Hopefully, No Regrets

Aidan handed Millie a bottle, fingers brushing hers. Contact. Brief. Charged. The kind that doesn’t just stay on skin.The kind of contact people romanticize in movies and bad paperbacks. Millie felt it. That involuntary catch in her breath, like she’d been jolted awake mid-fantasy.

Because who does this happen to? Not her. Not a cleaner. Not the girl who cuts coupons and drives a car with one working window.

Aidan stepped closer, shrinking the space between them. The city outside blurred into irrelevance, the skyline smothered as the curtains hummed shut.

And then it was just dim lighting, expensive shadows, and that sharp breath of space between two people who should know better.

“See?” he murmured, barely a voice, more like a spell. His breath brushed her cheek. “Everything’s better with just a little bit of light.”

Millie should have rolled her eyes. Should have stood, grabbed her bag, and walked out with her $500 worth of dignity intact. But instead, she stood still. Caught in the moment like a bug in amber.

“You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you, Mr. Moretti?” she said, her voice light but threading on edge.

Aidan’s lips curled—not quite a smirk. A dare. “Aidan, please,” he corrected, softly. Like it was a sacred thing. “And… maybe. But I don’t mind earning it when it’s worth it.”

He leaned in, closer now. With no question, no hesitation, just raw, unfiltered heat between them.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice a velvet caress skimming her skin, low and intimate. “Don’t pull away.” It wasn’t a demand—not exactly. It was the illusion of choice, daring her to resist.

And she didn’t.

Millie leaned in, not because it was smart—she’d long abandoned that—but because danger always had that stupid, magnetic pull. And then, Aidan’s lips crashed into hers, and it was anything but gentle. It was a storm of hunger, bruising and insistent, his mouth claiming hers with a deliberate, performative intensity that felt like his signature—designed to consume, to linger, to ruin her. His tongue swept against hers, teasing and possessive, coaxing a soft moan from deep in her throat as her body surrendered to the heat.

Soon his hands were everywhere. One slid up her back, fingers splaying possessively over her spine, pulling her flush against him until she could feel the hard lines of his body. The other hand found her hip, gripping tightly before slipping lower, his palm curving over the swell of her ass, squeezing with just enough force to make her gasp into his mouth. His touch was bold and unapologetic. His fingers tracing slow, sultry patterns through the fabric of her pants.

Millie’s hands gripped at him, shaky and searching, her fingers digging into the smooth fabric of his shirt, then sliding up to his shoulders, desperate to anchor herself against the dizzying pull of his kiss. His lips moved with a sultry rhythm, now softening to tease the corner of her mouth, now deepening with a hungry edge. His hand on her back slid higher, tangling in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring her, leaving her breathless.

She pressed herself closer, her chest brushing his, her body responding despite the warning bells in her mind. His hand on her hip slipped under her shirt, his fingers—warm and sure—grazing the bare skin of her waist, tracing slow, teasing circles that sent shivers racing through her. He groaned softly against her lips, a crack in his polished facade that made her heart pound. It was as if he was as lost in her as she was in him, their mutual hunger feeding off each other in the confined space of the moment.

He pulled back after a minute—sixty seconds that felt more like a dare than a moment—and wore the grin of a man who already considered himself a memory worth keeping. His eyes, dark blue and smoldering, raked over her flushed face, taking in her parted lips and her heaving chest.

Millie was flushed, dazed, and a little drunk on the absurdity of it all, her body humming with the aftershocks of his touch. “You’re... Wow, that was... Very good,” she murmured, her voice breathless, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

And there it was, the compliment. The validation. Aidan soaked it up, his grin widening, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

“I aim to please,” Aidan said. “But that? That was the warm-up. Upstairs, I can really show off.”

The invitation was obvious and blatant. Millie paused. Not out of hesitation, really, but out of habit. This was the part where the sensible version of herself—usually quiet, currently duct-taped in the corner—might beg her to leave.

Instead, she looked at him. Looked at the hunger in his eyes. And made the decision she’d regret in the morning. Maybe even before.

“I’ll regret this tomorrow.”

His grin deepened, arrogant and so sure of himself it was almost impressive. “No, sweetheart. You’ll regret not doing it sooner.”

Then he swept her up into his arms. Bridal-style. He carried her up the stairs.

In his bedroom—big bed, designer linens—he laid her down gently. He hovered above her, eyes dark, mouth soft. The kisses started slow this time, reverent, as if trying to convince her this was more than it was. Lips down her neck, pausing at the pulse point.

Millie’s hands slid up his chest. The shirt did little to hide the obvious—yes, he was ripped. Her fingers explored like she had to confirm he was real and not something she dreamed up on a night she forgot to eat dinner.

This guy’s workout selfies would break the internet, she thought, grinning to herself.

And maybe they would. But even perfect abs couldn’t hide the fact that men like Aidan Moretti were made for consuming, not keeping.

Aidan groaned against her neck. His body trembled, ever so slightly. Millie’s touch had power, and he knew it. He liked that. He liked that she knew it, too.

Then he peeled off his shirt. Uncovering his tattoos. The wolf was fierce, bold, etched in sharp lines, and designed to project strength and danger. Below that, three interlocking rings, a crown, the word South, and a pair of crossed daggers. Subtlety clearly wasn’t his strong suit.

Millie reached for the ink almost without thinking, tracing the wolf. And he slid his hands down her body, fingers finding her waist, tugging at her shirt. One swift jerk and it was off.

“You didn’t—” she started, maybe to object, maybe to protest how fast this was all spinning, but her words vanished the second his mouth reclaimed hers, demanding, consuming.

Now she was in her work pants and a bra. Beige lace. The tragic casualty of skipped laundry day. Aidan’s fingers found the zipper, tugged it down, and then the pants joined her shirt on the floor.

Her underwear, bless it, was a choice made in the haze of morning fatigue and poor lighting. The bra was a little sad, but the thong was Clara’s fault.

“Buy it. One day you’ll thank me,” Clara had said with an annoying level of smugness. And sure, maybe this was that day. Sort of.

Aidan’s gaze raked over her. Not the polite kind of scan. No, this was the full, unapologetic feast. He drank her in—the stomach honed from years of carrying buckets, mops, and dusters; the curves shaped by labor, not Pilates. She had never considered herself particularly seductive, but apparently, he disagreed.

“I know I’m not like the girls you usually—” she started, a tremor in her voice, blush rising like it was trying to protect her from herself.

But he didn’t let her finish. His kiss silenced her. His hands roamed, brushing over her breast, thumb dragging along the lace. A gasp broke from her lips.