One Night, Wrong Man

Chapter 2 — Morning After.

POV Derby

I woke up first.

My heart was already hammering before my eyes could adjust to the ceiling that wasn’t mine. The room still smelled like him — clean soap mixed with something darker, warmer, the same scent that had wrapped around me last night when he paused right before pushing inside me, eyes locked on mine like he wanted me to feel exactly who was about to ruin me.

My dress lay crumpled on the floor. Bag by the door. Shoes scattered near the window. I had a system for mornings like this: quiet, fast, gone before the awkwardness could start.

I sat up slowly, pulling the sheet against my chest like armor.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His voice was low, rough from sleep, and it slid down my spine like a touch I wasn’t ready for.

I froze.

Jordan was awake. Lying on his side, one arm tucked under his head, watching me with those same calm, unreadable eyes. The sheet had slipped low on his hips. He didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been waiting for me to try and run.

I clutched the dress tighter to my bare skin. “Do what?”

“The quiet exit.” He didn’t accuse. He just stated it, like a fact he already knew. “You’ve been awake for four minutes.”

Heat flooded my face. “You were watching me.”

“You were being watched-able.”

The words landed low in my stomach, warm and dangerous. I looked away toward the grey morning light, trying to steady my breathing. My skin still felt too sensitive, like it remembered every place his mouth had been.

“I have work,” I said, even though I knew it was Saturday.

“It’s Saturday.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. That small slip said everything about how thoroughly last night had scrambled my brain.

“I still have things to do,” I muttered, already reaching for my shoes, keeping my back to him. The room felt too quiet. I could hear him breathing. I could feel the weight of his gaze on my bare shoulders.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His voice was softer this time, but it still wrapped around me like a trap I wanted to walk into.

“I know.” I didn’t turn around. “I want to.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Part of me wanted to crawl back under the sheets and feel his hands on me again. The smarter, terrified part was already panicking at how easy it would be to stay.

I stood, bag strap over my shoulder, phone heavy with notifications I refused to check. When I finally faced him, he hadn’t moved. Still lying there, eyes locked on mine with that same calm intensity.

“Last night—” I started, voice thinner than I wanted.

“Was last night,” he finished for me, quiet and certain.

The words should have been a relief. Instead they stung.

“Right,” I whispered.

“You okay?”

The question hit somewhere soft and unexpected. Not was it good. Not want coffee. Just that. Straight. Honest. It made my throat tighten.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

He studied me for a long second, noting the lie without calling it out. Then he said again, softer, “Okay.”

I turned toward the door. Three steps. The handle felt cold under my palm. The hallway outside promised normalcy — grey carpet, ordinary morning, escape.

“Derby.”

My hand tightened. I didn’t turn at first.

“Leaving already?”

The same words from last night, but heavier now. I turned around slowly.

He was still in bed, watching me across the room with that quiet patience that made my stomach twist. No smile. No pressure. Just waiting.

“I don’t know your last name,” I said, voice smaller than I liked.

“No,” he answered. “You don’t.”

A thick beat passed.

“Vasquez,” he added, easy. Like it meant nothing.

My heart skipped — hard. The name slammed into me like I’d heard it somewhere important, somewhere that mattered. I pushed the thought down before it could fully form.

I nodded once. Turned back to the door.

And walked out.

Only in the elevator, staring at my flushed reflection in the metal doors, did the memory hit me again — the way he’d paused, eyes locked on mine, the way my body had arched into him without hesitation. The ache between my thighs flared, sharp and insistent.

I pressed my legs together, trying to ignore it.

This was supposed to be one night. One stupid, reckless mistake.

But as the elevator descended, I felt it — that quiet, dangerous pull dragging me backward. Like the night wasn’t finished with me yet.

Like Jordan Vasquez wasn’t the kind of man who let things end when he didn’t want them to.

And worse — I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end either.

Even though I knew I should.

End of Chapter 2