Julian
What the fuck happened last night?
I wake up with a pounding headache and only the vaguest memories of the night before.
The headache hits me before I even open my eyes.
It's a dull, throbbing pain that pulses behind my temples, the kind that comes from too much alcohol and too little sleep.
I groan, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead, and try to remember where the fuck I am.
Not my hotel. The sheets are too soft and expensive, for one thing. Egyptian cotton, maybe, with a thread count I can't even guess at. The mattress beneath me is firm but yielding, definitely nicer than the place I was staying at. It was clean and serviceable, but it wasn't… this.
I force my eyes open, squinting against the light filtering through sheer curtains, and take in my surroundings.
Fuck.
This is definitely not my room.
The space is massive—easily three times the size of the modest hotel room I checked into yesterday.
A huge glass door leads out to a balcony overlooking the ocean, the morning sun glinting off the water and making my head pound harder.
I catch a glimpse of a room service cart with a full bottle of vodka and unused glasses and mixers.
That's confusing for a second, until I see the empty champagne bottle—Christ, did I order Cristal?
—and almost-empty bottle of very expensive whiskey sitting next to it.
There's also a dildo near the foot of the bed.
An open suitcase full of women's clothing next to the wall.
I sit up slowly, the sheet pooling around my waist, and realize I'm completely naked.
I definitely got laid last night. Which is fine.
Great, even. That's what I came here for.
But I wish I remembered more about what happened.
Especially since I don't know what the hell went down in here, but it seems like a lot.
I rub my temples as memories from last night come back in fragments. The club. The music. Dancing with someone—a woman. Dark hair. Green eyes. A body that felt like it was made to fit against mine.
The sex.
Christ, the sex.
That part comes back in a messy rush of sensory fragments—her hot pussy against my lips, her mouth on my cock, fucking her from behind while she moaned like a hungry animal.
I vaguely remember seeing dawn breaking outside the window when we finally collapsed.
My cock feels slightly sore, and I wonder exactly how many times we fucked last night.
Clearly, we were so exhausted I crashed here instead of going back to my own hotel like I normally would have.
But now she's gone.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, ignoring the way my head protests the movement. My clothes are scattered across the floor, and I pull them on quickly. Where the fuck is she?
I scan the room, looking for any sign of her. A purse. A phone. A wallet. Anything that might tell me who she is, where she went, why she left without waking me.
Nothing.
The bathroom is covered in makeup and toiletries, but nothing that would tell me anything about the girl I hooked up with last night, except that she has very expensive taste.
I rifle through her suitcase briefly, but there's nothing but bikinis and underwear that are more scraps of silk and lace than anything useful, and some tight dresses and minuscule jean shorts.
No ID. No passport. No fucking clue.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration building in my chest. This shouldn't matter. I've had countless one-night stands over the years, and I've never once felt the need to track someone down afterward. I fuck, I leave, I move on. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked.
So why the fuck do I care now?
I sit down on the edge of the bed, my elbows on my knees, and try to think. Her name. I should at least remember her name.
But I don't. I don't think we actually exchanged names. I close my eyes, fighting the headache, and the conversation comes back to me in pieces. She asked my name, and I deflected, and she seemed fine with it. We were both drunk, both looking for something anonymous and uncomplicated.
Except it didn't feel anonymous. It felt... different.
I've been with beautiful women before. I've had incredible sex before.
But last night was something else. There was a connection, something raw and electric that went beyond just physical attraction.
The way she looked at me, the way she moved against me, the way she responded—it was like we were speaking the same language, like our bodies understood each other in a way that didn't require words.
She made me come at least three fucking times that I can recall while I was drunk off my ass.
I swear I can still feel her skin against me, like she fucking imprinted her body against mine.
That was the best goddamn sex of my life. And now she's gone, and I don't even know her fucking name.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath. "Get the fuck over it." I'm being ridiculous. I have a job to do. A contract waiting for me in New York. A target I need to research once I get there, a plan I need to formulate.
I don't have time to obsess over some woman I fucked in Ibiza.
But even as I tell myself that, I'm searching the room again. I check the nightstand drawers, the desk, the minibar. I look under the bed, in the bathroom cabinets, even in the fucking trash can, where I see the evidence that at least I used a goddamn condom. Twice.
Other than that, nothing. It's like she was never here.
Except I can still smell her on the sheets when I flop back down onto the bed. Something floral and sweet, mixed with the musk of sex and sweat. I can still feel the ghost of her skin against mine, the way her nails dug into my shoulders when she came.
Get a grip, Carros.
I grab my phone from where it's fallen on the floor and check the time. 10:47 AM. I've been asleep for less than six hours, and I feel like I've been hit by a truck.
There are no messages. No missed calls. Nothing from my broker, nothing from anyone. But he's not supposed to get in touch with me for a couple of days yet.
I should leave and go back to my own hotel. Pack my things, head to the airport, get on a plane to New York. Do my fucking job.
But I don't move. Instead, I sit back down on the bed, my phone in my hand, and stare at the empty room.
Who is she? Why did she leave without saying anything?
Her things are here, and it's her hotel room, so I imagine she's coming back, but she's going to want me gone when she does.
I would, if the situation were flipped. I'm not the morning-after type, and never have been.
If I hadn't been so fucking gone last night, I would have left after we fucked.
Which is another thing—how absolutely wasted I let myself get last night. I don't remember all of it—another problem—but what I do remember was reckless and unhinged in a way that I'm not normally.
I've spent my entire adult life in control.
Control of my emotions, my actions, my reactions.
I've killed people without hesitation, walked away from jobs after finishing them without a second thought, fucked women without forming attachments.
Control is what keeps me alive. Control is what makes me good at what I do.
And I don't get so blackout drunk that I lose chunks of the night or fuck a woman like she's taking me apart at the seams. I remember pouring champagne into her mouth and then fucking her face while she was swallowing it, like a fucking frat boy on spring break, not a deadly assassin.
What the absolute fuck came over me?
This woman—this stranger whose name I don't even know—has disrupted that control in a way that deeply bothers me.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the ocean. The water is a brilliant blue, the sun reflecting off the surface and making my head pound again. People are already on the beach, tourists in bright swimsuits and sunglasses, living their carefree lives.
I'm not one of them. I've never been one of them. I'm a killer. A weapon. A man who's spent the last nineteen years perfecting the art of death.
And yet here I am, standing in a stranger's hotel room, obsessing over a woman I'll never see again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I need to get out of here. Clear my head. Figure out what the fuck I'm doing. I grab my things and head for the door, pausing only to take one last look at the room. The bed is still unmade, the sheets tangled. The curtains are still drawn, the morning light filtering through in soft, golden rays.
It's just a room. Just a bed. Just another meaningless encounter in a long line of meaningless encounters.
Except it doesn't feel meaningless.
And that's a problem.
—
I slide on a pair of sunglasses as I head out of the hotel, hoping I don't pass her.
I need to shrug off this lingering desire to see her again, to see what she's feeling after last night, and leave it behind.
There's no reason for me to feel like I need to see her face, see if she's as wrecked still by last night as I am.
I know I satisfied her—I remember the sound of her moans.
I fucked her the way she wanted and wore her out—wore us both out—and that should be plenty.
That's what I came here for. I have a flight later, and I need to be on it.
I walk back to my own hotel in the midday heat, the sun beating down on my shoulders, and try to shake off the lingering sense of... what? Disappointment? Frustration?
Obsession. That's what it feels like. An obsession I can't explain and don't want to acknowledge.