One
1200 Words
Emma:
Strobe lights, bass bumping in your chest, drink in hand, and dancing with sweaty strangers… I assumed that was what a night out drinking was supposed to look like. Not this. Not dim lighting, sketchy clubs, no dancing, covering my drink because I don’t trust the dude sitting next to me at the bar.
I took a deep breath, hoping it would slow the room spinning.
It didn’t.
“Can I get some water, please?” I asked the girl bartending.
I was officially calling it a night—that is, right up until the hottest man I have ever seen sat down two stools over from me.
Tattoos I wanted to lick covered his arms, disappearing under rolled sleeves. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his big blue eyes scanning the room as if he were looking for trouble—or prey. And when those eyes landed on me, it felt like he’d been searching for something… and found it.
“Hi, handsome. Wanna sit?” I asked, patting the stool next to me.
I nearly choked when he actually sat.
He smelled like warm spice and danger, the kind of scent that made my knees question their life purpose.
“Can I get one of whatever she’s having?” he said, voice low and a little frayed around the edges. He’d definitely been drinking.
The bartender slid him a drink and me my water. He didn’t lift his glass. He just stared at me like I was a puzzle he needed to take apart.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice smooth enough to fix every mistake I’d ever made.
“Define okay,” I said. “I’m either drunk or being abducted by aliens wearing human suits. Jury’s still out.”
His lips twitched. “Drunk.”
“Rude but fair.”
He leaned closer, forearms braced on the bar. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“You shouldn’t be this attractive,” I shot back.
His eyes warmed—just a flicker, but enough to light up something low and reckless inside me.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Emma.” Probably came out as Emmmmaaaa, but whatever.
“And you?” I asked.
A pause. Then: “Call me Wright.”
Weird. But I was too drunk for FBI-level background checks.
“Well, Wright,” I said, “are you prowling?”
He raised a brow. “Prowling?”
“You have prowler energy.”
“And you,” he murmured, letting his gaze drag slowly down my body and back up again, “look like trouble.”
“Incorrect,” I said, holding up a finger. “I am a sweet baby angel.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I am,” I confirmed. “But still an angel.”
He laughed softly—low and warm, like he wished he wasn’t enjoying me this much.
The room tilted, and I grabbed the bar. His hand came to my elbow, steadying me—gentle, sure, confident. Too confident.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said again, softer. “Let me walk you out, angel.”
Usually I’d say no. Normally I’d care.
But the way he was looking at me…
“I don’t even know you,” I whispered.
“No,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath touched my jaw, “but I want to.”
My pulse stuttered.
He stood, extending a hand.
I took it.
The cold outside slapped me awake just enough to stumble. He caught me immediately—one hand gripping my waist, the other firm on my hip, holding me against the brick wall like he’d done this before.
“We really are drunk,” he said.
“You really are dangerous,” I breathed, smiling.
His gaze dipped to my mouth. “Should we stop?”
I didn’t even pretend to think about it.“No.”
His mouth crashed into mine.
Hot.Hungry.Devouring.
I grabbed his shirt, yanking him closer, and he groaned—deep and rough—like I’d knocked the air out of him. His hands slid up my sides, mapping me like he had the right.
“Come with me,” he murmured against my lips.
I didn’t ask where.
He took my hand, led me next door to a dim, quiet hotel, and everything blurred into heat and anticipation. The elevator ride was torture—his chest against my back, breath warm against my neck, my whole body buzzing.
When the doors opened, he pressed his hand to my lower back, guiding me down the hall. He unlocked a room, stepped inside, and closed the door behind us.
Golden light. Quiet. Him.
He turned toward me like he was barely holding himself together.
“Emma,” he said, voice gravel.
I stepped into him, fingers curling in his shirt. “Kiss me again.”
He did—slow at first, savoring, then deeper, hands sliding under the hem of my top, fingertips brushing warm skin. My breath hitched.
His jacket hit the floor. Mine followed. His hands moved down my ribs, gripping my hips, pulling me against him with a low, helpless sound that made heat shoot straight through me.
“You’re sure?” he murmured against my throat, kissing a line of fire down to my shoulder.
“Yes.” Breathless. Certain.
That was all he needed.
Everything after that was heat, hands, and ragged breathing.The soft rasp of sheets. The way he kissed me was like he was starving. The way he touched me was like he was afraid to break something precious. The way he whispered my name in a voice that trembled.
At one point, he paused, forehead resting against mine, voice rough: “You’re going to ruin me.”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t—I just pulled him closer and let him.
And later, when breath turned soft and bodies quieted, he didn’t roll away. He stayed.Arm around my waist. Breath warm on my shoulder.Like he hadn’t slept next to someone in a long, long time.
“Emma,” he murmured, half-asleep.
“Mm?”
“Thank you for not telling me to stop.”
“It never crossed my mind,” I whispered.
Neither of us knew this was the easiest part of the disaster we’d started.
Because when morning came, sunlight slicing across the bed, the sheets beside me were empty.
He was gone.
A ghost with tattoos and blue eyes and a name that didn’t mean anything.
Yet.
Three hours later, slightly hungover and emotionally unstable, I walked into English Lit 301. My bun looked like a bird’s nest. My coffee tasted like regret.
I looked up at the front of the room.
At the tattoos under the rolled sleeves. At the dark hair. At the big blue eyes that froze the second they landed on me.
He dropped the marker.
“Good morning, class,” he said.
His voice was the same one that had whispered against my throat hours ago.
Then—
“Miss Hart.”
My stomach fell through the floor.
Wright.
“Professor Wright,” I whispered.
- Writer
