His Regret by Bella J.

Chapter One

PRESENT

Hunter stoodin front of his bed, staring at the woman still sleeping like the fucking dead. Her light blonde hair was splayed over his gray pillows with her arms tucked beneath it. His gaze slowly moved from her face, over the curve of her back, and then to her firm, round ass that bore the evidence of what a twisted bastard he really was.

Tiffany…or was it Britney? Shit, he couldn’t remember.

The womanhad fair ivory skin and delicate features, which was probably part of why he chose her in the first place. He liked women with pale skin that would turn the most beautiful shades of pink and red, blushing for him as he owned every inch one beautiful, indelicate spanking at a time.

While Hunter was out scouting the night before, he immediately noticed the fair, blonde woman when she walked into the club. He could see on her face that she was there searching for something, for someone who would give her the thrill she wanted to experience. Women like her he could spot from a mile away. To him it was obvious when a woman had that craving to be dominated, and that was one thing he was fucking good at. Dominating. Well, not so much dominating as having the ability to fuck a woman stupid.

To soothe his conscience, he always went into his one-night endeavors honestly and with no bullshit. He made sure there were no expectations whatsoever. Expectations were the equivalent of little Satan babies. Give the fuckers half a chance to live and thrive and they’d suck the soul right out of you in record time.

So once he sets his sights on a particular woman, he made sure she understood that it was a one-time thing only. He never screwed the same woman twice. One time. That was it. Why? Because the first time was always the best. The sex that followed after that epic first fuck paled in comparison. Plus, the chances of it getting complicated after the second or third time were just too great. And that was what Hunter did, he avoided complications.

For a moment, as his gaze lingered on her naked behind, he felt like he needed to tend to the red marks that covered her ass cheeks and most of her upper thighs. But that wasn’t part of the deal. All that romantic crap about dominants rubbing all sorts of creams and oils all over their little submissive’s body was just that, crap. Besides, Hunter wouldn’t label himself a dominant. In fact, he wasn’t near being a dominant in the full sense of the word.

First of all, there was definitely no contract involved. Seriously? Who would sign a contract giving another person permission to have sex with you while you were either bound to a cross or hung from the fucking ceiling? And did anyone actually think that those contracts were binding and even worth the paper they had been printed on? I think not.

And then, he didn’t have a room of pain painted some or other dark, sensual color that made you think of sex, or a collection of every sex toy invented by man. There was no St. Andrew’s cross bolted against the wall next to his bed, or chains hanging from the ceiling. He used the good old-fashioned palms of his hands, and the occasional riding crop along with some standard cuffs. He didn’t need to dish out all sorts of levels of pain, he just wanted control. That was all he wanted—needed—when it came to sex…control.

If he had to rate himself, he would guess that at the age of twenty-nine he was only about thirty-three and a half shades of fucked up—on a good day.

Relationships required commitment, something Hunter was unable to give. He didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of a woman only because she sated his needs. He just wanted to fuck the way he wanted to, get the woman off, and then move on. Get in, get out, and move the fuck along. That was his motto.

He took a sip of his coffee while he continued to stare at her. Britney, Tiffany, or whoever, looked real damn comfortable. Sleeping. In his bed. The morning after.

She had to leave.

Hunter cleared his throat. She didn’t move. Crap, he needed her to pack up her shit and go.

He cleared his throat again, and then…nothing.

Damn, this woman really slept like the fucking dead. Maybe he should check her pulse, make sure she was still breathing. Maybe he fucked her to death. Judging by the way she screamed last night, it sure sounded like he was screwing her within an inch of her life.

“Oh yes, Hunter. Deeper, Hunter. Faster, Hunter. Oh my God, you’re so big, you feel so good. Slap my ass, Hunter. Fuck me while you hurt me, Hunter.” Blah, blah, fucking blah. Those words were starting to sound like a damn sing-song in his head. Was there a school somewhere that taught women all those little sex rhymes, telling them that all men loved to hear it whenever they were buried balls deep in pussy?

With narrowed eyes he continued to stare at her. He couldn’t blame her for being wiped since he had given her one hell of a good workout. To think that she actually thought it was over after the first time she climaxed. Man, was she wrong. That was when the party really started.

He stomped over to the front door then glanced over his shoulder. Hunter lived in a huge loft apartment where everything was open. No walls except for the bathroom, which was close to the bedroom part of the apartment. The colors mainly consisted of white, gray, and black, with just the bare necessities of furniture, which included a boxing bag right next to the living room. Sweet.

It was one hell of a bachelor pad. No feminine touches of abstract art or little bonsai trees with overpriced bowls filled with sand that were supposed to have this calming effect on you when you pull a tiny fork through it, but in actual fact it was just crap that stood around gathering dust. There weren’t any of those annoyingly bright pink cushion thingies that took up three quarters of the couch, leaving you with just a few inches of ass space. And no goddamn fluffy rugs either. What was it with women and useless knickknacks?

He reached for the door, opened it, and then shut it again…hard. With the loud thud, she jerked her head up. Long blonde hair covered her face before she shoved it back with her hand.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” He walked back over to the bed and stared down at her, urging her with his mind to get up and leave.

Green eyes zeroed in on his jeans, which were only buttoned up halfway, showcasing the V zone all the women seemed to go nuts over. She reached out and touched his stomach just above his pants line, tracing her finger along the words inked from hip to hip.

“Why this word?”

“It’s personal.”

Her hand paused. “Of course it is.” She looked up at him before lowering her gaze back to his body. Her fingers moved again, this time from his tattoo to a big purple bruise just below his ribs. “What happened here? You get into a fight?”

He grabbed her hand and gently pushed it away from him. “Again, it’s personal.”

She stared at him for a second, then nestled her face back into the pillow. “Why are you up so early anyway?”

He grabbed his chain off the nightstand next to the empty condom wrapper and hung it around his neck. “I have shit to do.”

One of her green eyes opened and she looked up at him. That was also one of his I will fuck you senseless rules—always green or brown eyes, never blue.

“Are you throwing me out?”

He shrugged, and continued to stare at her pointedly.

She grabbed the sheet and pulled it around her. “Okay, I can take a hint.”

Thank fuck.

After getting off the bed, she started searching for her clothes. Luckily, Hunter had already gathered all her things earlier, which had been scattered fucking everywhere across his apartment.

“They’re over there.” He gestured toward a dark brown leather couch which stood in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows.

She glanced from her pile of clothes to him. “You really meant what you said, didn’t you?”

Son of a bitch.

Hunter’s shoulders sagged. She was a hoper. He hated hopers. They would agree to just about anything to get with you, even when you made it clear that it was just a one-night stand. Why? Because they hoped they might be that one woman with the magical pussy who would end up changing you. To heal whatever the fuck was wrong with your head and make you realize you were actually into love, flowers, kisses, and rainbows. What the hell was wrong with women? Why did they always have this deep-rooted need to find a man and change him?

“Yes, I meant what I said…” he eyed her cautiously, “…Tiffany?”

She stared at him deadpan with eyes that instantly darkened with what Hunter could only interpret as the fury of hell.

He frowned. “Britney?”

She placed her hands on her hips. “It’s Courtney, actually.”

Goddammit, so close.

She stomped toward the couch and started to get dressed. Hunter watched. Sure, he didn’t fuck the same woman twice, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the visual scenery and thinking about all the sexually gratifying things they did. And this one was especially fun. She was definitely a natural submissive and had the potential to make some rich dominant a very satisfied man with all her begging and loud screams of pleasure. She was also very responsive, which made it all the more fun.

Courtneypulled her short little black dress over her head and straightened it out before she turned to face him. “Okay. I can’t be angry with you since you warned me beforehand that this would only be a one-time thing.”

“Exactly.” Hunter smiled. Maybe she wasn’t a hoper after all.

“But can I ask why?”

Oh for crying in a fucking bucket filled with horse crap. Hoper.

Hunter sighed and pulled his hand through his blond hair. “Courtney, it just is what it is.” He glanced at her and saw exactly what he didn’t want to see…a woman who just had her hopes crushed like a Fiat at a big wheel drive. “I’m not the man you’re looking for, trust me.”

She pulled her hair back and tied it in an untidy ponytail. “I’m not looking for promises of a happily ever after, Hunter—”

“That’s good, then.”

He turned around, feeling that uncomfortable prickle of annoyance at the back of his skull. He grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself another cup, not offering her any. Damn woman seemed like she only needed half a reason to stay, and he wasn’t giving her one.

Courtney walked closer and Hunter started to think this might actually be the day he would start praying. God, please make her leave!

“I just don’t see why we can’t do this again. We had fun. There’s obviously some great sexual chemistry between us.”

“Oh dear God,” he muttered, and placed his cup down before looking at her. “Courtney, listen, last night was great, yes. But like I told you, I don’t sleep with the same woman twice.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t, okay? I told you this last night before anything happened, and you agreed.”

“But that was before I knew it would be so great with you.” She sucked her lower lip into her mouth. He could see that she really, really wanted him to screw her again.

Maybe he could…

No. No, he couldn’t.

He rounded the kitchen counter and walked toward the front door. “I’m sorry, but I really have a lot of stuff to do today.”

“Yeah. Sure.” She grabbed her purse before she faced him again. “If you ever…you know, change your mind—”

“You’ll be the first person I’ll call.” He shot her a charming grin and winked at her. This seemed to ease her a little since she smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. But he knew there was no way in hell he would ever be giving her a call. It wasn’t his intention to act like a douchebag. He just wasn’t that man, the kind that could give a woman what she deserved. Love, appreciation, and a life-long promise.

Courtney smiled shyly. “Great. Um, thanks for…you know.”

“I know.” Now please fucking leave!

“Okay. I’ll just—”

“Go?” Yes, please.

“Yeah.” She gave a few small reluctant steps until she reached the door. “Goodbye, Hunter.”

“Goodbye, Britney.”

“Courtney.”

Ah fuck!

When she closed the door behind her, he was once again happily his lonesome self in his apartment. Bliss.

Hunter let out a sigh, finally feeling like he could breathe. He hated the morning after almost as much as he hated it when his best friend, Adam Masters, gloated about all his sexcapades. Even though he had known Adam almost all his life, his friend still had the talent to irritate the shit out of Hunter.

Just as he was about to grab a folder off his desk, he caught sight of the two dates inked on his left inner forearm. Two dates that had ultimately changed his life forever.

For a moment he allowed just a sliver of pain to grab hold of his heart, to squeeze another ounce of life out of him. This always happened afterward. The pain and regret would always be worse after he’d been with a woman. Yet he kept on feeding those soul destroying emotions every chance he got. It was the only way he was able to feel anything.

He closed his eyes for two seconds, pushing back the pain, fighting the memories as he always did before he grabbed the yellow folder. As he took a seat on the couch, he winced and instinctively reached for his side, clutching it as he waited for the sharp pain to fade. Yup, thirty-three and a half shades of fucked up.

Leaning back into the couch, he pulled out a picture and held it up in front of him. He had been doing this private investigating gig for years now. He liked it, and the money was excellent. Amazing what some people would pay to find, well, people.

Whether it was ex-wives, ex-boyfriends, cheating husbands, sisters, or mistresses, there was always someone willing to pay his or her last dime in order to find people who most of the time didn’t want to be found in the first place.

The picture was taken at an awkward angle, only getting the side of the girl’s face while she looked down, tucking her hair behind her ear. Apparently, it had been taken years ago when she was only sixteen—the last photo anyone had of her.

While staring at the young girl in the picture, he wondered what kind of trouble this one would be. Even though she didn’t look like much trouble, he had been searching for her for weeks, and it was obvious she knew exactly how to disappear off the radar—successfully. It never took him this long to find someone. He prided himself on a turnaround time of two weeks, max. But this one? This one was taking much longer than expected, and that pissed him off. Luckily, after following his last lead, he found her two weeks ago hiding away as a bartender in a strip club. He had been scouting her ever since, following her, making sure he had the right girl since she looked a hell of a lot different than she did in the picture he was holding.

He had to be absolutely sure it was her before he contacted his client with the info. This client was already no happy camper since it had taken Hunter this long to find her in the first place. He couldn’t risk giving him the wrong girl and pissing the guy off even more. There was a large amount of Benjamins dangling in front of Hunter’s face like a fucking carrot to a donkey. There was no margin for error with this case.

But Hunter couldn’t stop wondering why she was making it nearly impossible for anyone to find her. Why was she running? Why was she hiding? And why was this guy willing to pay a small fortune to find her?

His gut told him there was more to this girl in the photo than he was told, and hopefully he would get answers soon.

Hunter placed the picture back in the folder and closed it. “You’d better be there.”