Bad Night Stand

by Elise Faber

  “Oh my God,” I moaned, and then hissed when he chuckled and the sound reverberated through me. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, so his jaw was covered with stubble that added just the right amount of friction. If I’d been wet before, two seconds of his mouth on me and I was absolutely drenched.

  His tongue circled my clit, flicking lightly for a few strokes before settling into the perfect rhythm. One warm palm slid up, cupped my breast.

  “Oh,” I moaned. “Just like that.” My fingers tangled in his hair when he squeezed my nipple, teasing the hard nub as he licked me.

  He switched breasts, sped the movement of his mouth until I was writhing against him. Both hands slid to my waist and he pulled me firmly against his lips, teasing, tormenting, winding me tighter and tighter and tighter until—

  Explosion.

  White stars flashed behind my closed lids. Pleasure spilled out from my center, radiating into my limbs and leaving me lax.

  “Sweetheart?” Jordan’s voice was gentle though laced with just a bit of stiffness. It brought me to my senses.

  Slightly.

  “Mmm,” I said softly, words not having returned yet.

  “Can you?” He shifted between my legs.

  I sighed. “Hmm?”

  “Can you to let go?”

  I blinked, trying to understand what he was talking about. “Killing my buzz, O’Keith.”

  Warm hands grasped mine, wrapping around my fingers and unlocking my fists. My eyes shot open to see my hands still wrapped in Jordan’s hair.

  And not gently.

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He grinned. “Hang tight.” He rose and went into the kitchen.

  A moment later he returned with a towel, wiped my thighs and in between.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, kissing my cheeks. I knew they were red, but I ignored them.

  “Not hardly,” I said. “But thank you all the same.”

  “No arguments.” He wiped his chin then sank down onto the couch and pulled me to his chest. “We’ve been through this all before, remember?”

  “I remember,” I said lazily, playing with a button on his shirt. “I also know what I look like. I’m fine. I like myself. But I’m not a supermodel.”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “And I’m going to accept that compliment, difficult though it may be.” I yawned. “It’s hard to undo years of Weasels with only one prince.”

  There was a moment of silence before I processed what I’d said.

  “Not that you’re a prince or—” I began.

  Jordan laughed. “You think I’m a prince. No take-backsies.”

  “Oh lord,” I groaned.

  “Tell me more about these Weasels.”

  His hand was stroking my hair, petting me, making my eyes drift closed. The gentle caresses—and perhaps the best orgasm I’d ever had—loosened my lips.

  “Oh,” I said. “They’re just jerks who sleep with me so they can get close to Seraphina.” Another yawn. “We’ve gotten really good at picking them out.”

  “Hey.” Warm fingers under my chin, tilting it back. I blinked my eyes open. “How many?”

  “Many what?”

  “Weasels.” He clenched his jaw. “How many men have slept with you to get to her?”

  I tugged my head free. “Does it matter?”

  He dropped his hand to my arm. “Yes.”

  Well, he knew everything else about me. Might as well give him the last of it. “Three? Wait. No, four.”

  “Assholes.”

  I didn’t deny the fact. “Good news is that we’ve gotten really good at detecting them.” I lifted one shoulder. “Especially when you lose your virginity to one.”

  Jordan’s nostrils flared. “And you thought I might be one?”

  “I don’t think you see yourself clearly,” I said. “You’re Thor reimagined. Tall and blond and all muscle-y. Put that with me—curvy, short, dark—and it doesn’t make sense. Physically, anyway.” My lips twisted. “Physically you’re Seraphina’s perfect match.”

  “I’ve never wanted her.”

  I smiled gently, running my hand down his chest. He was angry and tense, his words sharp. But not at me.

  And I felt another part of my heart become enchanted with the man next to me. Pieces were falling for him left and right and I knew that sooner or later I would be fully gone for him.

  I might already be.

  “You’re in the minority,” I said softly. “And that’s okay,” I added when he started to protest. “I’m comfortable in my own skin.” A press of my lips to his cheek. “It helps that I’ve ensnared a god.”

  “What’s with your obsession with Thor?”

  “Have you seen Chris Hemsworth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Abs. Chest. Arms. Hair.” I tugged his lightly. “Grow yours out, and you’d give him a run for your money.

  “Hilarious,” he muttered.

  “Regardless,” I said, cuddling up against him. “You do it for me. And not just your body. I like the Jordan from the last few days very much.”

  “I like him too,” he said, laughter in his voice.

  “And modest too.”

  His chest rumbled and I let my eyes slide closed, enjoying the warmth of him, the feel of his fingers running through my hair. I sighed deeply.

  He shifted, pulling free of my hold. I moaned in protest. At least until he picked me up from the couch and held me close. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  I wasn’t sure I had the energy for a romp but decided I’d give it my best effort. After all, he’d graced me with the orgasm of all orgasms. “Upstairs. Last door on the right.”

  He carried me up, depositing me carefully beneath the comforter. I expected him to drop down on top of me. Instead, he asked, “Pajamas?”

  I frowned. Was this some sort of kinky fantasy? Pajama fetish?

  “You don’t want to keep me naked?”

  A masculine chuckle. “Believe me, you could stay naked for the rest of your life if you wanted.” His lips touched mine. “But what do you normally sleep in?”

  “A tank top and granny panties.”

  He smiled. “And where are said granny panties located?”

  I was concentrating on the conversation, but between the post-orgasm glow and the fatigue seeping in, it was difficult. “In the closet. Top drawer on the far right. Tank tops are the drawer below. But what—?”

  Without preamble, he spun and walked into my closet. My room was still in shambles, boxes piled against the walls. I’d gotten my clothes put away and the bed made, which was something. But just thinking about what was left to be unpacked made me break out into a cold sweat. The task seemed overwhelming.

  Not that I was about to mention that to Jordan and encourage his highhandedness about the movers.

  I might be relieved they were coming, but I wouldn’t admit it. Nope, a girl had to have some pride.

  A minute later, the man in question emerged with my jammies in his hand. He pulled the comforter back, slipped the tank top over my head, and tugged my underwear up and over my hips.

  His eyes were scorching the whole time, his gaze scouring me from the inside out.

  But he merely kissed my belly, tucked the blanket up under my chin, and then pressed his mouth to mine.

  My head dropped to the side when he leaned back. His hammer was directly in view and he was packing a mega-sized version, not a compact. “Shouldn’t we”—I indicated with my chin, since my arms were cozy warm under the comforter—“take care of that?”

  He adjusted the waistband of his jeans and gave me a grin that held a tinge of discomfort. “I think it’s due a pass, don’t you?”

  I frowned. “Just because I didn’t get off that night doesn’t mean that I want to punish you now.”

  “I know,” he said, but smiled to soften the words. “I want to take things slow with you, honey. And you’re tired. Feeling you come a
gainst my mouth was enough.”

  I shifted to my side, glancing up at him and stifling a yawn. “When you say things like that I don’t feel quite so tired.”

  Jordan kissed my cheek. “Go to sleep.”

  “Why not go for a quickie?” I asked. “There isn’t any way I could come again this soon, but I’ll enjoy it and that way, you’ll get off too.”

  “I’m filing that statement away for future use,” he said, cupping my cheek for a second before stepping back. “Plus, I don’t want anything quick with you.”

  My eyes were drifting closed, but the words made me smile. “Jordan?”

  “Hmm?” His voice sounded far away.

  “What statement?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “What statement are you filing away?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Sleep well.” His footsteps were quiet on the carpet.

  “Jordan?”

  “What, baby?”

  “Key on the counter in the kitchen.” I yawned. “Take it. I don’t need it.”

  “Okay, honey.” He flicked off the lights. I heard the door start to close.

  “Jordan?”

  “Yes?” Even falling headlong into sleep, I could sense his amusement.

  “Not quick sounds good to me, too.”

  Twenty-Three

  Jordan stretched and pushed back from his desk. His eyes were burning, but he and the team had finally managed a successful test run of the robot project.

  “Have a name yet?”

  He looked over his shoulder, a smile already on his face. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, how long he’d been working, or who’d pissed him off. Abigail made him happy.

  “No name yet,” he said, crossing to where she stood leaning against the doorframe of his office.

  Her chin tilted up and he kissed her, a soft touch that nonetheless had him going rock hard. He was a man starved . . . or maybe living on the edge. But he wasn’t a man satisfied.

  It had been two weeks since that night at Abby’s house, and he could still taste her on his tongue.

  But they’d both been swamped with work, and though he’d followed her home every night with dinner, he hadn’t managed to carve out more time than that.

  Hunter had been in the hospital and Jordan had tried to spend every spare minute with his nephew. It was tough to see the vibrant little boy laid low, to see his body covered in wires and tubes. He was an innocent seven-year-old who had no one except Jordan, a mother who skipped town, and a nanny, who had spent more time with him than both of his parents combined.

  Jordan honestly didn’t know what he or Hunter would do without Cecilia. Luckily, though she was technically an employee, Cecilia seemed to love Hunter as her own.

  As for George O’Keith, well, he might be paying the hospital bills, but he wasn’t anything more than a checkbook.

  Which had bugged Jordan at first. What was the point of opening his wallet if he wasn’t going to spend time with Hunter? Jordan himself could afford the bills without strain, but his father had insisted to the point that he’d given in.

  Then he’d understood.

  It was too much like Mom.

  His mother’s illness and death hadn’t been sudden. Cancer was a real asshole and it had chipped away at her body and soul, piece by piece. She’d wasted away, taking a part of all of them with her.

  Hunter didn’t have cancer.

  Unfortunately, what he did have was congenital heart failure. He was weak, immunocompromised, and in desperate need of a transplant.

  And neither Jordan nor George O’Keith could buy that for him.

  Abby squeezed his arm, making him realize that he’d blanked out on her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He tugged her over to his desk chair and tapped her shoulder, guiding her down into it. “I was just trying to finish up everything because Hunter comes home today.”

  Her face brightened. She knew what was going on with Hunter’s illness and about the extended hospital stay. “Oh, that’s great!”

  “Yeah,” he said, leaning against his desk in front of her. “So I’m going to have to cancel tonight.”

  “Of course,” she said and though there was disappointment in her tone, her words were genuine. “Of course you have to. Hunter is way more important than a date night.”

  That was the moment it finally happened. The last piece was placed on the scale, finally tipping the balance and making him feel something he’d never thought possible—love.

  Abigail hadn’t met Hunter. The little boy wasn’t anything more than a vague personality supported by pictures Jordan had shown her. And yet she was putting his nephew ahead of herself.

  “You’re important too,” he said.

  Her hand rested on his thigh. “He’s an innocent little boy who’s already been through too much. He needs you.”

  Jordan shoved a hand through his hair. “I hate that he has to deal with this bullshit. It’s not fair.”

  Arms slid around his middle, held tight. “It is definitely not fair.”

  “I’m sorry to cancel,” he murmured, slipping his arms around her in return and squeezing gently. “Though probably not as sorry as the rest of the team.”

  “What do you mean?” She leaned back, stared up at him.

  “Sniff test being delayed again means that stinky Jordan is here to stay.”

  She laughed. “Is it better to be stinky or to be puke-causing?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Abby rose on tiptoe, pressing her nose to his neck and inhaling. “For what it’s worth, I think you smell fabulous.”

  “Stinky turns you on?”

  She grinned. “Apparently.”

  His cell phone buzzed and his eyes flicked down to where it sat screen up on his desk. The message was from Cecilia.

  Heading home.

  Abby touched his hand. “You’d better go.”

  “Yeah.” Keeping one arm around her, he lifted the phone, sent back a response, then slipped it in his pocket. “But first I need to do this.”

  He kissed her, pouring all the desire he’d been banking for the last few weeks into it. All the frustration from finding his satisfaction with his hand, from waking up hard and aching. He poured everything into that kiss.

  Including the love.

  Eventually, they had to break apart and gasp for air. Abby dropped her head against his chest, breaths coming rapidly.

  “You may . . . not . . . be able”—she sucked in a deep breath, steadying her words—“You may not be able to use that hammer, but your tongue is damn good.”

  He cupped her chin, pressed one more kiss to her mouth. “If I never hear another hammer innuendo, it will be too soon.”

  Another laugh, another shot of joy directly to his soul.

  Damn, he loved this woman.

  And somehow, that love grew even more when she paused in the doorway and said, “I think you should name the robot, Hunter.”

  A moment later, she was gone.

  But she was the first one to give voice to the truth. He was pushing this project because of Hunter. Because his tech-savvy nephew not only wanted a robot he could play with from a hospital bed, but one that could also be taken apart and put back together again and again and again.

  It was a simple request, but not an easy one. There wasn’t anything on the market like that, so Jordan had decided to delay his beach plans to create one. Hunter had needed him.

  But Hunter also needed it soon.

  Because without a transplant, the doctors gave him six months.

  Twenty-Four

  I should have been content, all curled up on the couch in a pair of cozy pajamas, a book in my lap, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table.

  My boxes were unpacked. My belly was full. My house wasn’t half bad.

  Okay, my house was awesome. I hadn’t realized how much space I’d been lacking in my apartment until I’d upgraded and gotten over my guilt of using some of the trust fu
nd money as a down payment.

  My new, slightly better salary meant I could actually afford the mortgage, so I was considering the down payment my father’s first gift to the baby.

  Which he didn’t know about yet.

  I made a face and tried to focus on reading, a prospect that would typically suck me right in, especially since it was a good book from one of my favorite authors.

  But I was restless for some reason.

  Okay, not some reason. I was restless because I missed Jordan.

  I peered out my front windows, saw that Seraphina’s house was still dark. She’d invited me to a late dinner with her and Bec—who’d finally managed a few hours out of the office—but I hadn’t felt like going.

  Now I wished I had.

  Because I was lonely.

  How gross was that?

  “Super gross,” I muttered.

  I placed my book across my knees and took a sip of tea, feeling it warm my body as I drank. After setting it down, I tried to pick up where I’d left off but only managed to reread the same paragraph three times.

  My mind was wired, too pumped to focus, and I decided to save the book for a time when I could actually enjoy it.

  “No sense in wasting a perfectly good alpha.” I stuck in the old receipt I was using as a bookmark and set it on the arm of the couch before standing and walking into the kitchen.

  I pulled my laptop from my case, settled into one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, and logged into the secure work server, deciding to get a bit ahead for Monday. I was just pulling up the folder I’d labeled Project Hunter when the doorbell rang.

  “Hmm,” I said, wondering who might be coming to the door at—I squinted at the clock—nine o’clock at night.

  The bell rang again and I sighed, closing the laptop screen before sliding off the stool.

  “Coming,” I called as it chimed a third time. It cut off mid-ring.

  I could feel the other person’s impatience through the wooden panel as I approached and I knew that should have made me hurry. But I had this sinking sensation of who it might be.

  He might be.

  I’d been studiously avoiding his phone calls for the last couple of weeks and should have known better.