Chapter 3: One Night

Ninette's POV

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My pulse hammered in my throat as his hands slid to my hips.

This is happening. This is really happening.

He pressed his face against my stomach, kissing the soft flesh there like it was precious. Like I was precious. Every touch felt like worship, like he was trying to memorize me through his fingertips.

His fingers hooked into my underwear. He paused, just for a heartbeat, his eyes finding mine, asking permission without words.

I barely nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

He dragged them down slowly, never breaking eye contact. I stepped out of them on trembling legs, completely naked except for my bra, standing before this stranger who was still fully dressed in his expensive suit.

The power imbalance should have made me feel vulnerable.

Instead, I felt powerful.

His hands slid up my thighs, spreading them slightly. Then his mouth was on me.

And I stopped thinking altogether.

A gasp tore from my throat. My head fell back against the door with a soft thud. His tongue moved with ease, finding spots I didn't know could feel like this. Damien had never… he'd said it wasn't his thing, and I'd accepted it like I accepted everything else about my disappointing sex life.

But this stranger devoured me like I was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"Oh…" My fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding on. "Oh fuck."

He hummed against me, the vibration making my thighs shake. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside me while his mouth worked magic, and I heard myself making sounds I'd never made before. The sounds were desperate, needy and shameless.

The pleasure built in waves, higher and tighter. I couldn't…

"I can't…" I gasped. "I'm going to…"

He doubled his efforts.

When the orgasm hit, it shattered me. I cried out, my legs shaking so badly he had to hold me up with one strong arm around my hips. He didn't stop until I was whimpering, oversensitive, and pulling at his hair.

He rose to his feet in one swift move, his lips glistening. He kissed me hard, and I tasted myself on his tongue.

I should feel embarrassed, ashamed.

Instead, heat pooled low in my belly all over again.

"To the bed," he said against my mouth. "Now."

I stumbled toward the king-sized bed on shaky legs, my body still trembling from aftershocks. He followed, shedding his jacket, loosening his tie. I watched with my heart pounding as more skin was revealed.

When his shirt came off, I saw hours in the gym written across defined muscles and smooth skin. Then his pants joined the pile of expensive clothes on the floor and I saw exactly what I was dealing with.

My breath caught. He was big, intimidatingly so.

Doubt crept in like ice water. Damien had always complained that I wasn't enthusiastic enough, that I didn't know how to please him. What if this stranger realized I was bad at this? What if I couldn't…

"Stop."

His voice was firm. He climbed onto the bed, caging me beneath his body, his eyes locked on mine.

"I can see you thinking, and whatever you're thinking is wrong." His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You're perfect. This is going to be perfect."

He kissed me again. Slower this time, but it wasn’t less intense. His body pressed against mine, skin to skin, and the feeling was overwhelming; too much yet not enough.

His hand snaked between us, positioning himself at my entrance. The blunt pressure made me gasp.

"Protection?" I managed, my brain briefly engaging despite the tequila and desire.

He reached for his pants, pulled out a condom. I watched him roll it on, mesmerized by the casual competence.

Then he was pushing inside me.

The stretch was intense and perfect. Nothing like the rushed, rehearsed-like sex I'd gotten used to. He went slow, despite the tension I could see in his jaw, the muscle ticking there, giving me time to adjust, watching my face.

"Okay?" he asked when he was fully seated inside me.

I could barely breathe. I nodded.

"Words, sweetie."

"More than okay," I whispered.

That was all the permission he needed.

He started moving, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in deep. The thrust was deliberate, controlled, hitting spots inside me that made my eyes roll back.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did. His gray eyes were molten, burning with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"That's it." His voice was rough. "I want to see you when you come apart."

He shifted the angle, and suddenly every thrust hit that perfect spot. I grabbed his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.

"Please…" I heard myself beg. "Please, I need…"

He understood. His hand moved between us, finding my sensitive flesh and circling with just the right amount of pressure.

The combination was too much. The pleasure spiraled higher, tighter, until…

I came with a cry that probably echoed through the entire floor, my body clenching around him in waves. He followed right after, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and groaned my name; a name he'd given me in his head.

We collapsed together with sweaty limbs and heaving chests. For several minutes, neither of us moved. I could feel his heart pounding against my ribs, could feel the aftershocks still rippling through me.

This is it. One and done. Scratch the itch and move on.

But when he finally pulled out and disposed of the condom, he came back to bed and pulled me against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my skin, and something in my chest clenched.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice sleepy.

"Does it matter?" He murmured against my hair.

"I guess not."

We lay there in comfortable silence. His hand continued its gentle exploration, like he was memorizing every curve, every inch. It felt intimate in a way sex with Damien had never been.

Don't get attached. Don't…

After a while, his hand moved lower, dipping between my thighs. I gasped as his fingers found me still sensitive and swollen.

"Again?" My voice came out breathless, surprised.

"Again." His voice was firm. "I'm not done worshipping this body. Not even close."

This time, he took me to the window. The curtains were open, the city glittering below like a carpet of stars. He bent me over, my palms pressed flat against the cool glass.

"Wait…" My pulse kicked up. "Someone could see…"

"Let them." He entered me from behind in one smooth thrust, and my protest died in a moan.

The position was deeper. Every thrust made my breath fog the window, made my palms squeak against the glass. He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and the slight pain mixed with pleasure in a way that made coherent thought impossible.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, his voice rough.

I hesitated. Damien had never—

"Now, darling."

I did. My fingers worked in time with his thrusts, and the feeling of being displayed against the window, of the whole city below us while this stranger took me apart piece by piece, was intoxicating, forbidden and absolutely perfect.

When I came this time, I screamed. He followed moments later with a groan that sounded like it had been ripped from somewhere deep.

We showered together after. He washed my hair with gentle hands, his fingers massaging my scalp until I was practically purring. Then he dried me off with a plush hotel towel and carried me back to bed like I weighed nothing.

"One more," he said, laying me down on the silk sheets.

"I can't." My protest was weak. "I'm too sensitive."

"You can." He settled between my thighs, his mouth finding me again. "Trust me."

He was right.

He worked me slowly this time, patiently. Using his tongue and fingers until I was writhing, until tears pricked my eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

When he finally pushed inside me again, the stretch felt different. It felt more intense somehow. Like my body was molding to him, memorizing him.

Don't think like that. Don't…

This time, he made love to me. There was no other word for it. He moved slowly, deeply, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. He whispered things against my throat; beautiful, perfect, mine, that I felt in my bones.

When we came together, something broke open inside my chest.

I cried, real tears that I couldn't hold back anymore. He held me through it, stroking my hair, murmuring soothing words.

Eventually, exhaustion won. I fell asleep wrapped in his arms, feeling safer and more valued than I had in years.

Morning light streaming through uncovered windows woke me. My body ached in the best way, muscles protesting from last night's activities.

I reached for him, my hand searching for warmth. But it was empty.

My heart stuttered. I sat up, looking around frantically.

His clothes were gone. His shoes. His wallet. Everything.

No note on the pillow. No number on the nightstand. Just the lingering scent of his cologne and the marks he'd left on my body.

He was gone. Like he'd never existed at all.

I pulled the sheets up to my chest. Tried to tell myself this was fine. This was always going to be a one-night thing. I knew that going in.

So why did my chest feel like someone had carved out my heart with a rusty spoon?

My phone buzzed. Seventeen new messages from Damien.

I threw it down without reading them.

I needed to figure out what came next. I needed to find a divorce lawyer, to get my life together.

But right now, all I could do was sit in this hotel bed and try to remember what it felt like to be worshipped.

Because something told me I wouldn't feel that way again for a very long time.