Stefanie London - The Fling

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.