Just One Night

by Carolyn Faulkner

  Damn, she dressed quickly! He hopped out of bed and reached for the shorts he'd been wearing since they'd gotten home, but they were nowhere to be found. So he grabbed another from his bureau, trotting out of the bedroom to walk her to the door, where she turned toward him and put a small hand on his chest, looking up at him with an innocent sincerity he knew even after such a short time wasn't a lie. "Thank you for being my first one night stand, Rad." Then, after saying something like that, which—however innocently it was intended—went right to the most primitive parts of his brain.

  Her "first" one night stand.

  Rad wanted to give a low possessive warning growl at that phrasing—at that concept—but he knew he had no right to.

  Then she made it worse by rising onto her tiptoes and giving him a familial kiss on the cheek, as if she was his sister or something.

  But before she could walk through the door, he snaked his arm around her waist and clamped her against him, still on her tiptoes at first, then lifting her off them entirely, so she was totally dependent on him, his face inches from her.

  "You are a magnificent woman. Don't ever let anyone tell you anything different, Andrea." Then he kissed her as if they were back, naked, in his bed, until she was breathless, her arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist.

  When he lifted his head, he growled, "I've never wanted to kidnap a woman in my life, until now."

  She bit her lip, and for a moment, he thought she was going to tell him to take her back to his bedroom.

  But then Andrea made a move as if she wanted out of his arms, and he put her gently down on her feet, taking her hand in his. He knew his next few words could change everything about them, but he needed—wanted—to say them. "If you ever need anything, anything at all, honey, my last name is Windsor."

  There was still no flicker of recognition whatsoever in her eyes. "Thank you for telling me that, Rad. My last name is Evans."

  He kissed the back of her hand, cupped her cheek in his hand one more time, then he let her go. It was much worse pain than the time he'd ripped his back muscles skiing in St. Moritz. Those pains healed, eventually.

  Rad wasn't at all sure this one was going to do so anywhere near as easily.

  Andy looked up from the book she was reading on her Kindle and picked up her buzzing phone, only to see the third unknown caller in ten minutes. What the fuck was going on? Sometimes she got a call from what appeared to be the entire state of Nebraska. Other times, it was genuine wrong numbers—once someone who was positive that her name was Cynthia, and she was just trying to avoid him, whoever "him" was. She was just glad that she wasn't Cynthia. And occasionally, there were Robo calls, but not often, and for that she was truly grateful. She was almost as careful with her cell phone number as she had been with herself… until that night.

  Whenever she thought of him, her head lolled back and her mouth hung open to the point that she was practically drooling, rife with the memory of the incredible pleasure he had given her.

  But then her phone chimed in the way it did when someone she didn't know texted her. Rolling her eyes, she scrolled to the message.

  It's Rad. I've been trying to call you. Don't you ever pick up your phone?

  Rad? Her Rad? She chided herself inwardly for thinking that. He wasn't hers—far from it. She might have wanted him to be, maybe. Perhaps. But that wasn't going to happen, so why wish for it? And how had he gotten her number?

  She stared at his message for a while, chewing on her lip, debating about whether or not she wanted to reply to him, even though she definitely wanted to reply to him. Andrea?

  She replied, I'm here.

  He was taken aback. That didn't sound very promising.

  She'd thought about what she might do if they ran into each other or came in contact with one another somehow, and she'd decided that she'd play it cool. What can I do for you, Rad?

  Neither did that. Things were going downhill fast. I just wanted to let you know I found your earring in the bed sheets. I must've nibbled it off at some point that night and neither of us noticed. He used a smiling emoji at the end of his sentence.

  Oh, she typed back.

  She'd wondered where that had ended up—whether it was in the bar or his place, or somewhere in between.

  Would you like to come here and get it, or would you like me to drop it by? he asked.

  Oh, no. You can throw it away. It's worth like, a dollar ninety-nine, at most, she told him.

  Not what he wanted to hear.

  How did you get my number? I don't remember giving it to you, or I would have asked for yours in return.

  Rad fidgeted at her question. And he never fidgeted.

  Rad? she prompted after a few minutes.

  That was the moment he was happiest that he'd decided to take the semi-at-least high road and had not used any of the nefarious means at his disposal to find out more about her. He'd done it the hard way, spending more time in that bar than he'd ever intended to. But he already knew that she was more than worth any effort to see her again.

  Linda, he said simply.

  She was shocked. My friend Linda? The one I was supposed to meet that night?

  That's why it had taken him a couple weeks to find her in that less unethical manner. They were apparently both very busy people, and he kept missing her. His schedule and Linda's hadn't synched up until just last night, and once he'd gotten Andrea's number, he'd had to force himself not to call her when he got home at eleven, not really knowing what her sleeping habits were like.

  She'd told him she didn't watch TV, but he wondered if she'd googled him, since she knew his full name, and if it would change how she acted toward him. Money changed a lot of things—he'd certainly had enough experience of that—which is why he'd brought her to what had been his parents' house rather than his enormous penthouse atop a skyscraper in the city. Sometimes he liked being normal again, and she struck him as just about as normal—relatively speaking—as anyone could get. He didn't want the trappings of wealth to affect her or them, although he had enough of a conscience to feel guilty about doing so.

  Now, that he knew her a little better, he didn't think it would. She'd been really impressed by the house he'd grown up in—which was obviously much nicer than the one she'd grown up in—and she'd paid for their dinner even though he'd said he would, and even though it had to have been obvious to her that, even if he only lived there, he had to have a lot more money than she did.

  She impressed him, in a lot of ways. He couldn't really put his finger on what it was that made him want her so—whether it was just sexual desire or love at first sight or what. He just knew that he craved having her beneath him, atop him, at his side, laughing with him, talking to him, and giving him the best blow jobs he'd ever had.

  Rad was used to getting exactly what he wanted. And he wanted Andrea.

  If he had to buy her, he wouldn't hesitate to do so, but he really liked the idea of staying as anonymous as he could for as long as he could.

  But Google would determine that aspect of his fate, as did with many things nowadays.

  When he'd finally managed to connect with her—having been given the sign by the bartender, who turned out to be a very nice guy—Linda Trujillo had recognized him immediately, and fangirled over him in a way he'd been so relieved that Andrea hadn't, practically begging to take a selfie with him.

  He'd been very careful about what he'd told Linda about his connection to her. He merely said that he'd found an earring that she'd dropped that night, and he wanted to return it to her.

  She looked a little suspicious but was too excited about having met him to question him closely about it.

  Yes. I remembered that you said she liked the bar where we met, and I, uh, managed to find her there. Rad typed "last night" at the end of that sentence, but erased it. I didn't know any other way of trying to get in touch with you, which was a lie that he felt no small twinge of guilt about. With his money and today's technology, he
could have not just her phone number and address, but her credit report, her health records, her mother's maiden name, her blood type, any police records, her employment history, and the name of her first dog in a matter of seconds. But he didn't want to do that.

  But I wanted to return your earring. It was a lame excuse. And he was lame for using it, but he really wanted to see her again.

  My painted gold, crappy Walmart earring? she asked.

  Yes. Can I call you?

  Andrea had just typed, "That's pathetic, you know," but she backspaced over it, wondering if she should let him call her. His voice was her downfall—one of them, anyway. With him, she had more than she could count. He could talk her into running naked across town to him with that voice if he wanted to. It was his superpower, amongst others.

  All right.

  Again, a complete absence of enthusiasm, but he'd take what he could get. Seconds later, her phone rang.

  No "Hi, how are you?" Not even an "I'm sorry for tracking you down via your gossipy friend on an extremely flimsy pretext." He just said in the hungriest, surprisingly rough and, at the same time, somewhat vulnerable tone she'd ever heard, "I want you."

  Her panties were utterly useless against how her body reacted anytime he said even the most mundane things to her, much less something as potent as that. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  "Andrea? Say something, honey."

  Soothing and yet arousing at the same time, that low tone of his licked its way along her nerve endings like he'd licked her clit every time he could that night.

  For his part, Rad was on pins and needles, wondering if she was hesitating because she'd looked him up on the Internet webs.

  "I don't know what to say, Rad. I didn't think I'd ever talk to you again."

  She heard him sigh and could picture him pacing in his living room. How she knew he paced, she had no idea. But she did.

  "I told you that this thing is whatever we make it. There are no rules. If we want it to continue—and I most definitely do—then it can continue." He paused, not wanting to ask her the question but knowing he had to. "Do you want it to continue, Andrea?"

  Rad felt as if his heart was stopped until she answered him, and she seemed to be taking her sweet time.

  Her nipples were engorged, her clit was throbbing, and she was pressing the heel of her hand against her clit rhythmically through her jeans while trying not to moan. Jesus, yes, she wanted it! She wanted him! She was so far gone already that if he but said he wanted her to come, she wouldn't be able to keep herself from doing it.

  But all she said was a severely subdued, "Yes."

  Rad put the phone down for a second in order to draw in a deep breath. "Come to me. Now."

  Her soft chuckles drifted into his ear and only made him want her more. "I can't! I don't know about you, but I have to work in the morning, and it's already ten. If we spend all night having sex, then I'm going to be worthless tomorrow, and then I'll get fired, and I'll end up homeless."

  He wouldn't let that happen to her, of course, but she didn't know that. In fact, if things went as he hoped they would and her job interfered with her being with him when he wanted her to be, he would solve that annoyance by putting her on his payroll.

  He'd done it before and it had worked out well, until his time with whomever it had been at the time had come to an end.

  And he did have work to do, although he hadn't had to work in quite some time.

  "This weekend, then. Spend it with me." He'd get his assistant to clear his calendar, no matter who the hell was on it. The queen would have to wait. Rad smiled to himself at that idea. Even though he'd spent a lot of time in the States, he was still a proud British citizen. And he'd met the great lady a few times—there was even talk that he might be in line for an OBE at some point because of his charity work, but she certainly wasn't going to wait on him for anything, as well she shouldn't.

  Meanwhile, Andrea was thinking that the man had a real autocratic streak in him. He spoke to her—at times—as if he expected that she wouldn't question him but would merely obey him.

  She definitely wanted to do as he was ordering her to, but she didn't want to set a bad precedent with him and just cave in. So she teased him a bit. "But, if I sleep with you again, was it really a true one night stand? If not, then I still need to have one."

  He growled deep in the back of his throat, and she contracted at the blatantly possessive sound. "I know it's very early on to expect this of you, but I promise I will make it more than worth your while, and if it doesn't work for you, it's better that we find that out now." Having said that, he hesitated, saying what he needed to, because he didn't want to lose her, but this was a non-negotiable point for him. "If we decide to continue this, I won't share you with anyone else. I would give you my complete and utter fidelity, and I would expect the same in return from you."

  "Wow. That's quite a leap from a one night stand, Rad."

  "I know."

  He sounded pretty confident that she would acquiesce to his demands, and it irked her, for some reason. Most of her—generally the parts below her waist—wanted to give him an overly enthusiastic "Yes!" but her brain stopped her from doing that.

  "I'd like to take some time to think that over, if you don't mind. I'm finding the leap from not expecting to hear from you again in this lifetime to you wanting me to enter into an exclusive relationship with you to be a bit of a stretch."

  Rad gripped his phone so tightly, it was a wonder he hadn't broken it. That was not at all what he had wanted to hear from her. He was ashamed that his first impulse was to go the whole obnoxious, egotistical "do you know who I am" route with her, but he had a feeling that would not only not impress her, but it would likely drive her away from him.

  The fact that she hadn't struck him as a woman who was particularly concerned with material wealth was one of the reasons he found her intriguing, although he could be wrong about that. But he was used to going with his gut feeling about a person, and he was generally right. Of course, she had no idea what she'd be eschewing, either, if she turned him down.

  But his voice was soft and understanding when he replied, "Of course."

  It was a Sunday night. "Would it be impolite of me to call you Thursday with my decision, or would that be too late?"

  Christ, he was going to have to wait until then to know if he could have her again? Delayed gratification had never been his favorite thing, and he hadn't really had to experience it for quite some time. He wasn't going to get anything accomplished this week for thinking of her and worrying what she was going to say to him Thursday night.

  "No, definitely not. Call me anytime."

  "Okay."

  "No, Andrea. I mean it. Call me anytime, if you have a question or you'd just like to talk." His voice became more of a baritone. "Or you'd like to have phone sex."

  "Oooh! Another first!"

  "Really? Have you been cloistered all your life?"

  "No, but I think I said to you at one point that Connor wasn't very highly sexed, and I followed his lead. I don't think he would ever think to use the phone for that kind of thing."

  "Wow. You are a very special woman."

  She snorted at that. "Yeah, 'special' as in 'needs remedial sexual help'."

  He chuckled, and wetness immediately pooled in her panties. "Which I am only too happy to provide for you."

  They talked for a little while longer, then she said she had to go.

  "Please think about what I said. Sleep well, baby," he whispered, adding, "don't stay up too late," just to see how she reacted to it.

  Andrea huffed into the phone. "I'll go to bed when I want to go to bed, Mr. Windsor."

  His chuckle was incredibly evil sounding. "I can't wait to tame you, little minx."

  "I don't want to be tamed, Mr. Windsor, and you're likely to withdraw a bloody stump if you try—and I don't mean your hand!"

  "Oooh, you're vicious! I knew you had it in you," he teased.


  "Say good night, Mr. Windsor."

  "Good night, Mr. Windsor," he parroted back in a pretty good imitation of her that threw her more than a little bit.

  "Night, Andrea."

  "Good night, Rad."

  Chapter 4

  Don't call him! You don't need to! He doesn't need to hear from you. You have other things—more important things—that you could be doing. Worse than that, you'll look clingy and needy and desperate.

  She couldn't keep from nagging herself, even though she really, really wanted to call him. She had the phone in her hand and was staring at it, trying to talk herself out of it, but knowing she was probably going to call anyway. And then it rang, and she jumped, dropping it on the floor.

  Andrea leaned over and rescued it, figuring it was him. It wasn't. She guessed it was too early to expect that kind of telepathy between them.

  "Hi, Linda."

  Just like him last night, there was no greeting or preamble at all. She just started talking. "Did Rad get in touch with you?"

  "Who?" She didn't mean to be coy, but now that the moment was at hand, Andrea was realizing that she didn't want to brag to her friends about having had a one night stand. And, technically, if she decided to sleep with him this weekend—which she was halfway to already—it hadn't been that, anyway.

  "How many men do you know who are named Rad? Wait, no. Just how many men do you know, period? Rad Windsor, of course! I met him last night."

  "I know."

  "And you met him a while ago. Why didn't you tell me? I'm dying to hear all the details!"

  Andrea bit her lip at that. She didn't really want to give her friend any details.

  And, true to form, Linda wasn't waiting for her to do so, anyway. "So he bought you a drink? Did you talk with him at all?"

  That made her wonder what he'd told Linda about their time together, so she tried to play it very safe and say as little as possible. "Yes, he did. A little."

  That part was true. They were too busy fucking to talk much, really. Even over their midnight snack, everything they discussed was about the next time they were going to fuck.