coolly. In any setting, he’d turn heads. In this setting, he captures my full attention.
It occurs to me that I could walk out of the bar right now and keep my heart in one piece. Nothing good would come from this encounter.
Tomorrow, this stranger will be gone and my life will resume.
My life.
Four years since graduating from high school and I’m still here, unable to escape this nightmarish merry-go-round. We work and we save only to have some disaster strike—car breaks down, insurance doesn’t cover McKenna’s new asthma medication, A/C busts, roof needs fixing—and here we are again, right back at square one, just as broke as the day we started.
My hands shake and my throat aches from trying to keep these tears unshed.
I can’t do it anymore.
This life is going to send me to an early grave. I need an emergency stop button, a safety valve that triggers a spring that will propel me from this barstool and send me to a deserted island where credit card bills and crappy bosses don’t exist. Actually, let’s scrap the island. I’m not picky. I’ll take a quiet night in my mom’s trailer, staring at a blank wall as long as no one reminds me of the doom that awaits me in the morning.
That emergency stop button doesn’t exist, but this man does.
So, I will go down this path, just so I can step off the merry-go-round for one night.
I look pointedly toward the side hallway, the one that leads to the bathroom, making sure he gets the message. Then I slide off my barstool at the same time his chair scrapes across the wood floor.
There’s no going back now.
Chapter 2
Taylor
I’m in a daze as I walk to the bathroom, my body propelling itself forward one step at a time without me even realizing what I’m doing. I’m in shock. That’s what this is, shock that I’m about to go through with this. My conscience tries to shout at me to stop, to turn and run while I still have the option, but then I’m in front of the door for the women’s bathroom and a hand much bigger than mine is pushing it open for me.
I’d forgotten about the mirrors. I wish they weren’t here, two of them sitting over old porcelain sinks. They’re cracked and stained, but I still see my reflection well enough to be confronted by my actions.
My mother’s brown eyes stare back at me, alluringly slanted up in the corners like I possess some untold mysteries.
My long brown hair hangs loose down to the middle of my spine in lazy waves.
My full lips are the stuff of dreams, or so I’ve been told. I suppose I have them to thank for bringing this dark stranger to me tonight.
I’m not unaware of the full package I present: the high cheekbones, cinched waist, and grown-up curves.
The way I look has never been something I’ve celebrated, though. In fact, it’s caused me nothing but grief. My mother’s boyfriends were always a little too interested in me. School teachers and parents assumed things about me based on the way I looked, like my sole purpose in life was to lure the men in this town off the path of righteousness. My bosses have never seen me as anyone with value beyond my appearance, my conversation with Mr. Harris earlier today a prime example. After all the unwanted advances and snide remarks—well, it’s obvious why I don’t wear much makeup or bother with tight clothes. There’s no point in making the problem worse.
A hard chest hits my back, pushing me farther into the bathroom, and awareness trickles down my spine. He had a choice just like I did. He didn’t have to follow me back here, but that door is already swinging shut and his presence is filling the quiet space.
His hand hits my bicep so he can direct me forward. In the mirror, I see how easily he towers over me. The distance between the top of my head and his chin could be measured in miles, not feet.
We make a striking pair: dark features perfectly matched, brown eyes of such varying shades they shouldn’t even be classified as the same color. We’re two beautiful people about to make some very bad decisions.
“How old are you?” he asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. My body stills as I realize his tone is as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Twenty-two.”
His brow arches in judgment. “Pretty young to be sitting in a bar by yourself.”
I don’t deign to justify my life to him. If he wants an explanation for why I’m here right now, he can ask nicely. Until then, I’ll turn the spotlight back on him.
“Why didn’t you leave with your friends?”
His free hand reaches for the hair hanging over my shoulder. I watch him in the mirror as he brushes it behind my back and an involuntary shiver racks through me.
“I didn’t want to,” he says quietly.
“Why?” I push.
His gaze flicks back to mine. “You looked sad sitting up at the bar all alone. I guess a part of me wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. Uh, ’cause you’re hot was about the response I thought I’d receive.
An avalanche of emotion collapses on me so suddenly, I’m trembling with the need to give up control of these tears, to let my shoulders slump and my spine crumble. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When’s the last time someone wondered if I was okay?
I can’t cry. I can’t let him see me at my most vulnerable. He won’t want to go through with this if I turn into a blubbering mess. Oh, you thought we were coming in here to do naughty things? No, I’m actually looking to ugly sob for about thirty minutes while you rock me gently.
He cares.
Why?
He’s a stranger, someone I’ve only spoken a handful of words to, but I know instinctively he doesn’t want to take advantage of me. Besides, he already could have.
We’re alone in this bathroom right now. No one is going to come check on us. He could push me up against the wall and do as he pleases, and yet he holds perfectly still, waiting for me to respond.
My sadness quickly gives way to anger, just like it always does. Tears won’t help me out of this mess. Self-pity won’t solve my problems. I’m only standing here in this moment because of my strength and my sheer will to survive another day.
When I’m sure the tears are at bay, I blink my eyes open again and reach for his hand, the one that touched my hair so reverently it nearly burst my heart wide open.
“And what did the other part of you want to do? The part of you not worrying if I was okay…” I ask, my voice as sultry they come.
His gaze darkens in the mirror and I’m surprised to see he’s not a man possessed by lust and desire. He looks troubled and confused, almost as if he’s about to turn and walk right out the door.
I don’t give him the chance.
I turn around, rise up onto my toes, and press my soft curves against him at the same time my lips touch his.
The gentle kiss shocks him.
His hand tightens painfully on my bicep, and then, just as quickly, he loosens it, brushing his hand up and down my bare skin, soothing the ache as if he’s scared he hurt me.
He doesn’t kiss me back right away, but I’m persistent, and when he finally does, our awkward, stilted movements turn into something sweeter: a kiss you share with your best guy friend the summer you turn fourteen, a kiss stolen when you know your parents aren’t looking. It’s tender and tentative, nothing but soft lips and unspoken possibili
ties.
We’re not teenagers, though. This is a warm-blooded man I’m pushing my body against. No matter how much he might be concerned for my wellbeing, he can only hold out for so long as I continue to kiss him, seduce him, tempt him. My heavy breasts brush against his chest as I smooth my hand up over the cool fabric of his button-down. I make it past his collar and then my palm is against his neck, touching his skin for the very first time. He’s so hot, I melt, and he must feel the heat too because he groans hungrily. The sound shakes me to my core, and suddenly I’m second-guessing myself, fearful about the situation I’ve put myself in.
This isn’t a man you use for a night. This is a man you turn your life upside down to be with, one you crawl on hands and knees to please, one who touches you once and brands your soul forever.
I break our kiss on impulse, needing space, needing a moment to get a full breath. My chest is heaving. My hands are shaking.
This is crazy! I don’t do things like this! I work and I scrimp and I save and I worry about the ways life is going to screw me over tomorrow. I don’t let handsome strangers follow me into bathrooms!
There’s no time for my conscience to grab hold of the situation because he’s lifting me up like I’m filled with air and carrying me back toward the sink. My butt hits the porcelain lip and he pushes me up onto it then spreads my knees wide enough for him to step between. His suit pants brush against my denim-clad thighs and I let out a soft involuntary groan. Even with the added height, he still has to lean down to reach me, hands cradling my face and tilting my chin up so he can easily capture my lips. He turns his head to the side, slanting his mouth over mine and taking the reins oh so easily. I might have initiated our first kiss, but it’s clear that every one that follows will be from him, by him, for him.
His tongue laps me up, sending pleasure through every inch of me.
I’m getting carried away.
I can feel reality nipping at my heels even as I try hard to bat it away.
I have to stop this.
This won’t help me. This will only make me twice as sad come morning.
Unless…
A wild, stupid thought pops into my head: maybe I could get something out of this, more than just a pleasant evening…money. I could strike a bargain! Sell myself! Oh good, as if a one-night stand isn’t bad enough, now I’m contemplating stepping into the oldest profession in the book. It’s totally ridiculous, and besides, how does someone even initiate that bargain?
Oh, yes, hi, if you’d stop kissing me for a second, I’d like to discuss my terms of service for this transaction.
What do small-town prostitutes with hardly any experience go for these days? A hundred bucks and a coupon for a free milkshake?
The questions filling my head make it easier to separate myself from our kiss. His mouth is deliciously tempting, but it’s no use against my impending panic attack. This impromptu bathroom make-out session was spontaneous and poorly thought-out. I’m only going to succeed in making a fool of myself.
If I wanted a one-night stand, I should have picked a lesser man, not this suit with his rock-hard body and come-hither kisses. He’s going to tear through my sanity, show me pleasure like I’ve never experienced, and leave me lonely and bereft while he slides into a fancy sports car and kicks up dust as he peels out of town.
Even with my brain working a mile a minute, his sensual, teasing kisses are provoking every emotion I should be hiding. I know if he broke away and stepped back, he’d find my lips swollen and red, my eyes coated with a glossy love-me sheen, my chest heaving, my panties wet. If he brushed his hand down there, I’d come just from the sheer wrongness of this entire situation.
Even now, his hands brush up under the hem of my t-shirt, and when his warm palms glide over my skin, I momentarily lose track of my thoughts.
He squeezes my waist and I reach out for him too, scared I’m going to topple forward off the sink. My hands land squarely on his butt.
No, not just that…
His wallet.
Sitting snug in the back pocket of his suit pants.
My eyes spring open with the revelation as he bends to string kisses down my neck.
Take it, my survival instincts shout. Take it now!
NO.
My stomach twists with guilt and disgust that I’d even think of doing such a thing. I’m not a thief. Never.
This whole situation feels wrong and gritty and this bathroom smells and he’s so tempting with his veined hands, warm and big, gripping my waist to bring us closer so that our hips rock together. I wish so badly we were kissing in his fairytale instead of a filthy bar bathroom. I wish so badly this was the grown-up version of that summertime teenage kiss, wish we were two lovers completely enraptured by each other instead of two strangers using each other in ways the other can’t even begin to imagine.
And then a highlight reel of my future plays through my mind: overdue medical bills, broken-down cars, dead-end jobs. The money in this stranger’s wallet wouldn’t fix all my problems, but it would give us a much-needed boost, and it’s with that thought that I realize my body has taken over the decision for me.
My fingers dig into his butt as a distraction and he doesn’t protest. He must just assume I’m into butts, and I never really have been before this moment, but oh yes, I would be very into his. It’s muscular and firm, not some kind of flat wussy cheeks that don’t know how to fill out a pair of pants. His is ripe and OH MY GOD FOCUS!
Suddenly, I’m taking his wallet, working it out of his back pocket so slowly—millimeter by millimeter—that he doesn’t notice and then I have no idea what to do with it. I have his wallet in my hand behind his back and my heart is pumping so hard, I’m going to be sick. It’s convenient that we’re making out so close to a toilet because I’m about to need one.
What have I done?!
At this point, I’ve stopped reacting to his kisses—I’m not that good at multitasking. He realizes something is wrong and pulls back to stare down at me, those warm brown eyes assessing me with worry. Then he sweeps his gaze around the bathroom, and he lets out a heavy sigh. Guilt replaces worry, but I can’t let it fester. I can’t let him turn into a nice guy, a gentleman who escorts me out of here and calls me a cab.
I’m still holding his wallet and there’s no good explanation for that if he finds me with it. Uhhh, I was looking for a condom? Pony up, big boy!
No.
I do the first thing that comes to mind.
“Close your eyes.”
His brows furrow and he doesn’t follow my orders. Cocky men like him probably aren’t used to being bossed around. The thought makes me smile, and the tension in his forehead lessons a little. I think he likes my smile, so I keep it there, pinned in place as I run a teasing finger down the front of his shirt.
“Close your eyes.”
He does it this time, though it’s accompanied by a shake of his head and an annoyed groan. He tips his head back as if sending up a prayer.
I waste no time at all stuffing his wallet down the front of my shirt and into my bra.
“What’s your room number?” I croon, sounding like a phone sex operator, my finger tracing down to the button of his pants. The bulge there is nearly obscene. I look away, scandalized.
One of his eyes winks open and I brace myself for him to notice his wallet stashed under my top. It’s lumpy, but fortunately I’m packing enough cleavage that it nestles nicely in the middle, hidden.
“209.”
“Go there and wait for me.”
“What are you going to do?”
I panic as if I’ve been caught but then quickly recover with a coy smile.
“You didn’t think I would make it this easy on you, did you? One beer and I’m yours for the taking?”
I keep expecting my seduction to work on him, assuming his hard veneer will crack. He still hasn’t smiled at me. No flowery words or promises of pleasure. He’s too smart for his own good, too skeptical of my bad acting. I
can tell something about our encounter feels off to him. Still, I persist.
“I think you want a little chase, a little bit of time in that room, pacing back and forth, wondering if I’ll come, and if I do—”
“When you do,” he amends.
“Well, it will be worth the wait, and that reunion kiss will be all the sweeter. Don’t you think?”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me.
I try to sit perfectly still, appearing cool and calm, when in reality I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, about to go up in flames.
His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but in the end, he turns for the door and tugs it open, hard, without another word. His broad shoulders disappear out into the hall and the second the door swings closed behind him, I’m off that sink and hurrying for a toilet, just in time to throw up a winning combination of beer and chewed-up cherries.
It’s disgusting and putrid and exactly what I deserve. Karma is on top of her shit these days. I haven’t even finished completing my crime yet and I’m already being punished. My stomach rolls again and I squeeze my eyes shut, prepared for round two, but there’s nothing left. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
I flush the toilet and move to the sink to rinse out my mouth and wash my hands. I don’t have time to linger. I need to get out of here and fast. He’s going to notice his wallet is missing as soon as he tries to get into his motel room and realizes he doesn’t have his keycard, and the same parts of him that moments ago sent desire radiating through me will do the exact opposite when he storms in here boiling with rage at what I’ve just done to him.
With trembling hands, I open the wallet, ignore the hotel key and the thick black credit card, and move on to the cash. There’s more in here than I expected, nearly $800 total. Who keeps that much cash on them?! I could skim $500 and he’d still be left with plenty. $500 is more than I make in a month. I move to take it, but my hand is shaking and I tell myself I should look at his driver’s license first so I can memorize his address. One day, when I’m not surviving by the skin of my teeth, I’ll send him back the money with interest and a thank you note. He’ll get to feel good about himself. He’ll get to say he helped the poor helpless country girl when she was down on her luck. He’ll get to tell his buddies about it, and his wife, too. No—he wasn’t wearing a ring. I can’t add mistress to my growing list of sins.