My One Night Stand Wears a Suit

Daphne stared blankly at her phone, the breakup text from her boyfriend was still fresh on her screen. "It's not working out," it read. No explanation, no warning, just a cold, harsh truth. She felt numb, like she was floating above her body, watching herself process the news. "Daphne, are you okay?" Victoria asked, concern etched on her face. She walked into Daphne's living room, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Daphne’s mouth opened, but no words came—just a small shake of her head as she held the phone out. Victoria set the wine and glasses down on the coffee table. Her eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of prank?” She asked as she read the message. Daphne gave a humorless smile. “I wish. I didn’t see this coming either. I'm as surprised as you are.” “Surprised? That's an understatement. You guys were together for three years!" Daphne wrapped her arms around herself. “I guess he didn’t feel the same way.” With a muttered curse, Victoria popped the cork and poured generously. “ Well, screw him! And breaking up by text? That’s gutter behavior.” She shoved a glass into Daphne’s hand. “Forget him. Tonight is about you and your new job.” “I got the job,” Daphne said softly, as if reminding herself it was real. "I know!” Victoria squealed. “You're going to crush it at the Malcolm group. Let's go out tonight and celebrate. We can hit the club and dance the night away!" Daphne hesitated, still feeling the sting of the breakup. “I don't know, V. I'm not really in the mood." Victoria gave her a stern look. "You're going to put on a dress, do your hair, and dance the night away with me. No excuses.” Before Daphne could protest, her phone chimed with a notification. “That sleaze,” Victoria hissed, thumbs flying over Daphne’s screen. “What happened?” “Nancy just tagged you in a post. You might want to sit down.” Daphne didn’t have to guess—the phone was shoved into her hand, the image burning into her mind. “He was cheating on you Daphne, there's no other explanation.” Yeah, there wasn't. Nothing else could explain why just minutes after sending her a break up message, her boyfriend—no, her ex—was kissing her. The girl he’d once told Daphne she “didn’t need to worry about.” Something splintered inside her. Victoria’s voice was gentle but firm. “It’s his loss, Daph. You’re better off without him.” “You’re right,” Daphne said, and this time there was steel under the words. “And since he’s out having fun, there’s no reason I shouldn't do the same.” --- The club was a whirlwind of music and lights. Daphne let herself get lost in the rhythm, the beat washing over her. The champagne flowed easily, burning away the sharp edges of her pain. With every glass, she felt lighter, looser, until she was laughing and dancing with Victoria, hair falling around her face, each twirl loosening the knot in her chest. She tossed her head back, laughing at something Victoria shouted over the music. That’s when she noticed him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A dark button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, showing strong forearms. He stood near the bar, a drink in his hand, watching the crowd with a faint, unreadable smile. His eyes—deep, sharp—met hers through the crush of people, and something hot and reckless flickered in her. She wasn’t thinking about her ex anymore. She wasn’t thinking at all. Daphne grabbed Victoria’s hand and pulled her toward the bar. The closer she got, the more she noticed—the way his gaze didn’t waver, the way he seemed completely unmoved by the chaos around him. He was older, maybe mid-thirties, and the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. “You look like you could use some company,” she said, surprising even herself with how steady her voice sounded despite the alcohol buzzing in her veins. “You look like you could use some company,” she said, surprising herself with how steady she sounded. Victoria tugged her arm. “Daphne, don’t—” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Do I?” “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “And so do I.” His brow arched, amused. “Is that so?” Daphne leaned in, her perfume mixing with the faint scent of his cologne. “I’m celebrating,” she murmured, “and I could use… a distraction.” For a moment, his eyes searched hers, as if weighing her words, deciding whether she was serious. She was. More than serious. “You’re drunk,” he said, but there was no judgment in his tone—just observation. “Not too drunk,” she countered, holding his gaze. “Just drunk enough to know what I want.” Her hand brushed his arm, deliberately. He didn’t pull away. “Go with your friend, darling,” he said, nodding toward Victoria, who was already chatting with someone else. “You don’t want to play with fire.” Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Unfortunately for you, I love playing with fire.” Before he could reply, she closed the distance, pressing her mouth to the hollow of his throat, teeth grazing his Adam’s apple before she sucked lightly. She felt the subtle vibration of his chuckle, the slight hitch of his breath. She felt heady. Putting her hands round his neck, she released his Adam apple pulling back just far enough to kiss him, catching him off guard. His surprise lasted only a heartbeat before something shifted—like a match catching flame. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss, taking control. His mouth was hot and sure, tasting faintly of whiskey, his tongue teasing hers until she was breathless. She could feel the hard planes of his chest through the thin fabric of her dress, the steady rise and fall of his breathing growing heavier. When his fingers slid up her spine, tracing the zipper of her dress, a shiver ran through her. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or pure desire, but she didn’t care—she didn’t want to stop. He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, “You really want to play with fire?” Her breath hitched. “I’m not afraid of getting burned.” His answering smile was dark, approving. He took her hand, leading her through the crowd and out into the cool night. The drive to his place was a blur—flashes of city lights, the quiet tension between them thick enough to taste. By the time they stepped inside his apartment, she was pressed against the door, his mouth on hers again, his hands already mapping the lines of her body. The kiss was hungry—like neither of them wanted to waste a second. She felt his hands slide to her waist, pulling her closer, his body solid against hers. The world outside didn’t exist anymore; there was only the press of his lips, the heat of his touch, the way her heart hammered in her chest. The bedroom came in flashes—laughter between kisses, the slide of fabric off skin, the taste of him lingering on her lips. He paused once, his forehead resting against hers for a beat, his eyes dark and searching. “You sure?” “Yes,” she whispered, no hesitation. And then there were no more words—just hands, mouths, his touch. She couldn't think—about her ex, about the breakup, about anything but this. By the time the lights dimmed behind them, there was nothing left but heat, skin, and the dangerous thrill of surrender.