One Night with the Sexiest Man Alive (The One Book 1)

by Ainslie Paton

  For that piece of advice, she got fingered, which was lovely and all, he had a talent for it, possibly award winning, alternating hard and soft touches, teasing and delivering, but it wasn’t what was advertised.

  “You’re going to have to tell me what you want, impatient girl.”

  “Bastard. Your mouth on my pussy.”

  “Just because I’m going to let you grind on my face doesn’t mean you can forget your manners, my darling.”

  “Fuck off,” she spluttered, making Haydn climb back up her body and kiss her into polite submission. Except for the part where she wrapped her hand around his very insistent cock and made him jack obscenely against her.

  He almost finished that way, his jaw tense, the muscles in his arms and chest tight with strain and the thrill of the hunt, but he wasn’t a man to be easily defeated.

  She was already so wet that when he licked through her folds she heard it, that rude slick clicking sound. His accompanying groan was positively pornographic. He lapped her up, and the new sensation of the beard against her thighs, against her softest skin destroyed her sense of balance. She might as well have been levitating, tethered to the earth, to the bed by the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his lips and the race car engine roar of her approaching orgasm—destination stardust.

  Somewhere in all of that, she’d sucked on his neck hard enough to leave a mark and he’d flipped her over and entered her from behind. It was all a lovely erotic blur in the same way as standing here in this dress was a Cinderella moment.

  An incredibly impractical one.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer me in a towel?” she asked.

  He gestured towards a box on the floor. “I’d prefer you try the shoes while I get dressed.”

  “Get dressed, it’s almost midnight. Where are we going?”

  He gave her tangled hair a tug. “You’ll see.” And left the room.

  Could she really take this for a spin in public? She couldn’t wear underwear, well, not the kind she owned, and you could virtually see her nipples nestled in silk. She was one false move away from a wardrobe malfunction. She’d need to do something with her hair because the I’ve-just-had-a-lot-of-raunchy-sex look wasn’t necessarily presentable in public. She’d need more than the dash of lipstick and mascara she’d worn during the day and truth be told, it had been a big day. The park, the seaplane, lunch, the bridge climb, all that glorious beard sex. All that extraordinary Haydnness.

  She’d be happy to curl up next to him and pretend to watch a movie he wasn’t in.

  But there was no reason not to try on the shoes.

  Crisscross straps and a heel that should be torturous but a footbed that was angled and padded so well the sandals were surprisingly comfortable. Like the dress, they were a gift. Extravagant. Unnecessary, but he looked so happy when she’d agreed to try the dress on she’d been powerless to resist.

  She followed him into the room he was using as a dressing area. “Where are we. . . Oh.” All the spit in her mouth dried up. He had a tux on, was tying the black tie. It was the same tux he’d worn in Cannes. It didn’t matter where he was taking her. She’d go watch jelly wresting in a skeevy pub with him dressed like that, if that’s what he wanted.

  “Not far. Somewhere we can dance.”

  “Won’t we be seen?” He’d done so much to avoid being easily accessible and she sure didn’t want to share him when he looked like the quintessential movie star.

  He slapped some aftershave on, a citrus smell. “I’ll see you. You’ll see me. And there’ll be a band, but they’ll be cool.”

  Bring on the musical jelly wrestling.

  A half hour later, hair in a hastily conceived messy bun and her face made-up but still not enough to cover her look of astonishment, they were in the elevator. Haydn had hold of her hand and she read his expression as smugly charming, which was stupidly sentimental but what could she do, all the romance had softened her capacity for realism. Whatever he was up to, he was pleased with himself and excited for her.

  There was no one about on the floor they got off at. There was no one in the hotel ballroom, except Rick and a five-piece band. But there had easily been a hundred people here not long ago. There were fragrant table centers still in place, there were empty coffee cups, scattered tent cards with names written on them and half-eaten portions of profiterole wedding cake.

  “Weekend wasn’t complete if I didn’t take you dancing and this was the best I could do on short notice without causing a scene,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips.

  “You’re next level.” Ridiculously, fabulously. Ruinously.

  “Too much?” he asked, mouth quirked ruefully as he straightened up.

  “In the best way,” she replied, a hand to his smooth face.

  “Teela, you look. Wow.” Rick said, joining them. “I owe you,” he said to Haydn.

  “He thought I wouldn’t be able to get you into the dress. Cost him fifty bucks,” Haydn said, while he led her towards the stage the band were set up on.

  “I’m only worth a fifty?”

  She regretted the words meant in jest and born of feeling awkwardly awestruck as soon as they left her mouth. They were petty, not funny. It hadn’t helped her jittery state that Rick’s eyes bugged out of his head when he saw her. Haydn had spent a small fortune on the dress and shoes and his budget for the weekend was unlimited. It was a relief that the comment got lost in a barrage of introductions Rick led.

  Haydn signed a guitar, posed for photos and recorded a voice mail for the lead singer’s daughter. Teela took it all in with champagne-like bubbles in her chest that made her feel giddy. He’d done this for her. Found the dream dress. Got the shoes right. Crashed a wedding venue, asked the hotel clean-up crew to standby, paid the band overtime.

  When the houselights came down at a signal from Rick and the dance floor and stage lit up, Haydn held his hand out to her. “Dance with me?”

  “If you can handle my two left feet.” My erratic heartbeat. “I’d love to.”

  The band played the opening bars to Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Haydn took her in his arms. “For the record, your worth can’t be calculated in cold cash.”

  She winced. Of course, he’d taken note. Stealth-level listener. “I’m sorry I said that.” Her heart squeezed painfully at the admission. “Nothing you’ve done has made me feel cheap.” It was the extreme opposite.

  He pulled her a little closer. “I had some ground to make up, if you remember.”

  Why ever had she been upset about his card? She shook her head, looking down at the gloss of his satin lapel, so shiny it was a wonder she couldn’t see her own embarrassed expression in it.

  He nudged her chin gently and she raised her eyes. In a month, would she remember how it was to be in his arms, to have his full attention, consideration and charisma all narrowcast in her direction. It was like standing in the path of natural disaster and knowing it would crash past, inexplicably sparing you but making you feel guilt about surviving.

  “I thought you might think this was over the top,” he said.

  “It is way over the top. But it’s also incredibly special. You did this for me and I’m overwhelmed.”

  “I wanted you to have a great weekend. To make it worth your while to hang out with me a few more days.”

  “We could’ve watched terrible movies you’re in and messed around in bed and eaten nothing but fast food and I’d have had a great time.”

  He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Now she tells me.”

  One more day with this extraordinary man.

  It would have to be enough.

  “I like doing those things too, but—” He dipped her and she gasped, almost losing her footing, and feeling his arm tighten around her as her feet slid. “Not on a first date.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not second-date material,” she quipped, as he righted her and for a second, she was pleased with how casual that sounded until he slammed her in c
lose, no daylight between their bodies.

  “You are cut from the very best material, Teela.” The jokey tone in his voice was gone, replaced by something sharp. “Don’t settle for a man who doesn’t know and appreciate that.”

  Seemed she had one right in front of her, his breath stirring her hair, one hand spread across the small of her back, the other gripping the back of her neck, the look on his face, fierce, uncompromising.

  “If things were different I’d be tempted to try to be that man.” He released her, slowly disengaging, and cleared his throat, giving his bowtie a tug to untie it, loosening his collar and flashing a rakish smile. “Good thing I don’t have any illusions about where my talent lies.”

  The song changed, John Legend’s “All of Me.” Haydn took her hand again and crooned the opening line. All of him was more than Teela ever imagined an extended one-night stand could be. It didn’t need to be said that she’d never have more of him.

  She placed her hand back on his shoulder. “Your talent doesn’t extend to holding a tune.” It did. But she loved the way insulting him made him react. Like she’d stung him with a tiny dart and he experienced a confused moment where he wasn’t sure exactly where he was hit or how badly it should hurt. There was a second of disbelief in his expression before he smiled. A smile that started at the corner of his eyes and invaded his whole face, making his single dimple wink on.

  “I’m guessing not overwhelming anymore,” he said, with an eye-roll.

  She gave a little shimmy. “My whelm does appear to be back.”

  He twirled her under his arm. “Good to hear.”

  It was a lie though. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, listened to him humming along and let him move her around the floor, trusting to the magic of the occasion that she wouldn’t trip on her dress or step on him more often than necessary to stay upright.

  He made it easy. His attentiveness, his consideration, had gotten under her skin and affected her at a neurological level. Knowing Haydn like this would change her.

  All of her ungainly tripping would be done after he was gone as she rushed back to earth.

  Song blended into song, each one almost unbearably romantic. Absolutely the right set for a wedding, making her eyes mist over and her throat get tight. Haydn sailed through it as if an occasion like this was normal.

  When he drew them to a stop, she looked into his eyes and saw nothing but honest affection. “Can I kiss you in front of the band?” he asked.

  She tipped her face up in answer and the kiss was soft and tender, made for the moment, and sweet enough because he’s asked first, to douse her whole body in longing.

  “How is your whelm going now?” he asked as he pulled back.

  Over. Way over the red line. He had to be able to feel her shaking. She clutched at his lapels. “I need.” There was no way to finish that sentence. Her whole world was need. To store up every detail of this amazing day, this incredible man. To be closer to him. To make this stop. To make it never end.

  “I need too,” he said, his hands searching for hers, his voice low and smoky, telling her he wasn’t as unaffected as she’d thought.

  He got them out of there fast after a round of thanks and handshakes with the band and a photo with the cleaning crew. In the elevator, he held her hand to his chest and didn’t take his eyes off her. In the suite, he went to his knee, undid her shoes and helped her step out of them, running his hands under her dress all the way up her legs to her thighs.

  “I want you. Can you take it again?”

  “You’ll be gentle.” It wasn’t a question. Their whole mood had shifted from playful and wild to something quiet and deliberate she couldn’t name, but it was fresh as a spring morning, dew still on the grass, or a dip in the ocean when the current was cool and the sea was clear as glass.

  He unwrapped her like it was Christmas morning and she was a much-anticipated intricate treasure. She helped him out of his suit by getting in his way, making him stop undressing to take her face in his hands and kiss her so deeply, they both forgot what they were doing.

  And what they were doing was loving each other as best they were able for two near-strangers from different worlds who’d become overwhelmed with each other.

  It might be enough to make Teela’s heart explode.

  TEN

  Sex was different this time. It wasn’t the same scramble for Haydn to get undressed or a game to stay clothed. This was somehow serious. Not in a weight-of-the-world fashion but it mattered. It meant something deeper and they both felt it.

  Buttons gave him trouble, his zipper, not only because Teela tried to help and it was an excuse to kiss her, but because his own hands were trembling.

  He wanted this badly and yet they’d had each other over and over.

  This was new.

  He’d gone and suckered himself with the whole magical dress, post-wedding crash, private dance thing. It was fucking romantic. Scene worthy. The air perfumed by flowers, the band decked out in black-tie but looser, coats off, ties undone, alcohol at hand, and the remains of another couple’s attempt at a happy ever after their backdrop.

  It was a fucking lot for real life.

  It made Teela go quiet. She didn’t get how effortlessly lovely she was. How much he liked to hear her laugh. To know she had a put-down ready to zing him with. She certainly didn’t understand the effect she had on him.

  He didn’t understand it himself.

  Dancing with her had made Haydn’s heart itch, swell in his chest like he’d been attacked by something. Australia probably had a stinging insect that could bite you through layers of expensive tailoring and give you heart palpitations.

  It was a fucking lot for his real life.

  He was nervous about having sex with a woman he’d never see again after tomorrow. A woman he’d given a bunch of orgasms to not hours ago. How was that possible? They barely knew each other apart from having sorted out basic fundamentals, like which way they turned their heads for that first kiss and how each of them liked to be touched.

  And yet they touched now in new ways that felt different, tasted different, sounded different, as if they’d come off that dance floor as people who’d never met before and yet knew intimate details about each other.

  He knew she loved kisses on her neck, that her left nipple was more sensitive than her right, that she came hardest in missionary if he tilted his hips down and kept his rhythm consistent, but if he took her from behind, she needed her clit stroked.

  She knew how to use her tongue in his mouth, on his cock, an insane little swirl, to make him hold his breath, and she’d worked out that if she put her teeth to his earlobe while she wrapped her hand around his dick, he would carve the world in half and serve it to her for breakfast.

  It was a lot.

  It wasn’t sex, what they were doing now, sprawled across the bed, bodies so entwined it was hard to tell where he finished and she began. It was slower and deeper. Aches he didn’t recognize he had were soothed when he came. Needs he’d thought long fulfilled were broken open and filled anew. Fucking was always good. Sometimes great, or sweet, angry or funny. It wasn’t ever this profound. He found sheer joy in her cries of pleasure, and nearly passed out from the wave of tenderness he experienced when she shook through her orgasm with tears in her eyes.

  He caught one on his finger and put it to his tongue. “Too much?”

  She pushed her face into his neck and let out a sob. “That was intense. I’ve never had sex like that. Never felt.” She had trouble getting her breathing in order.

  “Rocked to the core.” That’s the best description he could come up with. It was a little unnerving.

  “Yeah, like it wasn’t just our bodies that joined.” She lay her head on his shoulder. “I’m not making sense.”

  He’d felt it too. He pushed her damp hair back from her face. “I think it might be what they call good old-fashioned making love.”

  “Didn’t hook-up culture kill that off? I thin
k you slipped me something in the champagne cocktail.”

  “That you didn’t drink.”

  “Rats. There goes that excuse.” She licked up his neck. “We’d better not do that again. I’m not sure your reputation could take it.”

  He nudged the top of her head with his chin. “Image is everything. We’ll return to regular programming. Less feeling, more rooting.”

  She chuckled, and it flipped into a sob. He got an arm around her and wrapped her closer. Ah Teela, what have I done to you? Made her fall a little in love. That had to be it, because he had scars on both his knees and wounds on both his hands from falling for her.

  That was fine, terrific. Glorious even. Fucking rare. As long as it was only hyped-up endorphins, jacked to party all night and day before they gave out and forgot what all the fuss was about.

  Teela drifted off to sleep, snuggled into his side, her breathing deepening, tension leaving her face. Sleep was on some other continent for him. His jet lag this time was more the effect of emotional whiplash. He’d let his detachment slip and Teela had crawled in under his guard with her easy-to-please, independent-minded, straight-talking ways.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d liked a woman more than it was sensible to. When it happened, he made an arrangement. Mutual benefit until the mutual ran out, and it always did. He’d go off to make a movie. She’d get bored waiting, or she’d want more of a commitment than he wanted to give. He couldn’t do that with Teela, not only because it made no sense distance-wise. Hook-up culture or not, she would kick his ass if he even suggested a deal on his terms. She was as clear-eyed as he was about what they were to each other and it wasn’t lovemaking and cosmic brain-melding and getting entangled in the details of each other’s lives.

  He’d play it cooler from here. No all-out assault on her senses, or his, for that matter. Just a measured return to the real world where they both had lives to get on with and nothing in common. That didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun still, but fun shouldn’t leave him sleepless, worried he’d broken some time-honored and battle-tested practice that kept him safe. Worried he really had permanently bruised his knees or worse, gotten his heart stung, given himself a wasting disease that was unrecoverable.