Mr One-Night Stand. Rachael StewartЧитать онлайн книгу.
had at least messaged. But she’d not even lit the screen before her eyes sidled away, drawn to the brooding silhouette not twelve feet away.
He was tall—she could tell that even with his body folded into the deep bucket seat. The ankle of one leg casually rested atop the knee of the other. The designer cut of his dark suit and tan leather shoes spoke of money, although whether he had any was an entirely different matter. She’d learned that quickly enough in the city. People only had to dress to impress and it attracted wealth like bees to honey.
But there was something in the broad set of his shoulders, accentuated as they were by his tailored jacket, and the confident air in his relaxed poise that had her certain he wasn’t all about the front.
And what a front...
Her eyes drifted upwards. The crisp white shirt sat smoothly over his torso, no hint of spread. Then they drifted higher, to the last fastened button of his open collar and the hint of dark hair curling there.
Her pulse skipped, her mouth watered and her eyes snapped back to her phone. Not now!
Seriously, what was wrong with her? Was she that desperate to get laid? That fed up with her trusty vibrator that her body was putting up a fight? Truth was, there was no time in her life for that complication. Mr Dildo didn’t talk back, didn’t require care and affection. He didn’t require time that she didn’t have.
Between her office and dashing back and forth between London and Yorkshire each weekend to be with her family she was all out of that.
But one night, though. Think of the possibilities...
Heat simmered low in her belly as she activated her phone screen. No notifications. She fired off a brief Where are you? message and placed the device back on the bar, her heightened awareness picking up on movement from the man’s direction. She watched him crook his finger to the blonde waitress hovering nearby and an inexplicable pull ripped through her.
Christ, he was reeling her in too.
She nibbled the inside of her lip, drinking in his rakishly long dark hair, the chiselled set to his jaw that softened delectably with his easy grin. And then there were his eyes—so compelling. She couldn’t make out the colour, but there was something about them, something deliciously sinful...
Her tummy contracted with a barrage of heat, and in that second she knew she wanted to leave with him. That she wanted one night of crazy. No names, no real talk, just wild, no-holds-barred sex.
Could she do it? Hell, would he?
It wasn’t in her nature, it wasn’t like her, but being ‘like her’ was hard fucking work and she needed this...needed him.
Mentally, she undressed him, button by button, stroke by stroke, her thighs clenching tight in their folded position.
‘One vodka martini.’
‘Huh?’ Her eyes snapped to the bar, to Darren placing a mat and glass before her.
‘Your drink.’ He smiled teasingly. ‘Distracted, much?’
‘Quite.’ And that was an understatement.
Warmth fed her cheeks as she took hold of the olive stick propped inside her glass and began to stir with it, her focus on the mini-whirlpool she created while she set her thoughts to chill.
Get the meeting with Tony out of the way first.
Raising her drink, she sampled it, a small hum of appreciation escaping her as the chilly temperature contrasted with the burn of alcohol in a strangely pleasing way. She took another sip and felt her shoulders start to ease, her posture soften.
Ah, Tony, maybe you’ve done me a favour, dragging me out.
She rolled her head on her shoulders, her eyes seeking him once more—Fuck. Their gazes collided, the invitation in his sending lust tearing through her.
To hell with Tony, and to hell with doing what was right all the time!
Just give him twenty minutes...
Gah—She forced her attention to her phone and issued him a text that said as much.
Five minutes later, fizzing over with the prolonged wait, she caved and beckoned Darren over.
There was no harm in putting things in motion.
‘You’re not ready for another?’
She grinned, high on the thrill. ‘Please...’
He chuckled. ‘Okay.’
Placing a fancy tray of bar snacks in front of her, he set about making her drink.
She eyed the food, her tummy growling. She’d missed dinner again. Taking up a few snacks, she savoured one before asking, ‘Do you know what Mr Distraction is drinking?’
He sent her a knowing look. ‘You wanting to send him one?’
‘Maybe...’ Playfully, she popped in another snack, chewing over it and relishing the instant hit of salt. ‘So, come on—do you know?’
He smiled as he worked, his eyes flicking briefly to the man in question. ‘He’s a J&B man.’
She licked her lips clean, her eyes flitting to Smoking Hot Guy, and then to his bottle of choice on the shelf. Hot Wealthy Guy... J&B... An image of the hottie in American Psycho flashed before her eyes and she swallowed, hard.
Okay, Okay...yes, you want a night of crazy, but maybe you should know something about him first.
‘What’s got you looking so serious?’ Darren asked, picking up on her shift in mood.
‘I was just wondering...’ Her voice trailed off as she considered the talented bartender. Darren knew everyone that came and went. ‘What do you know of him?’
‘Can’t tell you much.’ He strained the liquid into a fresh glass. ‘I’ve not seen him before, but there were some guys at the bar talking about him earlier. Recognised him from some article or other.’
Her ears pricked up. ‘An article?’
‘Yeah, you know the sort—one of those professional mags, I reckon.’ He popped an olive in the glass and placed it before her. ‘He’s a CEO in the technology field.’
She sucked on the inside of her lip, suppressing the surge of excitement. No CEO was going to turn out to be a nutcase.
‘Well, fancy that...’
‘You sure do.’
She grinned and plucked the olive from the glass, popping it between her lips as her eyes hit Smoking Hot Guy’s.
Damn sure I do!
IF HE HAD to watch her pop another olive in her mouth, her eyes alive with wicked suggestion... He circled the rim of his glass with his index finger, the move rhythmically in line with the heat coiling through him.
He really should’ve left when he’d got the bail-out text from Andrews. Instead he’d sent a brief acknowledgement wrapped up in a warning.
Be at the solicitor’s nine a.m. prompt for contract exchange or else.
And then he’d settled back.
He really should’ve been more annoyed too, but it was fascinating what the sight of a blazing-eyed redhead enjoying her fill at the bar could do. And he wasn’t just referring to the olives—there were the bar snacks too. Whatever they were, they had her licking her lips and her fingers with such teasing that between that and the olive-sucking