Page 20 of The One Timer

The scary answer is yes. Yes, I am crazy—about this girl…who I don’t even know. Chill down, Chase. One. Night. Only. Nothing else. Not even a fling.

We spend some time cuddling on my balcony overlooking the ocean, wrapped in a blanket, sharing the one chaise lounge and drinking hot chocolate. The night is mild for December.

We kiss and touch, and I decide to invite her inside

“The hot coco isn’t so hot anymore,” she says. “Do you mind going back inside?”

“I don’t mind going anywhere with you.” Truth. Doesn’t mean I should have said it, but I’m having a hard time not being myself, all-in, with Emery.

She laughs at me and pats my cheek. “Don’t slip into romantic-cliché-world on me, Chase. Let’s keep this real. That’s what will make this night most special.”

I almost choke on my last sip of cold hot cocoa because she doesn’t know how real I’m being. And yes, this means I’m really a romantic cliché at heart—fuck no. That can’t be. It must have been the wine mixed with the Anisette that somehow turned into a lethal potion to make me silly and infatuated like an adolescent.

We gather the blankets and cups and go back inside. I toss the blankets on the living room couch and then follow her to the kitchen, where she puts the cups—not in the sink, but in the dishwasher. She’s too perfect. Watching her bend over has my hands itchy to touch that world-class butt of hers, has me itching to be her slave, to obey her every command, to be her genie to grant her every wish.

What happened to the hockey player on a mission to win the Stanley Cup? The one who was going to focus on only hockey and family for this season, without the distractions of any romantic relationships to mess him up? The one who’s not into one-timers?

Fuck it. It’s not possible to get messed up in one night.

This is my fantasy night, and whatever happens is okay because it’s for only one night. Right? Even if what happens is that I turn into a head-over-heels fool?

Yes. Absolutely. I can handle this.

She straightens and smiles, facing me as she leans against the refrigerator. I move in close, trapping her there, my hands against the fridge on either side of her head. I’m never going to look at this kitchen the same way. My dick strains, plastered against her upper thighs and belly, demanding that we christen this kitchen good and hard right now.

Staring at her liquid honey eyes, I clear my throat, trying to ignore my dick, trying to think of how to invite her into my bedroom, realizing no one’s been there but me since I moved in. Fuck.

She speaks first. “Chase, I don’t know how to tell you except directly—not that it’s not obvious—I want you. Everything. As much as you’ll give me. This one night.”

“I’m fucking glad you’re so direct.” My lips find her automatically. Her words feel like permission to unleash my fantasy, to make her night special in the ways I’ve been imagining without being sure if her idea of “special” is the same as mine.

Her hands knead the muscles of my back as she presses against me, her hips insistent against mine, looking for something. My tongue twists with hers, and the exotic feel and taste of her shoots a warning flare through my system, registering in my brain to either drop my pants now and take her on the kitchen island or slow the fuck down and bring her to my bedroom.

Both are fantasies, but something tells me she’ll appreciate my bed over a hard marble countertop, so I pull back, nibbling at her lips and sucking in a deep breath.

Her hands drop to my waistband and come around to the front of my zipper.

My dick jumps, and I clamp my hand over hers to stop her. Fuck.

“Let’s go to my bedroom.” My voice comes out gravelly, and I try clearing it. “If that’s⁠—”

“Great idea,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I don’t know why I can’t get enough of your kisses, but they’re addictive, sensual, and just a little edgy—like you.”

“You forgot about funny and smart,” I say, trying to diffuse the heat her words fire up in me like she just turned up my thermostat. She laughs softly, but she’s not moving, so I lift her with a hand under each butt cheek, and she wraps her legs around me, grinning.

“Oh, my God. Showing off your muscle power?”

“You’re a lightweight. You fishing for compliments?” I say as I carry her back through the living room, where I glance at the couch, and my desperate dick begs me to detour to the cushions closer at hand.

But I’m in full control, and I keep going, kicking my bedroom door open and then kicking it closed behind me. Emery feathers kisses all over my face, on lips, my cheeks, my chin, my eyes—that’s when I stop.

I nip her lip. “I need to see where I’m going.”

“Where is that, Mr. Perfect? Where are you going to take me tonight for my one-night special? To the stars and back? To the moon?”

“To the fucking end of the universe,” I tell her the god’s honest truth because I know that’s what it’s going to feel like. We reach my bed, and I turn and sit on the edge while she settles on my lap, planting her hot spot right on top of my dick. “Jesus. You feel like a furnace.”

She huffs a little breath. “I am. Thanks to you.” We sit face to face, and she bites the corner of her lip.