Chapter 1: One Night, No Names
Nora’s POV
There are exactly three reasons I’m currently clutching a tequila shot like it’s holy water and contemplating whether this dress is too slutty for a Thursday night:
- My ex is engaged.
- My mother won’t stop asking if I’ve “considered freezing my eggs.”
- And I just spent the last hour being fitted for the bridesmaid dress from hell that makes my boobs look like they’re hosting a hostage situation.
So yeah. Tonight? I need to forget. Everything. My name. My life. My reproductive timeline. All of it.
“Another?” the bartender asks, eyes flicking down to my barely-there neckline. I know that look. It’s the you shouldn’t drive, but I’ll flirt while I serve you anyway special.
“No, thanks.” I flash a sugar-sweet smile and knock the shot back. It burns in the best way, numbing the edge of a day that’s been sharpened to stab me repeatedly.
My plan is simple: drink, flirt with someone questionable, and maybe—just maybe—get absolutely railed by a stranger so I can feel something other than bridal resentment and deeply repressed rage.
Enter: Him.
I spot him the moment he steps up to the bar. Tall, all scruffy jawline and arrogant smirk, like he’s used to getting his way and has the stamina to make sure you enjoy it. He’s in dark jeans and a black button-down rolled up at the sleeves, forearms tan and veiny, like he just came from building something or breaking something.
He glances sideways, catches me looking, and cocks an eyebrow. Not shy. Not even close.
Challenge accepted.
“Problem?” I ask, lifting my glass.
His smirk deepens. “Only if you consider staring at a beautiful woman a crime.”
Jesus.
Of course, he’s one of those. The cocky, dangerous ones with slow hands and filthy mouths.
Exactly what I need.
“Careful,” I say, setting my glass down. “That line might get you punched.”
“I like pain.” He grins. “But I prefer moans.”
Oh, hell no. I choke out a laugh. “Wow. You practiced that in the mirror, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Only while imagining you.”
I don’t know if it’s the tequila or the way his eyes are undressing me like he’s already got my panties in his pocket, but my thighs clench. Hard.
“Name?” I ask, despite myself.
“Nope,” he says. “Let’s keep this simple. One night. No names. No promises.”
I blink. “Are you serious?”
He leans in, voice low and rough like gravel over whiskey. “I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name. That’s the only one that matters tonight.”
Sweet. Merciful. Orgasms.
My skin ignites, heat pulsing everywhere it shouldn’t in public. This is reckless. Insane. Absolutely not what a rational woman should do.
Lucky for me, I’m not feeling especially rational tonight.
“Your place or mine?” I ask, my voice an octave lower than usual.
He grins like I just offered him a five-course meal with a side of sin. “Mine. I live close. And my sheets are clean. For now.”
My phone buzzes—probably my mom asking if I’ve met any “nice, emotionally available men.” I ignore it.
Screw logic. Screw responsibility.
Tonight, I’m screwing him.
And if he can live up to the promises in that mouth?
I might just start believing in one-night miracles.
His apartment is walking distance from the bar, which is convenient because I need this man now, and if I had to wait through a cab ride, I’d probably climb into his lap halfway through and get us arrested.
The moment the door closes behind us, he crowds me against it. One hand plants flat beside my head, the other hooks around the back of my thigh, lifting it like he already knows how to part my legs and my resolve at the same time.
“You still sure?” he murmurs against my neck.
“I’d be surer if you were naked,” I pant.
He growls—growls—like a man unleashed. The sound goes straight to my core. His mouth crashes into mine, urgent and hot, teeth dragging against my lower lip. I grab his shirt and yank, buttons popping. “Whoops.”
“Rip it. I don’t care.”
Oh, we’re doing that kind of night.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, slamming me against the wall as I wrap my legs around his waist. I can already feel the hard press of him through his jeans. Thick. Solid. Promising. I grind against it, shameless.
“Jesus,” he groans. “You’re fucking dangerous.”
“You have no idea,” I breathe.
He kisses like he’s starving—rough, messy, addicting. Every drag of his tongue is filthy perfection. He carries me down the hall, still kissing, still groping like he’s memorizing my body by feel. When we reach the bed, he tosses me onto it and yanks my dress up.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice gone dark and reverent, “you wore this with no panties?”
“I came prepared.”
He laughs—growls, really—then kneels between my legs like a man on a mission. “Good. So did I.”
I expect him to dive in, but he just stares at my soaked center, then slowly drags a finger along my slit, eyes locked on mine. “Dripping for me already?”
“Less talking, more licking,” I snap.
His smirk is wicked. “Bossy. I like that.”
Then his mouth is on me.
And holy shit.
He licks like he’s claiming territory—broad strokes, teasing flicks, dirty moans against my clit that vibrate straight through me. I arch off the bed, fists clutching the sheets as he sucks me with relentless rhythm.
“Oh—fuck—don’t stop!” I cry out, thighs trembling.
He doesn’t. He flattens his tongue, seals his mouth over my clit, and sucks until I come apart like a live wire, shouting his praises to the ceiling.
Before I can even catch my breath, he’s up, stripping off the rest of his clothes.
Good lord.
That cock should be classified as a deadly weapon. Thick. Heavy. Veins running down the shaft like a roadmap to sin.
I lick my lips. “You got a condom?”
He grins and tosses a foil packet on the bed. “A whole drawer full. I’m an optimist.”
I grab it, rip it open, and sheath him myself, dragging it down slowly while he shudders under my touch.
Then I flip him onto his back.
“Oh,” he says, eyes going wide. “Bossy. Definitely like that.”
I straddle him, positioning myself over his cock. I lower myself slowly, letting him stretch me inch by thick, glorious inch.
We both moan.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gasps.
I roll my hips, slow at first. Teasing. Testing. Then faster.
“Say it,” I breathe, hands on his chest. “Say I’m the best you’ve ever had.”
“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” he growls, gripping my hips and thrusting up into me so hard I see stars. “But if you keep moving like that, you’re gonna kill me.”
“Good.”
I ride him hard, chasing another orgasm like a woman possessed. Our moans fill the room, the slap of skin on skin a filthy soundtrack. When I come again, it rips through me like a tidal wave.
He flips me under him, thrusting deep as he falls apart, eyes locked on mine, mouth slack with bliss.
When it’s over, we collapse in a tangle of limbs, sweat-slick and breathless.
Silence.
Then—
“Wow,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re definitely not invited to Thanksgiving. I’d never survive.”
I laugh. A real one. Loud, messy, maybe a little unhinged.
But for the first time in a long time… I feel good.
No names. No promises.
Just tangled sheets and a man who fucked me like a religion.
Exactly what I needed.
I wake up to the scent of coffee and the sting of muscles that forgot what it’s like to ride a man into next week.
My eyes crack open. I’m naked, wrapped in sheets that definitely weren’t this twisted when we started last night. One of my legs is flung over his hip, my thigh still sticky from round two—or was it three? Either way, I’m sore in the best kind of way.
He’s already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me like I’m some dirty daydream that wandered into his bed and overstayed her welcome.
“I made coffee,” he says, voice rough with sleep and sex. “And I may or may not have Googled how to make your legs stop shaking after marathon sex.”
I snort. “And what did the internet say?”
“Hydrate. Stretch. Repeat.”
I stretch—immediately regret it. “You ruined me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I let the silence settle for a beat, studying the man beside me. Tousled dark hair. That sharp jaw covered in scruff. Eyes too pretty to belong to a guy who says things like open wider, baby. It should be illegal to be this hot and this charming and this good in bed.
Which is why I need to leave. Like, now.
I sit up and start searching for my dress. “Well. That was… something.”
His brows lift. “Something?”
“Something I won’t forget,” I say, because I’m not a total monster. “But I should go. I’ve got—uh, errands. And my sister’s wedding. And… other vague life responsibilities.”
He smirks. “No breakfast? No cuddles?”
“No offense, but if I stay for cuddles, I’m gonna want round four, and I don’t think I can physically survive that without medical intervention.”
He laughs—deep, sexy, and completely unfair.
I pull my dress over my head, groaning at how wrinkled it is. My bra’s still MIA, probably hanging from a ceiling fan or tucked behind a lamp. I decided to abandon it. It’s seen things.
“Seriously, this was… fun,” I say, trying not to let the weird ache in my chest register. “Exactly what I needed. One night. No names.”
He leans against the doorway, sipping his coffee. “Still don’t want my name?”
I pause, halfway into my heels. “Nope. That would make it real. And this…” I gesture between us, “…was a fantasy.”
“Your loss,” he says with a wink. “I moan it really well.”
God. He’s dangerous.
I toss him a cheeky salute and strut out the door, already mentally prepping my hangover kit and excuses for why I smell like sex and sin at brunch with my mom.
But as the elevator doors close behind me, I realize something.
I didn’t get his number. He didn’t ask for mine.
And that should be fine. It is fine.
Except…
Somewhere between the way he kissed me like I was air and the way he held me afterward like I wasn’t just a good time, something in my chest had stirred.
Nope. Not allowed. Not today, Satan.
One night. No names. No regrets.
I walk out into the bright morning sun, blinking like a vampire, shoes in one hand, dress riding up my thighs, and an ache between my legs that’s going to haunt me for days.
But I smile anyway.
Because for the first time in a long time… I feel alive.
And because I definitely left that man wrecked.
Whoever he was.
