Chapter 1
Chapter One
MATT
Ten Years Later
May
I stare down at the brown liquid in my glass, wondering how many more of these it’ll take to forget the fact that she’s getting married—and didn’t fucking invite me.
My friends are there. So are the people I call family. But me? Nope. I’m here, at my nightclub in New York, wallowing.
It’s not that I care she’s getting married. Whatever.
It’s that I’ve known her my whole damn life. She was my first crush, first kiss, first fuck. My first everything.
The vibration in my back pocket breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Jensen’s name flashes across the screen, my best friend and brother in every way that counts. He’s there right now, and the last thing I want is to hear how great her big fat Greek wedding is.
I send the call to voicemail and flip my phone face down on the bar. It’s too damn loud in here anyway.
The bass thrums from below, my club’s dance floor pounding from the basement, but the lounge up here stays classy. Dark wood, soft lighting, expensive whiskey. A place meant for mingling, celebrating… and finding someone to take your mind off things.
I knock back the rest of my drink and scan the crowd, searching for tonight’s distraction.
A group of women laugh in the corner, and from the looks of it, it’s someone’s birthday.
My gaze catches on a blonde in a short, revealing dress with a dirty thirty sash draped across her shoulder, the birthday girl.
She’s hot.
I lean back against the bar, glass in hand as she bends over a coffee table, giving me a perfect view down her dress. My cock jerks in response, eyes glued to the curve of her tits.
As she stands, her friend whispers something in her ear. The blonde looks over, catches me watching, and flashes a flirty smile before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
Typical reaction.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. I don’t look away.
She’s the one who breaks eye contact first, turning back to her group.
Option number one.
Her friend’s hot too, though...
I’ll keep my options open.
My thoughts circle back to Jensen’s call. Why the hell would he be calling me?
I glance down at my Rolex. It’s close to midnight. A Greek wedding can go for hours, but maybe it’s over and he and Alley are heading back to their hotel.
Which means Jordan and Richard are…
I scrub a hand over my face before that thought finishes. Then I step behind the bar, reach for the Macallan 25 on the top shelf, pour another two fingers neat, and let the burn settle behind my ribs.
Yeah. I’ll definitely need one more to numb the hollow ache in my chest—or to obliterate this mindfuck long enough to get laid. I still can’t believe she didn’t invite me.
It’d hurt a hell of a lot less if I at least knew why. And it’d be easier to be happy for her if I believed she was actually happy.
But I don’t. Not for one second.
I know her. And Dr. Richard—whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is—is not her type. He’s not the guy for her.
A deep voice startles me back to reality. “Hey, Boss. Can I get you something?”
I glance over at the thick-bearded man beside me. He’s crafting one of the bar’s signature cocktails, peeling an orange and burning the edge with a lighter. “Hey, Bronson.” He’s been one of my best bartenders for years. “I’m good, man. Just helping myself. Let me know if I’m in your way.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, okay. Like I’d ever tell you that.”
I laugh under my breath. True.
He wouldn’t. No one ever does. But sometimes I wish they would, just to feel normal for once.
It gets boring, how easy everything is.
And right on cue, the two women I’ve been mentally undressing head my way, eyes locked on me. I take a slow sip, peering over the rim of my glass.
If I were sober, I might try to keep my gaze on their faces.
But I’m not sober. Not even close.
I’ve had one too many, and that blonde’s tits are practically begging for attention. My eyes drag down to the neckline of her dress, held in place by invisible tape at best. One wrong move and a nip will slip. If I’m lucky, anyway.
They reach the bar. The blonde leans forward on her elbows, pressing her cleavage together like an invitation.
My grin says I’m enjoying the view, and she smiles, clearly pleased.
My gaze lingers half a second too long before it flicks to the brunette beside her.
She’s stunning—long brown hair, sun-kissed skin, dark eyes. Just like Jordan.
Fuck. Don’t think about her.
I force my focus back to the blonde, away from the ghost I can’t seem to shake.
She grins. “It’s my birthday.”
“Is it now?” My voice drops low, dark, teasing. “Did you get everything you wanted?”
Her eyes roam over me. “Not yet,” she says, voice dripping with suggestion.
“Is that so?” I lean forward on my elbows, closing the space between us. “Anything I can do about that?”
“Maybe.” She glances at her friend. “What do you think? Is he our type?”
The brunette rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, a mischievous smile peeking through as she lets her gaze wander. “I think he might be.”
Two hours ago, I was trying to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Macallan.
Now I’m buried between the blonde’s thighs while her dark-haired friend works my cock like a fucking pro.
If there’s a better way to forget about that goddamn wedding, I haven’t found it.
It’s loud and messy. Shallow and meaningless. Naked bodies, whiskey, sin—everything that feels good and numbs fast.
My kind of heaven.
Even if it is only temporary…
It’s a hell of a lot better than picturing Jordan in that wedding dress, knowing exactly how gorgeous she must have looked.
Better than self-pity. Better than feeling anything at all, unless it’s the buzz of alcohol.
The throb of my cock. The pure, mindless pleasure of skin on skin, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.
The brunette’s hand twists around my hard length in a perfect rhythm, and she takes me deep into the back of her throat. I hiss out a fuck against the slick heat of the blonde’s pussy, the taste of her and whiskey lingering on my tongue.
For a second, I almost hear Jordan’s moans—her voice, not theirs. The thought hits like cold air, sharp and unwanted. I shove it away with a firm slap to the blonde’s ass.
This isn’t about them. It was never about them.
It’s about forgetting her, just for one stupid night.
I grip the blonde’s cheeks with both hands and flick my tongue against her clit, years of practice in the art of eating pussy, making her cry out, cursing. It’s fucking music to my drunken ears.
The thoughts finally go numb, and fuck, it feels good.
I hadn’t planned on getting a hotel room or bringing back two women.
But they were both hot, and between the flirting, the short dresses, and the way they were practically begging to come back with me—hell, habits kicked in.
Before I knew it, I was flirting back, smiling, lying through my teeth.
Told them my name was Daniel and that I was in New York on business.
One text to my hotel manager, and the Owner’s Suite was ready by the time we arrived. Perks of having your name on the building.
It’s easier this way. No selfies. No NDAs. No worries about tomorrow.
They know who I am. They always do. It’s why they approach me. Why they say yes. Why they don’t think twice about fucking a stranger in a hotel room after knowing nothing more than my name, even when it’s not the one I gave them.
But I don’t care. That’s one of the advantages of being Matthew Grayson. I get to come down one girl’s throat while her friend comes on my face, and no one asks for a thing. No awkward mornings. No numbers. No expectations.
And honestly, I can’t think of a better way to end a Saturday night.
Even if I’ll wake up tomorrow and go home to an empty penthouse. One where the only person who knows where I keep my personal things is Maggie, my housekeeper.
And Jordan.
Goddammit. Stop thinking about her.
But even as I tell myself not to, I picture her laugh. Her smooth, tanned skin. The smell of her perfume. Swear to God it’s her lips around my cock.
I blink, trying to get a grip.
My phone dings beside my head, vibrating against the sheets, and my gaze flicks briefly toward it.
Jordan
I need to talk to you.
I almost laugh. She’s getting married, not texting you, dumbass.
I must be drunk out of my mind.
I push a finger inside the blonde, warm, tight, and dripping, savoring the way she rolls her hips and arches her back, letting out a breathy moan. Her friend’s nails graze my balls, her mouth releasing me with a wet pop before her tongue drags slowly up my length.
Holy shit.
This is hot as hell. Whiskey’s the only reason I’m still going.
I refocus, locking in on the perfection hovering above me, determined to give them both a night they’ll never forget. Because one thing’s for damn sure:
I always, always, make a woman come.
I groan as sunlight slices through the curtains, stabbing straight into my skull. Jesus fuck, did we really not close those last night?
My brows pinch as I squint, rolling over to grab my phone, only to come face-to-face with the sleeping brunette. I don’t even know her name.
She’s pretty. Killer body. Reminds me of Jordan.
Jordan.
Did she text me last night?
I sit up, reaching over the brunette to snag my phone from the nightstand. Four missed calls from Jensen. I’ll deal with him later, after coffee and whatever the hell this hangover is.
I open my messages and tap on Jordan’s name.
But all that’s there is Jordan unsent a message.
That, and the one I sent yesterday.
Congratulations.
No response. Of course.
Shit.
She unsent it.
I try to recall the memory, but it’s foggy. I could’ve sworn it said she needed to talk… but maybe that was just the whiskey showing me what I wanted to see.
I rub the back of my neck, my head throbbing. Way too much Macallan.
My gaze drifts to the two naked women half covered by the sheets. And way too much fun.
I text Jensen.
Hey man, sorry I missed your calls.
I head to the bathroom, phone in hand, as he responds almost immediately.
Jensen
Who is she, and is there more than one?
You know me too well.
What’s up? How was the wedding?
Jensen
Dude. She called it off. That’s why I was trying to call you.
What?
Jensen
Jordan. She didn’t get married.
You’re serious?
Jensen
Dead serious. Whole church was packed. Priest was ready. Her grandfather came out and made apologies. Announced that the wedding had been called off. Her mom looked pissed. Mortified. And I didn’t even see her grandmother. She was probably having a heart attack somewhere from shock.
What the fuck? I drop my phone on the counter, run both hands through my hair, and stare into the mirror. She called it off…
And then she texted me?
Jordan and I had a bit of a falling out after things got serious with Richard.
We met up two years ago, when my godson Cole was in town.
He lives in Chicago with his dad, my cousin Nate.
Jordan and I took him to the park together.
She loves Cole, and we kept things cool.
Then it was hot and cold for a few months, texting here and there.
The last time I saw her was at a charity event a little over two months ago.
She’d been nice, said hi, but that was it.
Then I got wasted and sent her a string of texts I wish to God I could take back.
I flip back to her name and scroll up, re-reading the nightmare.
You look unreal tonight.
I fucking miss you.
Just admit you miss me.
You can’t tell me you don’t still think about me.
Fuck. Ignore me. I shouldn’t have texted.
Tell me you don’t think about me and I’ll leave you alone forever.
Two hours later, she finally replied.
Jordan
Matt. Stop. I don’t think about you. Please don’t text me again. I wish you well, but this isn’t fair to me… or my fiancé.
What happened to never lying to each other?
Then the text I sent yesterday, and the one she apparently unsent.
“Shit.” I mutter under my breath. She called off her wedding, and then she texted me.
I don’t even hesitate. My thumbs move fast as I reply to her unsent message.
Hey… you alright?