Family Affair by Elle M Thomas
One Night Or Forever
Chapter 1
Olivia
The sound of my alarm blaring comes all too soon and as I feel the throbbing of my head I groan loudly, however my groan is soon replaced with a shriek as an arm makes its way around my middle, and then it all comes flooding back to me.
Last night. Oh God! What was I thinking? Well I wasn’t, at least not with my head, all of my powers of thought were coming from somewhere much lower down on my anatomy. This is my first one-night stand and as such I have no clue what the etiquette is here, if indeed there is any.
I realise my alarm is still droning on around us. Us? I really need to remember that as a newly single woman I am shit at drinking and it makes me behave strangely. It makes me do this with hot guys who show me attention and if memory serves me right my bed partner is hot, very hot, seriously hot, volcanic hot. I need to stop thinking about this and do something, something other than him.
“Turn it off,” he moans from behind me, prompting me to actually slide my finger across my phone to shut the alarm off.
Whilst I usually go for a nine minute snooze I won’t need that this morning because apart from anything else I will not be falling back to sleep with a man in my bed, even if I want to because there are other things I need to do this morning starting with getting my arse out of bed, but again I am at a loss as to how I am supposed to do that.
Shit! I suddenly acknowledge that if I get up before him then he is going to see me naked. I know he already has, but that was last night and I was under the heady influence of lust and vodka, but now I am not drunk, although I think lust may still be a factor.
For a brief moment I wonder if he will be fat, forty and balding when I roll over because last night he was late twenties, maybe early thirties with a full head of dark hair that I ran my fingers through countless times and his eyes, oh God, those eyes. In complete contrast to his dark hair his eyes were blue, dark, an almost twinkling navy. The memory of them makes me shiver with the sliver of lust I acknowledged earlier multiplying tenfold.
I am not exactly over-experienced with men, but I have seen enough to know that my bed partner is a fine specimen of a man with not an ounce of fat on him. I feel him pull me closer and although I want to soften against him I really need to get out of bed and go to work, even though I hate my job, kind of.
The arm around me is muscular which makes me smile as I look down at it and remember that his whole body is that way, ripped as my friend Sarah would say. In fact, I think she may have said just that last night when we saw him; all hair gel, ripped muscles and tattoos is what she’d said, and I am now familiar with each of his muscles and tattoos.
“Morning,” he says, causing me to jump as his lips speak against my shoulder. “Any chance of coffee?”
“Course,” I reply and instinctively prepare to leave my bed before I remember my naked state and his physical presence.
“Thanks,” he replies before I feel his hand lift and the mattress shift beneath me, an indication that he is getting up first.
I blush, I can feel it, the burn of it on my cheeks as he comes into view; and seeing the naked glory of him I feel intimidated and jealous of his ease at being naked. I am staring at his naked rear view; his hair is mussed, very much a bed head, down to his broad and muscular shoulders that are flexing as he stretches, his narrower waist and then his hips and behind. Oh gosh, I had no idea any man could have such a beautiful arse.
I am unsure if he is putting on some kind of show for me but if he is then I really am very appreciative of it. Without warning, he turns, I blush further in the certain knowledge that he has caught me looking at him which his cocky smirk seems to confirm. I can’t help myself now as I drink in his appearance from the front; his smooth chest and the tattoo that is a black, tribal design, all lines and curves covering one side of his chest. I know that at some point I traced the lines of it with my finger and then my tongue. Bloody hell, what happened to me last night? Next, it’s the brown discs of his nipples that I suddenly recall sucking on, licking and nipping at. My colour rises a little more as I scan the hard, sculpted muscles of his abdomen and the trail of dark hair heading south from his naval past that muscular ‘V’ leading to, oh my, his erection!
I have no clue where to look or what to do so try to focus on something less sexual, if that’s possible in these circumstances, but as I divert my gaze to his biceps I see another tattoo, this one is also tribal and covers the whole of his upper arm and incorporates a dragon or something similar and the sight of that reminds me of how I held onto those arms as he rested above me to drive into me, the way he held me in the same arms…
“Am I making my own coffee, or do you think you can take your eyes off me long enough to at least put a kettle on?” he asks, and I am even more embarrassed than previously. Not only because he has busted my ogling but because of the way he is speaking to me, abruptly.
The warmth of last night seems to be going fast, as if once he is out of my bed I am nothing. I know that I am nothing since we met last night and we don’t know each other beyond the sex, the sex that was the best I think I have ever experienced. The way he touched me, talked to me, controlled the moments we shared. No doubt about it, he is the best I have had. I am beyond crimson now as I recall begging him to make me come.
Yes, I am nothing and am unworthy of anything resembling respect to have sunk to such depths is what I tell myself and yet the events of last night, if not this morning feel like they’re significant. Not my Adonis of a quick shag himself but the decision to bring him back here and to forget, or at least ignore my self-doubt and loathing.
“I said,” he begins as if he is about to repeat his coffee requirements and another layer of annoyance is added.
“Sorry, yes.” I give him a weak smile as I wait for him to go to the bathroom or somewhere else, anywhere else, but he’s still standing there, staring at me, waiting.
“Could you pass my erm, my robe?” I physically cringe.
“Why? It’s not like you have anything I haven’t seen already.” He lifts my robe from the back of a chair.
I am sure that I breathe a sigh of relief that we both hear when he grips the satin fabric and prepares to throw it. Unfortunately for me he tosses my robe farther away, increasing my horror at the situation. Maybe he is going to increase my self-loathing rather than reducing it. When did he change from charming to dickhead? I immediately answer my own question, when you brought him home and shagged him, like a slapper.
“Did you want a shower?” My voice is so high-pitched that it sounds unfamiliar to me, but I am just trying to get him far enough away that I can put some clothing on and then I will make his coffee.
He shrugs and takes a long stride toward me. “You offering to join me?”
I am floundering, unsure how to deal with his suggestion, flat tone or the thrill that is humming through my body at the thought of it.
“We could finish the night off the way it started, or maybe I could have you on your knees again, begging to suck my dick. Do you remember how you begged for it?”
I can see and hear a hard edge to him, the torment clear to me, both qualities I don’t like and yet my treacherous body is pulsating at the idea of what he’s suggesting, my core turning to molten liquid as he stares across at me, waiting for me to do or say something.
His laugh startles me as does the action of him throwing my robe in my direction. I really, really need him gone, out of my bedroom, out of my flat and consigned to the large chapter of my life entitled, The Many Mistakes I’ve Made.
“Forget the shower, but the coffee would be appreciated. I have a long and dull day ahead.” He smiles and a little warmth infiltrates his voice as he reaches for his own clothes that lie scattered around my room, well some of them do.
Looking down at the gathered clothing in his hands he heads towards the lounge and kitchen to find his missing items. I have enough time to put my robe on and fasten it before rushing through to the kitchen where I find him dressing.
The kettle seems to take an eternity to boil, but once I hand him a steaming mug we stare at each other for a while, him drinking his coffee and me hoping that I can avoid vomiting in front of him before I finally attempt to excuse myself.
“I need to get ready for work,” I explain.
An understanding nod is his response as the coffee cup is placed on the kitchen counter before he moves closer, allowing me a final smell of his divine aroma.
“You have a nice place here. But as I said, a long and busy day awaits, so I’ll be off. Last night was fun,” he tells me then heads for the door leaving me wondering if this is the norm when you bring a stranger home with you.
“I didn’t get your name,” I blurt out and realise how slutty that makes me sound and feel, slutty and ashamed, both things I have rarely felt in the last seven years, but sadly both feelings I am more than familiar with courtesy of my damaged formative years.
“Nor I yours, so let’s not spoil it. One night or forever, it was still fun, bye.”
Then he is gone, and I have no way of knowing how I feel about the last twelve hours of my life beyond sad, I think. Unfortunately, I have no time to deliberate further as I must get ready for work and am already late. Rushing towards the bathroom I feel that my most delicate and intimate folds are sore and tingling, but in a good way and again I wonder what the hell got into me beyond my overnight guest.