A night I shouldn't want
You’re telling me he’s not hot?” her friend laughed, nudging her. “Or maybe he’s good in bed”
She rolled her eyes, forcing a smile. “I don’t know. I honestly want to bury myself in drinks tonight .”
The bar was crowded, lights low, music buzzing through the speakers. She weaved between groups of laughing women, her heels clicking on the polished floor until she reached the bar.
As she leaned forward to order, she felt a presence beside her. A man, tall, dark, old enough and… magnetic. His eyes met hers with a look that made her pulse skip, but she couldn’t place why he seemed so familiar.
“First time here?” he asked, voice smooth, calm, like he owned the moment without trying.
She laughed nervously. “Something like that. Just… celebrating the end of my single life.”
He raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye. “Smart. One last night before the real world drags you under.”
There was an easy rhythm to the conversation, laughter spilling between them, casual touches that lingered just a fraction too long. The world outside—her engagement, the family she was about to meet—felt miles away.
She told him about the engagement, about feeling like she was stepping into a life that wasn’t hers, about the weight of expectations and the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring.
He listened. Really listened. Nodded at the right moments, asked the right questions. And when he shared a glimpse of his own troubles—marital strain, isolation, the loneliness behind a public face—she felt a flicker of understanding, a strange comfort in confiding in someone she had just met.
A laugh escaped her at something he said, soft and genuine, and their eyes met. Something shifted in that brief moment, a spark neither could ignore.
She felt it in the brush of his fingers against hers when he handed her a napkin, in the way he leaned in slightly when he spoke, in the warmth of his gaze that lingered too long.
The bar, the music, the chatter around them—it all faded until it was just the two of them. A single look, a shared smile, a breathless pause.
Her heart raced. She knew what was about to happen, even if she tried to deny it.
---
“Here’s an idea.”
His voice dropped, followed by a slow, wicked smile that curled at the edge like a promise. “I’m going to get a room. I’ll call you. And we can continue this conversation… in another tempo. Slower. Faster. Rougher. However the pretty lady wants it.”
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, warm enough to steal her air.
Then he walked away—calm, confident, certain she’d follow.
Megan stared after him, pulse hammering. What am I doing?
But another voice whispered back: I’m marrying a man I’ve never met. For once… I want to choose something for myself.
She tossed back a shot of tequila, trying to steady her shaking hands.
A minute later, a man approached her quietly and slid a key card across the counter.
“Jameson Hotel. Across the street. Room 205.”
Her throat tightened. She didn’t trust her legs, but somehow they carried her outside, across the road, through the lobby. Every step felt like a confession. Every heartbeat felt like betrayal and freedom tangled together.
By the time she reached the room door, she was already burning—nerves, curiosity, want, all twisted into something she couldn’t name.
She opened the door.
He was waiting. Shirtless. Calm. Pouring a glass of scotch like the moment belonged to him.
“Lock the door,” he said softly—but with a command beneath it.
Her fingers trembled as she obeyed.
He turned, eyes running over her slowly, deliberately.
“Megan,” he murmured, stepping toward her, “if you stay, you’re choosing this. Not me.”
Her breath caught.
“I know what I want,” she whispered. “Tonight… I choose you.”
He reached for her zipper, eyes never leaving hers, and the air between them pulled tight—charged, dangerous, inevitable.
The world slipped into quiet heat as he drew her closer.
And then… everything else disappeared
