Midnight’s Queen (Stroke of Midnight #3)

Chapter 1

Filtered sunlight hit Portia’s face, slipping past her lashes and waking her up. Groaning, she pulled the pillow over her head and burrowed deeper under the covers. Colliding with a warm body, she hummed with pleasure and wiggled closer.

After a little shifting, her back was pressed against his chest and her knees bent around her companion’s so their feet could tangle together. Crisp leg hair gently tickled her calves. His arm banded over her hips and he rested his chin, bristly with stubble, on her shoulder. With all the warm muscle curled around her, she felt safe and loved.

“Mmmm,” she murmured sleepily as she snuggled in. “The only thing that would make this morning better, Tommy, is coffee waiting for me when I get out of this bed.”

The body wrapped around her tensed. The arm withdrew, leaving her cold in its wake.

“What’s the matter?” She rolled over and came face to face with a man—who wasn’t Tommy.

Portia screamed and scrambled backward. The movement carried her over the side of the bed. She landed hard on the floor, barely registering the soft carpet under her butt. Her bare butt. Brain still fuzzy with sleep, she blinked up at the bed in surprise.

“Are you okay?” Her unexpected bed partner leaned over the edge, concern in his blue-green eyes.

She ignored him and grabbed the sheet. Her first tug met resistance, so she tugged harder. The sheet flowed over the side of the bed to puddle on her legs. Portia grabbed it with both hands and held it close, covering her breasts and her lap.

Wrapping the sheet around the rest of her body, without losing control of it, was difficult, especially butt ass naked on the floor. Tucking the sheet under her armpits, she rolled onto her shins, careful not to flash the man above her. Finally, she was able to whip the sheet around the rest of her body.

Definitely not high fashion, but at least she didn’t feel as vulnerable. Slightly less freaked out, she took a minute to assess her situation. “You’re not Tommy.”

Way to state the obvious, Portia. She’d been in bed with not-Tommy. Naked in bed.

“No, I’m Aleksander.” The man in the bed spoke slowly, his accented voice low. It was also familiar. “We met last night.”

Given her nakedness, “met” was the understatement of the year. “What happened?”

From her vantage point on the floor, she watched his jaw tense. He didn’t like her question.

He disappeared from view and the bed squeaked. Portia assumed he was getting up. She took the opportunity to look around.

They were obviously in a hotel room. A nice one. High thread count sheets. Soft, luxurious carpet. Better than average art on the walls.

And a big king bed. With rumpled bedding.

They’d obviously used it well.

Now that the panic was receding, she remembered everything from the night before. The conversation that, despite occasional awkward pauses, had flowed freely. That single whiskey. Arriving at Aleksander’s suite. She hadn’t paid much attention to the room at that time because they’d been too busy tearing each other’s clothes off once they’d made it inside.

Two well-formed legs appeared in front of her, bringing Portia back to the present. Her gaze traveled up to the blue boxer briefs that hugged his thighs. She blushed and dragged her eyes over his pelvis quickly.

Staring at his bare chest wasn’t any less embarrassing. She remembered the coarse tickle of his chest hair against her... well, all of her.

She bit her lip and her face flamed hotter. Memories of the hours they’d spent tangled together were front and center now. The feel of his ripped abs and muscled chest under her hands and mouth.

His touch.

His taste.

Portia forced herself to meet his gaze. She didn’t know what she’d expected to see on his face—amusement, maybe? desire?—but his expression was one of concern.

“Are you okay?” That soft, soothing voice again.

Was she?

“I... think so?”

He bent slightly and offered his hand.

Portia tucked the sheet tighter around her body and placed her hand in his. Ignoring the tingles where their skin touched, she planted her feet on the ground.

He pulled her upright so effortlessly that she fell forward against his chest. His body was warm where they pressed together. It felt so good. She’d been cold for so long.

Ever since the bombing.

That unwelcome reminder of who she was snapped her out of the cozy feelings.

She pulled her hand free and took a careful step back. Gathering the excess sheet in one fist, she backed away further. Once she could breathe without his scent—his warmth—clouding her thoughts, Portia gathered the rigid control by which she lived her life and donned it like a familiar outfit. It was hard to radiate authority wrapped in a sheet, but she tried her damnedest.

“I should be going.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice steady when her whole world had been shaken by the fact that she’d slept with someone who wasn’t Tommy.

Tommy’s death had destroyed her. In the bright light of day, last night’s impulsiveness threatened the fragile foundation she’d painstakingly rebuilt in the months since.

Aleks studied her intently. His look of concern lightened, but didn’t ease completely. “Do you need a ride?”

“I can call for a car.” They’d come to the hotel in a taxi. No one expected Portia Tremaine to leave a shadowy bar with a one-night stand, so she hadn’t worried anyone would recognize her last night. This morning was a different story. She wanted—no, needed —to keep her identity under wraps. But who did she call to do that?

“Okay.” He turned away to grab a robe.

She should have spent the time considering her options. Instead, her attention focused on the rippling of his back muscles. His taut glutes. Her fingers clenched as a memory of gripping them tightly as he’d rocked into her flared to life.

Heat pooled between her legs.

“Is there anything you need? Coffee? A shower?”

His question jerked her out of her reverie and she barely managed to keep from mentioning a cold shower. Even covered by the robe, he was distracting.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, she shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll get out of your hair.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Closed it again.

She looked around for her clothes.

“You remember what we did last night, right, Portia?”

Heat raced up her cheeks. “Yes. Ohmigod, yes. I remember.” She hated that her pale skin blushed so damn easily. Usually, she could control it better than this.

His voice was gruff when he spoke. “I wasn’t sure. You jumped out of bed like you didn’t.”

The fog of sleep and waking up in another man’s arms had thrown her earlier. Even with the gorgeous evidence standing in front of her, she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around that decision.

“I hadn’t been with anyone since my husband.” She’d never been with anyone but Tommy.

His gaze dropped to her left hand.

She held out her hand, more for her than for him, as she stared at her bare ring finger. “Widowed,” she said quietly. They’d cut the ring off when they raced her to the hospital after the bombing. When they’d informed her that Tommy was dead, she hadn’t bothered getting it repaired. The pieces were tucked away in her jewelry box, a tangible reminder of her broken heart.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. She’d run out of responses months ago.

“Can I do anything for you?” His lips pressed into a firm line and his eyes had lost their sparkle.

She had the completely irrational desire to make him smile again. But how? How did people navigate a morning after? She’d completely ruined this one and there wouldn’t be another. Couldn’t be. “I should go,” she said abruptly.

He nodded, then disappeared into the suite’s sitting room. When he returned a moment later, he held her clothes.

Cheeks flaming, Portia tucked the sheet tightly under her arm and reached for the pile of clothing. Then, as regally as she could, she swiveled on the tasteful hotel carpet and hastened into the bathroom.