The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance

by Stefanie London

  Well, he certainly doesn’t pull any punches. “Should I clutch my pearls and tell you I have a wardrobe of twinsets and flat shoes in my bedroom? Would that make a difference?”

  “I don’t do casual sex.”

  Despite what people assume based on my choice of outfits—and believe me, they do—I don’t usually indulge in casual sex, either. I’ve had a few boyfriends, and a few flings. A lone one-night stand in my twenty-seven years. But I’ve always been a relationship girl, secretly. Which is why I was ready to give it all to Vas...until he made it clear that forever had never been his intention.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you...” Mr. Suit frowns. “Is it weird if I ask for your name now?”

  “While you’re in the middle of turning me down?” I laugh. “Why bother?”

  He nods. “Right. Anyway, it’s not you. It’s me.”

  “Unoriginal.” I shake my head. “I’m so disappointed.”

  Despite the fact that he’s walking away, I’m feeling more like myself than I have in weeks. I’m going after something I want, setting my own rules. I’m not shrinking into my sadness anymore. That sounds like progress, right?

  “Trust me when I say it’s not you. Because I could happily tear those stockings off with my teeth and make a meal of you.” His gaze rakes over me, leaving fire in its wake. “And it is me, because I don’t have time for anything besides my work.”

  “I’m not asking for anything beyond tonight.”

  “Neither am I.” He looks as though he might offer further explanation, but then he walks across the room and grabs his coat. “Now, I’m going to head home and get myself off in the shower while thinking about your incredible legs.”

  I’m left standing open-mouthed as he disappears into the hallway. A second later I hear his door slam shut.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Drew

  IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT and I can’t sleep. I’ve got a head full of bad memories and images of my sexy next-door neighbour, which is a potent and annoying cocktail. So I’m restless, tossing and turning until the bedsheets wind around my legs like a python going in for the kill.

  If only I didn’t have to come home for Presley’s wedding. If only I hadn’t let myself fall for a guy who was destined to break my heart. But oh, no, I had to go and think that I could be the only woman he wasn’t lying to when he told me he loved me. Even though I knew his reputation, I fooled myself into thinking that I was different. That I was special.

  What could be further from the truth?

  Huffing, I untangle myself and get out of bed. My bare feet hit the cool floorboards and I realise I’m burning up. Tossing and turning is quite the workout.

  The apartment is quiet and unfamiliar. I’ve only been back in Melbourne for three weeks and already it’s reminding me of all the reasons why I left—how far I’ve fallen behind my sister. How much more lovable she is.

  I pad out to the main room where the window looks out over South Melbourne. The view is awash with glimmering lights, and in the far corner of the view, I can see the occasional car gliding along Clarendon Street. It’s Wednesday night, so the traffic isn’t too heavy. I’ve always found the noise comforting—because total quiet unsettles me. It means I have to focus on what’s in my head, instead of something easier. Something more tangible.

  Pulling open the sliding door to the balcony, I almost sigh in relief when the cool air hits my skin. The rain has stopped and it smells glorious—like springtime and wet grass and jasmine and life. This apartment is on the corner of the building, with the balcony facing the back of the property. The garden below is lush and beautiful, and I can totally see why my friend bought this place.

  I lean my forearms against the railing and suck in a big breath. I’m wearing an oversized white T-shirt, which the breeze flutters around my body. I have no idea how long I stand there, leaning and trying not to think. Just feeling. Eventually I’ll need to get back to bed, but as I turn, I catch a glimpse of something. A warm light emanating from the apartment next to me.

  I can only see into Mr. Suit’s place because of the angle of the corner apartment, and even then it’s not a full view. Only a sliver. But it’s enough for me to see the glow of a room inside the otherwise dark apartment. A door is open, and light spills from what looks like a bedroom. A shadowy figure emerges, momentarily blotting the light with its broad frame.

  My breath catches in my throat as the figure stills. Can he see me peering in? For a second I freeze, mortified at being caught looking like some peeping Tom. What the hell am I thinking? It’s a total invasion of his privacy, especially after he said no to me.

  He also said he was going to go home and get off while thinking about you.

  Images swirl of him in the shower, water streaming over what I know will be a rock-hard body, while he reaches one of those strong, long-fingered hands down between his legs...

  I shiver.

  The figure is still standing there. Unmoving. Waiting.

  Waiting for me?

  It’s a silent standoff. I should go inside before I embarrass myself further in front of this guy...but something keeps my feet rooted to the ground. Desperate desire winds through my system, slow and steady like the drip of condensation down a glass on a summer’s day. I want him. I want the feeling of hot, confident hands roaming my body and stubble-roughened kisses on my neck.

  When the shadow disappears into the darkened apartment, I think the show might be over. Disappointment stabs me in the gut. I’m definitely going to have to avoid this guy in the elevator until I skip town. Lord, what am I going to tell my friend when she comes back?

  Hey, sorry if things are a little weird between you and the guy next door. I unsuccessfully propositioned him for sex and then stared into his window in the middle of the night.

  But then a lamp flicks on inside the apartment. The warm glow grows enough that I can see more detail—the white towel around his waist, the shadow of definition in his muscular torso, the brooding expression on his face. In the dim light, his hair looks like burning embers, matching the intensity of how he watches me, watching him.

  I swallow and find my mouth dry, waiting for him to wave me away. Or mouth an appropriate “what the fuck?” while glaring at me. But nothing like that happens. He takes a step forward, more fully into the light. I can see more detail now—the smattering of hair on his chest and the trail that winds from his bellybutton down to where the towel is knotted, riding low on his hips. Any lower down and I’d be able to tell whether the bulge there is from the material of the towel or something else.

  Show him what he missed by walking out on you tonight.

  There’s that dark little voice again. The one that urges me to make bad decisions and get into trouble.

  I skim my hand along the edge of the T-shirt, fingertips dancing across my bare thigh. The hem barely covers the bottom of my cotton underwear—tonight it’s pink and red stripes—and I gently brush the T-shirt up enough to expose it.

  Mr. Suit’s chest moves sharply, as though he’s sucked in a quick breath. The guy is so cut I second-guess my assumption that he works in an office. His shoulders are strong and round, his biceps deliciously curved, but it’s the flex in his jaw that does me in. Like he’s grinding his teeth, trying to hold his reaction back...and failing.

  Emboldened by the fact that he’s still watching, I draw the hem of my T-shirt up higher. Cool air grazes my bare stomach, and I hold the material just over my breasts—teasing at what might be beneath without actually showing him.

  Mr. Suit stalks toward the glass. Oh, yes, there’s definitely a bulge under that towel. His eyes are so strikingly blue that I’m captured for a moment. He’s much closer now, his face still shadowed by the dim light inside. There’s no balcony outside his bedroom—they stagger the rooms here, and his bedroom shares a wall with my living room. That means the
balconies are spaced apart—probably so the residents don’t feel in each other’s pockets if they’re both outside. But it means I can’t hear him. The double-glazed windows keep all the sound inside. His mouth moves, but I’m too dazed to lip-read.

  But then I catch one word: more.

  He wants more? Am I really going to do this? Give a stranger a peep show while anyone else could come outside and see?

  It’s late. Everyone is getting up early for work tomorrow. Nobody else will see you.

  Won’t they? I swallow.

  Mr. Suit nods. More.

  Biting down on my lip, I drag the T-shirt higher up, exposing my naked breasts to the night air and to Mr. Suit’s hungry gaze. My nipples peak at the shock of the cool breeze and my sex clenches when I see his reaction—that single flame sparking and catching alight. Creating an inferno.

  Holding the fabric with one hand, I let my other hand roam over my stomach and up to my breasts, squeezing and pinching. It sends arrows of excitement through me, heating up my blood and creating a dull pulse in my sex. I feel powerful like this—in charge and beautiful and naughty and brave.

  Mr. Suit’s lips part and I imagine the sound coming out of him, letting my mind fill in the blanks so I get the whole experience. I’ve never done anything like this before—so brazen and bad. But it feels good. So good.

  “More,” he mouths.

  I dip my hand over my stomach and toy with the waistband of my underwear. There’s a little bow right below my navel, and I dance my fingers over it before snapping the elastic against my skin. But I don’t want to be the only one playing this game—if he wants more, then I need a show of faith. I need to know I’m not the only vulnerable party.

  I nod toward him, to where he’s holding the knot at his waist. His eyes darken and he reaches down, squeezing himself through the fluffy fabric. I almost go weak at the knees; the sight of him handling himself is insanely hot. Not to mention it looks like he’s got quite the handful there.

  I dip my fingers under the elastic of my underwear, finding myself wet and ready. A sigh slips out as I brush over my clit—the tight bundle of nerves sending a jolt of pleasure through me.

  Oh, God, am I really doing this?

  For a moment, doubt roars in my head. What would Perfect Presley think if she knew I was giving a stranger a peep show? What about the Stepford bridesmaids? What would Vas think? My thoughts darken for a second. Vas wouldn’t think anything because I was nothing but a toy to him anyway. A plaything. A disposable pleasure.

  Fuck Vas. And fuck what other people think, too. I’m done with that. This is for me, because right now I feel good and I’m a grown woman who can make her own bloody decisions.

  I touch myself again, circling my fingers over my most sensitive part and letting out a soft groan. Not too loud—because I don’t want anyone else but Mr. Suit to come outside and see the show. It feels so good, with his eyes on me, his mouth slack and his hand palming himself through the towel. I wish it was his hands on me. I let myself imagine what would have happened if he’d stayed and stripped me out of my fishnets and my leather skirt.

  If he’d taken me to bed and laid me down, peeling the underwear from my body and sliding his hands back up my thighs, thumbs tracing circles on my skin. Getting higher, higher, higher...so close.

  My eyes flutter shut and I’m lost. I imagine his big body covering me, knees pushing my legs apart as he presses his lips to mine. The fantasy plays out in vivid colour and a tremor rips through me. Everything is wound tight like a coil. I’m so close...so close.

  I apply the right pressure and my orgasm breaks. Release is sweet and swift and I steady myself with one hand against the balcony railing. When I open my eyes, Mr. Suit is standing there—eyes wild and cheeks flushed, and he’s looking like a caged animal.

  “This is what you missed,” I say, having no idea if he understands. But I’ll take that as my cue to leave—showtime is over and I’m feeling the warm burn of pleasure knowing he’s going to bed with me on his mind. Let him regret walking out.

  I drop my T-shirt back down over my stomach and wink at him before scampering back inside, my heart pounding and my head swirling. I can’t believe I did that.

  But there’s no denying I feel better than I have in weeks. Maybe I needed to act out a little after twelve months of minding my p’s and q’s and trying to be wife material. After twelve months of pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

  I crawl back into bed with a big smile on my face and instantly fall into a deep slumber.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Flynn

  WHEN I WALKED into the office at 7:00 a.m. with a spring in my step, Francis had assumed it was because I’d done exactly what she told me to do: rest, television, and takeaway food. Ha! The truth couldn’t be further from that.

  After watching Blondie touch herself brazenly on the balcony of her borrowed apartment, that beautiful face screwed up with pleasure, I’d needed another cold shower to shake the desire creeping through my body. But even with the most monumental of teases, I still went to bed happy. When was the last time I slept soundly, fully engaged by dreams that had me not wanting it to end? That had me waking with a wicked smile? So long, I can’t even remember.

  I’ve been thinking about it all day. For once in my life, I was the space cadet in meetings. I was the one staring into nothingness, my mind miles away from work. But the fantasy will have to keep me going, because I’ve got a full plate and a fuller head. When I go home shortly, I’ll have to force myself not to knock on her door. I can’t afford any distractions—no matter how tempting—to derail my plans.

  And speaking of unwanted distractions...

  I scrub a hand over my face and let out a frustrated groan when yet another email appears from the maid of honour about the Jack and Jill party we’re supposed to be organising. One, the idea of a Jack and Jill party is stupid. Two, I’d already asked Francis to take care of it so I didn’t have to waste time on party planning. But oh, no, Little Miss Warpath is nixing every single thing I say, and she wants to have...a costume party.

  I shudder. Costume parties are the seventh circle of hell. I can’t think of anything worse than going to a party dressed in some crappy polyester version of what someone else wore. It’s tacky and I’m duty-bound to ensure my cousin isn’t photographed looking like an idiot. I’m not sure why he chose me to be best man, to be honest. We’ve never been close, not even growing up. But family is the single most important thing in my life, so I wasn’t about to decline when he asked, even if I had zero interest in the job.

  But after the tenth email from Melanie D. Richardson, I’m about to throw my laptop out the window. Never mind that the windows in this office tower don’t open, I’ll make an opening.

  Apparently, I’m being “overbearing” and “uptight” because I don’t want to go ahead with the costume party. Okay, and maybe it’s also because I told her she should step back and let me handle it all since I know what I’m doing (and by me, I mean Francis.) I disagree that costume parties are “fun” (they’re not) and “creative” (double nope) and “perfect for such a happy couple” (of course they seem happy, they’re spending an exorbitant amount of money to announce to the world that they’re in love...they have to seem happy).

  Call me cynical—many do. But I’ve never understood the over-the-top nature of weddings. If you’re really in love with someone, why do you need all the fanfare? Why do you need the audience?

  But I’ll keep that opinion to myself.

  I fire back an email that shuts the discussion down. I’m happy to compromise on other things, but it feels like she’s being purposefully difficult.

  A second later, Francis pops her head into my office. She’s wearing that lip-pursed, motherly face again. “That was a bit harsh, Flynn.”

  “What? I told her it’s not happening and she’s wasting my time by bein
g argumentative,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve tried to compromise on something else, maybe the menu or colour scheme, but she’s stomping her feet like an angry toddler.”

  “You’re used to people bending to your will.” My assistant smirks, like she’s got grudging respect for the other woman. “And she’s not.”

  “She’ll run out of hot air eventually. This wedding is going to be enough of a circus as it is.” My cousin is a more is more kinda guy—as was evident by the enormous rock he gave his fiancée. And the fact that he proposed to her in the most outlandish way possible, with multiple hot air balloons custom printed with their names and “will you marry me?” on the side. “I keep thinking how much my mother would have loved it.”

  “Is that why you seem so prickly about the whole thing?”

  “No, I’m more worried about stuff ending up in the papers. He’s got a habit of making a fanfare and getting bad press for it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “And with everything hinging on these trials...”

  “Ah,” she said. “So that’s what it’s about.”

  I look at the picture of my niece. Zoe is seven and she was diagnosed with Batten disease two years ago. It’s extremely rare. Most people with Batten disease die in their teens or early twenties. There’s no cure. This is why I work as hard as I do. This is why I worry about things like my stupid cousin drawing attention to our family name for all the wrong reasons. I can’t risk people not wanting to donate money to our cause because they think we’re a pack of idiots.

  Call me a bastard. Call me selfish and a killjoy. I don’t care, if it means my company might find some way to help people like Zoe. To help her dad, who’s already starting to grieve for all the time he likely won’t have with her.

  “Let me take care of it,” Francis says. “I’ll sort it out so you don’t have to deal with it anymore.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Lord knows,” she mutters as she walks away, her low, sensible heels clacking against the hardwood floor.