The Fling

My frustration builds as I walk the short block to my apartment. Francis can get on her high horse about the way I live my life, but I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that’s not being some money-chasing egomaniac like my mother, a woman who was only ever capable of giving a shit about herself.

I enter my apartment building, trying to shrug off the bad memories along with my coat. A night without the distraction of filing emails seems like a daunting task. Quiet moments are the worst. Maybe that’s another reason working 24/7 appeals to me—easier to avoid the stuff I don’t want to deal with.

“Mr. Lewis.” The concierge waves me over as I enter. The poor man looks like he’s run through a tornado—his tie is skewed, his hair mussed. “We’ve had some issues with the elevators today, but they’re working now. Just wanted to let you know in case they take a bit longer than normal while we get everyone up to their apartments.”

I nod and continue on. I don’t know my neighbours. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you who lived next door. I’m not one of those people who feels the need for community connection. Nor do I want to attend the various social events the building puts on for its residents. Frankly, if I had to stand around making small talk with people I don’t know or care about, then I’d rather be doing it where I might find an investor for my business.

When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.

Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.

When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.

“Hello?”

A voice startles me and I turn, my gaze swinging across the empty hallway. There’s not a soul around. Great. Now on top of this unwanted and unappreciated trip down “existential crisis” lane, I’m losing my mind, too. Francis is going to pay for this tomorrow.

“Is someone there?” A loud thump draws my eyes to the service stairwell. “Hello? I need help.”

The voice is definitely female, but I don’t recognise it. I pull on the door. It’s locked. That’s when I notice an electronic keypad flashing: Error. Enter code.

“The door is locked,” I say.

“No shit,” the voice snaps. “Why else would I be in here?”

“Self-reflection?” The comeback slips out before I can think better of it.

“You’re a regular smartass, aren’t you?”

I’m tempted to leave the woman in the stairwell. It’s not my problem and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. But the second I start to walk away, my conscience kicks in and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t leave a person stranded.

“Hello?” she tries again.

“I’m still here.”

“Look, buddy. I’ve had the day from hell and all I want is to get into my apartment so I can faceplant in a tub of ice cream and eat my emotions. Think you can help me out?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Try really hard.”

Shaking my head, I bend down to look more closely at the keypad. It has a thin layer of plastic covering it and I notice some dust and paint shavings on the floor. Then everything clicks into place—I’d bet my last ten bucks they installed these things today and blew a fuse while testing them out. That probably tripped the security system and shut the elevators down.

Which could mean... I punch 1234 into the electronic pad and the screen flashes once, twice and then displays the word: open. Yep, they haven’t set up the passcodes yet.

I yank the door open. For a moment, my brain stutters like a lawnmower failing to start. The woman in the stairwell looks like she’s stepped out of my wildest, dirtiest fantasies—endless legs in fishnet stockings, waist-length hair that’s so pale it’s almost white, and a leather miniskirt and lace-up boots. Not to mention the black eyeliner that rims her eyes, making the silvery-blue irises seem otherworldly.

Looking at her is like being shocked with jumper cables.

I have definitely not seen her around before. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I was with someone. Every woman I’ve dated has been a strategic decision, because I don’t waste time with short-term flings and one-night stands. I only do what gets me closer to my goals—and casual sex doesn’t.

But work has taken over everything. My personal life is a husk and...well, I’ve been flying solo in the bedroom for a while. My sex life is a wasteland. A ghost town. And this is the first sign of life I’ve felt in over a year. Sensation rockets through me, blanking out the worries that usually clog my mind and filling me with a strong, pleasurable hum. Maybe denying myself for so long wasn’t a smart move—because I’m feeling like a man crawling through the desert, with water shimmering on the horizon.

I hold the door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”

CHAPTER THREE

Drew

I DUST MYSELF off and roll my shoulders back, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. These boots were not made for climbing four flights of stairs. Mr. Suit is watching my every move like his life depends on it—though I don’t mind. He’s gorgeous. If I had to make a quick guess I’d say mid-thirties, a lawyer/banker/insert mind-numbing profession here. But his suit fits like a dream, nipping in a trim waist and accenting broad shoulders. He might be desk-bound, but he works out. His eyes are the colour of the sky and his hair has an attractive reddish sheen to it, with warm-toned stubble on his sharp jaw to match.

Who would have known I’d be hot for a ginger?

“Were you stuck in there long?” He steps back so I can escape the concrete column of doom.

“How long is too long without phone reception? I was starting to worry I’d have to forage for food.” I cock my head. “Why don’t I know you? Do you live on this floor?”

He nods. “405.”

“We’re neighbours, then. I’m in 406.” I have a sudden urge to do something bold—to shake off the critical voice that’s been nagging me ever since I packed my bags and flew home to Melbourne. Each night has been an exercise in distraction—Netflix binges until I fall asleep, trying not to wish the weeks away so I can get on with my next adventure. Being home makes me antsy.

But tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.

“Want to come in for a drink?” I tilt my head, studying my smart-mouthed rescuer. The guy looks serious, like he’s got a gold medal in frowning. But I sense something beneath the surface—a simmering heat, like he’s stripping me back. I’ve had a lot of guys look at me over the years...but nothing like this.

It’s like I’m something precious behind glass.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” he asks. There’s a slight crinkle to the edge of his eyes—like a delightful chink in his armour. “With liquor.”

“It only seems fair. After all, if you hadn’t come along, the poor concierge guy might have found a pile of bones at the top of the stairs. It would have traumatised him for life.” I nod, a mock sincere expression on my face. “You’re basically a national hero.”

He laughs, but still hasn’t accepted my offer. There’s no ring on his finger—no tan lines, either. That doesn’t mean he’s single, however, and for a moment my heart drops like a stone off a cliff. It’s stupid. I’ve recently come out of the biggest heartbreak of my life and I am not looking for anything.

In fact, when I’d hastily thrown everything I owned into two suitcases, tears streaming down my face, I’d promised myself I was done with trying to live up to other people’s expectations. And I was certainly done with men in suits. Men with money. Men who had more power and more value than me.

Mr. Suit is clearly one of those guys. Wrong for me. Bad for me. And so tempting my body is throwing a party. Which should be the biggest red flag of all—because the more I want a guy, the bigger a jerk he usually turns out to be.

I open my mouth to rescind my offer, but he nods. “Sure, why not?”

What happened to turning over a new leaf, huh? Learning from your mistakes?

Sadly, my brain is out of there so fast only a brain-shaped cloud of dust remains.

I can’t find the willpower to turn him away, because this guy’s magnetism is so strong, my body is almost vibrating with want. There’s something about him—something mysterious and enticing that’s like a hand pulling me closer so he can whisper naughty things in my ear.

I head toward my temporary apartment and pull the key out of my bag. “I didn’t think you’d say yes for a minute.”

“Neither did I.”

The way he says it sends a delicious shiver through me. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a little instant gratification to smooth the edges of the gaping hole where my heart used to be. A meaningless make-out session with a random guy to boost my confidence. Possibly a hookup. Quick, dirty, with no tomorrows. With no talking and no plans and no worrying about what happens next.

Yeah, psychologists would have a field day with me. But I’m reaching deep into the bag of fucks I have to give and I’m coming up empty.

Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You only invited him in for a drink.

Everyone knows what that means, right? Sure, he’s my neighbour and I probably wouldn’t go there under normal circumstances. But I’m only here until the wedding, and then I’m taking off for some sunshine and sand while I sort my life out. This situation is temporary, so who cares if I have to avoid him in the elevators for a little while afterward?

“Nice place,” he says as we walk into the apartment.

“It’s not mine.” I glance at the chic decor, with the eclectic art making up the gallery wall next to the dining table, and unique trinkets from all over the world adding life and personality to the room. “I’m only here for a few weeks.”

Mr. Suit raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t like staying in one place.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. “Life’s too short to set down roots.”

Mr. Suit snorts. “Ah, so you hate responsibility.”

I bristle, more because it’s true than because it’s a rude thing to say. I don’t like being easy to read—it makes me vulnerable. I decide then and there not to tell this guy anything real. Nothing about my life, about my job, about my family. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be all about the pleasure. The physical. I can tuck the real me away into a little box and let my alter ego out to play.

“Let me guess.” I walk straight to the vintage bar cart and wriggle my fingers over the generous selection of liquors Charlotte thoughtfully told me to “go ham” on. “You’re pro-responsibility.”

“I am.”

I sense him behind me, the chemistry snapping like an electric fence around us. I don’t think I’ve been so attracted to someone this quickly before—usually I like to suss a guy out. Dig a little deeper. But I don’t want to do that with Mr. Suit, because I know it’ll be bad, bad, bad, all the way down.

Better to go by the ignorance-is-bliss principle.

I pull the lid off a bottle of Glenfiddich and pour two glasses. The heavy cut-crystal tumblers are like weights in my hand, and I turn to Mr. Suit, offering one to him. “And you’re a workaholic, which is why I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Perceptive.” As he takes a sip of his drink, I notice the way the amber liquid mimics the reddish tones in his hair. “But not exactly an out-of-the-box guess. You could do better.”

Oh, really? Challenge most definitely accepted.

“You’re a hardass. You’ve lost employees because they hated working for you.” The words shoot out of me. Yep, Unfiltered Drew is in fine form tonight. “You don’t need to fire people, because they leave of their own accord.”

Instead of being insulted, he smirks. “Better, but not great.”

He’s goading me. Trying to get me to say something horrible. Is he looking for a reason to walk away?

Too bad, Mr. Suit... I’ve got you right where I want you.

Need flows through my body like sparkling champagne, fizzy and light. For the past three months I’ve felt nothing but self-loathing, heartache and resentment. It’s like my ex hollowed me out with a rusty spoon. But now I’m alive—and the hurt is quiet. The shame is quiet. I’m in control and it feels amazing.

You deserve this.

Just one night of pleasure for the sake of pleasure. Like cheating on your diet with greasy pizza and beer—tomorrow I can get back on the horse. Tomorrow I can go back to trying to sort my shit out. But right now...

“People think you’re uptight, but underneath you’re a little wild.” I sip my Scotch, enjoying the way it warms me. “You’ve got a bad streak.”

“And?” His blue eyes are locked on mine—unwavering and unafraid. This is a man who’s used to having the upper hand, who expects others to bend to him. I’ve dealt with his type before—the key is to meet them at their level.

“And you’re here because the second you opened that door to the stairwell, you knew you wanted to sleep with me.” I drain the rest of my Scotch and set the glass down. There’s no beating around the bush—we both know what this is. Why sugar-coat it? I’d seen the flare of heat in his eyes and I knew what it meant.

Mr. Suit laughs and the sound is like gravel and shadows and darkness. It’s the sexiest thing to ever grace my ears. “You’re bold.”

“I’m honest.”

“And that’s a rare quality.” He sets his glass down. It’s not empty. “But I only came for a drink.”

“Bullshit.”

He smooths his hand down the front of his suit, strong fingers caressing the wool in a way that has my mind conjuring all kinds of sexy mental images. They’re white-collar hands—uncalloused, smooth.

And I would bet the last cent in my bank account that he knows how to use them.

“Am I not your type?” I tilt my face up to his. I’m tall, especially in these boots, but he’s still got half a head on me.

The corner of his lips twitch. But it’s not cruel, more...amused. “You’re so far from my type I’m not even sure how to categorise it.”

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.