Seven
Nathan.
His name is Nathan.
I know this because he had me screaming it for hours.
I mean, he looks like the kind of man who'd be good in bed—tall, dark, devastatingly gorgeous, with a face that should be studied. But Nathan doesn’t just fuck well. He fucks like he has something to prove. And last night, he was determined to prove he could wreck my entire life in a matter of hours.
Mission accomplished.
I’m ruined. Completely, utterly, deliciously ruined. My legs barely function, my thighs are jelly, and my body aches in ways that suggest I should probably consult a chiropractor.
One-night stands aren’t supposed to be this good. They're supposed to be quick, meaningless distractions. They’re supposed to be messy and fun and forgettable. Not earth-shattering, soul-leaving-body, might-need-medical-attention levels of mind-blowing.
From the moment Nathan pressed me against the door of his penthouse—yes, penthouse, because my impulsive hookups now have city views and designer furniture—I knew I was fucked. Literally and figuratively.
He kissed me like he was claiming me, like he intended to memorize every single detail of my mouth, my skin, my taste. His hands slid beneath my dress, scorching paths up my thighs, leaving me gasping and helpless.
“Tell me to stop,”
he murmured against my lips.
“I don’t want you to stop,”
I whispered, trembling.
He made a low sound of approval and then walked me backward toward the bedroom, stripping away every ounce of hesitation I had left.
I barely registered the sleek décor or the floor-to-ceiling windows. My world narrowed to his touch, his mouth on my neck, the scrape of his teeth along my collarbone.
“Is this okay?”
he asked roughly, dark eyes burning into mine as I landed on the bed.
“God, yes.”
He took his time with me, savoring every gasp, every shudder, every helpless sound he coaxed from my throat. He pinned my hips down, dragging his mouth between my thighs, unraveling me slowly until I was begging—literally begging—for mercy.
He didn't grant it.
Instead, he pushed me over the edge again and again, holding me there until my vision blurred and my legs shook, wringing every last drop of pleasure from my exhausted body.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless, boneless, and panting into his sheets.
“That’s one,”
he said, lips brushing my shoulder.
“One?”
My voice cracked. I think I convulsed. “You’re counting?”
He chuckled, biting softly at the curve of my neck. “Oh, sweetheart, I've barely started.”
The sound that left my mouth was pathetic, needy, and entirely shameless.
He flipped me onto my stomach, spreading my thighs, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt both punishing and worshipful. He leaned forward, mouth hot against my ear, whispering filthy promises, words that left me dizzy.
I gripped the sheets, barely hanging on as he dragged me under again.
My last coherent thought?
I might actually die here.
By the time Nathan finished proving whatever point he’d set out to make, I'd lost count, lost my dignity, and possibly lost feeling in my legs.
Now, here I am, lying motionless beside him, quietly panicking as reality sinks back in.
This was supposed to be easy. Reckless but simple. Something to take my mind off Daniel, my family, and the slow-motion train wreck of the wedding looming ahead.
I turn my head just enough to see the culprit sleeping peacefully beside me, completely unbothered, looking relaxed.
As if he hadn’t just spent the last several hours blowing my back out in ways that should honestly require a safety briefing. As if he didn’t have me clutching at the headboard, begging for things I would never admit to in daylight.
I need to leave. Now. Before he wakes up, and the confident woman he brought home transforms back into the nervous mess she truly is.
I glance at the clock.
4:07 AM.
Perfect. He won't wake up anytime soon. Right?
I move carefully, sliding off the mattress, cringing when every muscle in my body protests. My thighs burn in ways I didn’t think physically possible, and I can practically hear Harper laughing at me already.
My dress is on the floor at the foot of the bed, crumpled and abandoned. My heels lie scattered on either side of the room. My bra is nowhere in sight, a casualty I'm willing to sacrifice.
I inch toward the end of the bed, praying my shaking knees don't betray me. I bend, fingertips grazing satin fabric when Nathan shifts in his sleep, exhaling softly.
I freeze, heart hammering in my chest. He murmurs something unintelligible but settles again.
I release a long breath before sliding the dress over my head.
He rolls over, causing the sheets to slide down his torso, and my mouth dries. The view is entirely unfair, a sculpted chest tapering into an equally devastating set of abs. For half a second, I consider crawling back in bed, but common sense intervenes just in time.
This isn’t the moment to get sentimental. This is the moment to run for my life.
I grab my heels and pad out of the bedroom, feeling around the unfamiliar space.
My stomach sinks.
Where the fuck is the door?
I turn in a slow circle, trying to retrace our steps from last night. The problem is I was a little preoccupied when we walked in.
I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to panic.
This is fine. Totally fine.
I’ll just follow my instincts.
The apartment is massive. Gorgeous hardwood floors, plush carpets, and enough rooms and corridors to confuse me. I pass a pristine kitchen that looks as if no one has ever cooked in it, a massive dining table that appears untouched, and a home office that exudes quiet wealth. Everything is beautiful and intimidating, and although I don’t know much about him, it still feels like him.
After another full minute of hopeless wandering, I finally spot a hallway. A hallway that leads to a single, glorious door.
The exit.
I could cry.
I scramble toward it, gripping the handle, bracing myself for the sweet, sweet taste of freedom.
It’s locked.
“Oh, come on,”
I whisper into the air.
I turn, scanning the walls. There’s a keypad.
Nathan doesn’t just live in luxury. He lives in Fort Knox.
I stare at it, my mind racing.
Do I try to guess the code?
No, dumbass, what are you going to do, try his birthday? You don’t even know his birthday.
I need another way out. I glance around, and that’s when I see it. There’s a small silver button located next to the elevator. I press it, praying to whatever higher power might be listening.
The doors slide open, and I nearly trip over myself lunging inside, pressing the lobby button frantically, my heels in my hand, my dress wrinkled and twisted.
When the doors open again, I’m in an elegant lobby where a concierge waits at the desk, impeccably dressed despite the ungodly hour.
“Good morning, miss,”
he says, perfectly professional.
Am I not invisible yet?
I should just nod back. Keep walking. Keep moving.
Instead, I blurt out, “Uh. Yes. Five stars.”
The concierge blinks.
I blink.
Five stars, Sienna.
Five. Stars.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
He gives a neutral smile. “Would you like me to call you a cab, miss?”
“Oh,”
I squeak, mortified. “No, that’s okay. Thank you.”
I keep my head down, focusing on making it out of the lobby without spontaneously combusting.
Once outside, the cool morning air hits me. I quickly call for an Uber, glancing down at my phone.
4:18 AM.
I have a flight in five hours and a wedding to face soon after. A wedding where my ex and my entire family await my arrival.
Now, instead of feeling relaxed, detached, and refreshed from my reckless night, all I feel is dangerously off-kilter.
Nathan wasn't supposed to matter. This night wasn't supposed to linger.
But as I climb into the car, heading toward home and all the chaos that awaits me, I realize that Nathan, this night, and the reckless version of myself I became with him, might be impossible to forget.
That scares me far more than the wedding ever could.