Sarah Mayberry - More Than One Night

He stroked her nipple gently, drawing small circles around it before pinching it lightly between thumb and forefinger. Charlie shifted restlessly as she felt the pull of desire between her thighs again.

She frowned. How was it possible to want a man again so quickly, especially when she’d come twice?

“Sixty seconds,” he said, rolling away from her.

He disappeared into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and returned well within his own deadline. He settled beside her, resting on his side. His gaze ran over her body.

“You were right. You’re definitely a woman out of uniform,” he said.

He surprised her into laughter. He glided a hand over her breasts and down her belly to her thighs. His fingers delved into her warm, slick heat and again she moved restlessly.

“Too soon?” he asked, even as he stroked her.

“N-no,” she breathed.

“Good.”

He took his time making love to her, caressing her until she was quivering and begging for him. When he did finally slide inside her, he worked her slowly and deeply and thoroughly, building her to a climax that had her arching off the bed, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He came not long afterward, and they lay panting, hearts racing. After a few minutes he went to the bathroom then came back to the bed and flicked off the bedside lamp.

“Give me an hour,” he murmured as he rolled onto his side and pulled her against his chest, her bottom tucked against his hips.

She was already mostly asleep. The last thought she had before she drifted off was that if the first day of the rest of her life was like this, then she was in for one hell of a ride.

CHARLIE WOKE with a start. For a long moment she had no idea where she was. Then it all came back to her—Café Sydney, lots of champagne, meeting Rhys, talking to Rhys, kissing Rhys. Finally, coming home with Rhys. Making love with Rhys. Again and again and again.

A headache accompanied her return to reality. She worked her tongue around her mouth. She needed water. In large quantities. And painkillers. And a trip to the bathroom wouldn’t be out of order, either.

A heavy arm lay across her belly. She lifted it gingerly, rolling from beneath it. She slid to the edge of the bed, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Rhys was still asleep.

He was, his dark lashes twin fans against his cheeks, his hair tousled.

It seemed impossible, but he was even more beautiful in the early-morning light than he’d appeared last night. His coloring, his bone structure, the rugged handsomeness of his face… And his body. She didn’t even know where to start with his body. She’d had two boyfriends who had been in the service, both of whom had done physical labor day in, day out. Neither of them had looked like Rhys. Through some accident of genetics and fate, he had the sort of body that exactly fit her notion of the masculine ideal. Broad shoulders. Defined chest, but not so much that he was in danger of having cleavage. Flat belly. Muscular thighs. Even his feet were perfect, long and sleek and strong.

She stood, putting a hand to her forehead as a wave of dizziness hit her. Moving slowly and quietly, she entered the en suite bathroom and eased the sliding door shut inch by silent inch. Once it was closed she made a beeline for the toilet. It was only when she’d taken care of business and was washing her hands at the vanity that she caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

And gasped with horror.

Her hair was matted to her head on one side, while the rest stuck up in a crazy haystack. All the makeup that Gina had so artistically applied last night had migrated down her face, leaving twin panda circles of kohl and shadow smeared around her eyes and on her cheeks. Her mouth looked red and puffy, the skin surrounding it red and irritated.

Her face pinched with dismay, she rubbed at the redness but only succeeded in making it appear even more irritated. It took her a moment to realize it must be whisker rash.

She had a similar rash on her breasts, as well as a small suck mark on the inner curve of her left breast. She ran the tap and used her fingers to try to comb her hair into submission. The only thing that seemed to work was weighing it down with water, so she kept patting her wet hands on her hair until it clung to her scalp in a sodden cap. She pumped liquid soap from the dispenser on the vanity into her hands and scrubbed her face clean, wincing when it stung her eyes.

When she’d finished, the woman in the mirror had been transformed from the slutty walking dead into a red-eyed, pale-faced drowned rat, about as far from the sultry vixen of last night as it was possible to get.

She mouthed a four-letter word. She looked terrible.

Really, really terrible. Without Gina’s clever makeup and saucy clothes, she was reduced to plain old Charlie—emphasis on the plain—and any minute now, the perfect god sprawled across the bed in the next room was going to wake up and she was going to have to watch the disappointment register on his face as he figured out who he’d really come home with last night.

She couldn’t do it.

Didn’t want to do it.

Last night had been one of the headiest experiences of her life. She’d felt sexy and confident and desired and bold. She didn’t want that memory tainted with the cold reality of today.

And she definitely didn’t want to hang around while Rhys said all the right things while ushering her toward the exit. The very thought made her stomach roll with nausea.

She moved to the door and opened it a crack. Rhys was still sleeping.

Thank. God.

She pushed the door open only enough to slip into the bedroom. Then she crouched down and started collecting her clothes.

She found her panties all rolled up in the corner, a darker shadow on the graphite-gray carpet. The mesh top was near the door, her satin pants at the foot of the bed, her purse next to the nightstand. For the life of her, she couldn’t find Gina’s stilettos, and she scurried around the bedroom on tiptoe, the bundle of clothes pressed to her chest as she searched for them. She was about to admit defeat when Rhys stirred. She froze in a half crouch, naked and utterly exposed, eyes riveted to his prone form.

Please, please, please, please, don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

He frowned, his mouth working. Then he pushed at the pillow before rolling onto his other side, his back to her.

She remained frozen for long seconds after he’d stopped moving, keen to ensure he really was still asleep. When his breathing evened out, her shoulders dropped with relief.

She turned toward the door and nearly stumbled over Gina’s shoes. Scooping them up, she stepped into the hallway and pulled the bedroom door shut behind her. She walked briskly into the living room and dropped her clothes onto a seen-better-days leather couch. Grabbing her panties from amongst the pile, she pulled them on, then reached for the trousers. Predictably, they fought her every inch of the way as she dragged them up her legs. She was almost sobbing with frustration by the time she’d yanked them over her hips, and she had to lie on the floor to get the fly zipped. She tugged the mesh halter over her head, grabbed her handbag and the shoes, and headed for the door.

She had her hand on the knob, ready to make her escape, when she remembered Rhys’s ruined shirt. Grinding her teeth at her own stupid conscience, she went back into the living room. A quick scan of the messy space located a memo pad by the phone. By some miracle a pen rested beside it and she scribbled a quick note.

Thanks for last night. I had a great time. Sorry about your shirt, and good luck with everything. Charlie

She reread it, displeased with the overly effusive tone. She tore the note free and crumbled it into a ball, stuffing it into her purse. She tried again but stalled halfway.