Chapter Two - Scarlett
We walk out front to catch the Uber my new ‘friend’ (a term I’m using lightly) has ordered us and head to my tiny apartment in Bondi.
It’s not much but the views are stunning, and the location means I can walk just about anywhere, get a full-frontal view of Bondi Rescue when they film too—another perk.
It started with a hand on my thigh—and I swear he had one clawing its way into my heart already, too.
A dirty thought. A need for touch. It carried us all the way into the foyer of my building, limbs tangled and breathless laughter echoing through the night.
The Uber driver got more than he bargained for—a tip and a front-row seat to what I can only describe as a prelude to the main event of sin that will be happening tonight on my king-sized mattress with this king-sized man.
Who even am I tonight?
This whole no-names rule? Giving me superpowers. Confidence I haven’t felt in years. I should really break the self-regulated rules more often.
I’ve never felt hunger like this for a man I don’t know.
The universe really popped him in my path the moment I needed him.
Jason is not even a thought in my mind at this point, he’d hate what I’m doing, he was such a hypocritical piece of shit, women shouldn’t have causal sex, but it was okay for him to fuck anything with a pulse regardless of his relationship status.
My hands sculpt the muscle of the man in front of me and beneath his tight polo, fingers tracing the kind of body sculpted by dedication to his sport or maybe divine intervention.
His rough, calloused hands are already creeping up my shirt, slipping beneath my bra like they’ve always belonged there.
Thank God I wore that black matching set tonight—another omen.
I make a mental list with another strike in the “this is a great idea” column.
His mouth is lush and greedy, tugging and sucking on mine like he’s been starved of affection and I’m the only cure.
His tongue slides in a rhythm intertwined with my own, gliding over the back of my mouth, and pressing so deep that we are sharing the same oxygen.
It’s desperate, longing and yet slow, sensual all in the same breath.
I trail my hands down the ridges of his stomach—chiselled like a Greek statue—and let my fingers dance along the waistband of his pants.
He shudders. I like that I’ve made him feel that way.
Confirmation, he feels it too. This electricity. This heat.
I think we might’ve stripped right there in the elevator if it hadn’t snapped us out of our fantasy with a pointed little ding. I push back; the tiny ounce of sanity I was holding onto allows me to speak.
“This is my floor,” I say, breathless, biting my bottom lip as I tip my head toward the open elevator door.
“After you, darling,” he murmurs, tapping my ass playfully as I strut out. He’s cool, and calm like what we’ve just experienced doesn’t faze him.
I lose several brain cells right then and there.
My logic is on vacation.
And I don’t even care.
All I want tonight is to feel. No thinking. No worrying. No grieving. Just me and Mr. Mysterious and whatever kind of magic he’s casting with those damn hands of his and, that tongue. God that tongue.
I fumble with my keys at the door, so hot and flustered my palms are sweaty with anxiety and I drop them.
I bend down quickly to retrieve them off the hallway carpet, and when I stand up, he’s there—right in front of me—a few inches closer than he was before.
And now I can really see just how happy he is to be here, if you catch my drift.
Now that my logic has left the building, my next move is pure sexual lust.
I reach for the bulge beneath his tight chino pants, teasing over the little fabric that remains loose there.
His arm braces behind me on the door as he leans in close and whispers, “If you keep doing that, darling, we’ll end up getting to know each other right here in the hallway—and I don’t think your neighbours would appreciate the sounds you’ll be making.
” His gaze falls to my mouth and his tongue thrusts out moisturising his bottom lip once more.
Jesus.
He plucks the keys effortlessly from my hand and unlocks the door in one smooth motion, eyes on me throughout every step.
Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he sweeps me up without so much as a grunt, into those giant muscly arms. If I wasn’t so out of it right now, I might punch myself because this must be a dream, right?
My legs wrap around his waist, and our mouths collide once more—starving, eager and completely consumed.
The wetness pooling in between my thighs deepens in anticipation.
“Bedroom?” he pants.
I gesture to the corner of my tiny studio. “Through there.”
He plants strong, slick kisses on my full lips as he strides—making my apartment feel much smaller than it is—his eyes scanning the space before pausing to take it in.
I freeze. Shit. A brain cell floats back in.
If I knew I was breaking rule number four tonight, I might’ve actually tidied up. But since the funeral… since Mum… since everything—I just haven’t had it in me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, glancing around at the mess of my studio that accurately matches the mess of my life right now—go figure.
“I’ve been busy. With work. Life. Everything.
” I pay a tonne of rent here, but it’s just always felt so me living so close to the beach and being able to hear the waves hitting the shore like a lullaby each night as I drift off to sleep.
It’s calm, soothing, even if the apartment right now is just a visual representation of every corner of my mind.
I really haven’t spent much time here over the last few weeks either, so I’m blaming Jen for this mess.
If she wasn’t on a grief hiatus then maybe it would be a little cleaner in here—a total lie to myself because it’s almost never clean.
He silences me with a fingertip pressed to my lips. I can’t help but imagine how that finger might feel pressed against somewhere else
“Baby, it’s fine. You could live in a cardboard box, and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful, hilarious stranger I’ve ever met.
The view makes up for it.” He points through the glass windows to the balcony that overlooks Bondi beach.
“Not that view though, this view” and he kisses my lips ever so slowly and sensually.
Umm… okay. Smooth. A little cringey but he’s doing his best.
He pulls away again looking deep into my eyes.
“Looks like you just need to slow down. Let someone care for you for once.” Slowly his hands run down my arms and along my waist as he accentuates each word.
And those words do something to me. The kind of thing I don’t want to admit. His gaze is tender, not lustful. Curious. Soft. And for a moment—just a heartbeat—this feels like it could be more than a one-night stand.
Softly he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, then gently lays me down. I know what’s about to happen next will be anything but tender.
The hunger from earlier shifts into something deeper. Something aching and reverent. Like he sees me—not just the skin, the lingerie, the mess of grief and chaos—but me. Scarlett Rose Walker.
It doesn’t shock me at all—strangers have a funny way of seeing you more clearly than the people who are supposed to know you best, a lesson I’ve learnt firsthand as of late.
He slips the thin strap of my dress from my shoulder, and then the other follows suit.
The silky black fabric pools around my waist. His hands roam over my breasts, paying them equal attention until my nipples are hard and aching.
He unclasps my bra and tosses it aside before taking each peak into his mouth, teasing with his tongue, grazing gently with his teeth. I am wild, wet, and wild.
I arch beneath him, fingers threading through his dark rustled hair.
He trails his mouth lower, over my stomach, around my navel, and down.
He pauses at the edge of my g string, sliding a finger underneath to feel just how ready I am for him.
My body reacts like it knows him, like we’ve done this a thousand times.
Tequila is definitely helping with that aspect.
He strips us both down, bare, and naked.
Slowly brushing his lips against my core, his tongue darts out licking and lapping over my centre.
The feeling sends a pulse of pleasure up my spine that opens my legs for him wider.
He follows my lead, kissing, sucking, and teasing over my sex.
The pressure builds and I can feel myself letting go, the ecstasy flowing straight down to my core right as he stops and positions himself at the opening of my sex.
I hear a wrapper open and watch as he guides a condom over his thick dick.
My cheeks heat at the thought of the size of it—and how it will be fitting in me.
My thoughts evaporate the moment he aligns our bodies and guides it in slowly watching my reaction and drinking me in.
And then we move—no words, just synchronicity. My body guiding him into the throbbing centre between my thighs, his slow thrusts matching my rhythm until we’re completely intertwined.
I’m frantic.
I’m full.
I’m taken by him.
Every rock of his hips, every moan and sigh and whispered curse—it’s like he’s rewriting my memory of what connection is supposed to feel like.
Jason should be here taking notes.
We combust together, trembling under the weight of it all.
And then we do it again.
And again.
We talk in between love matches, wrapped in tangled sheets and shared secrets.
We speak of all our dreams and the kind of futures you only say aloud when you think you’ll never see someone again—and when you vowed not even to share names.
It’s strange—how easy it is to be real when you know the moment won’t last.
He opens up, really opens up. I find out his brother died not too long ago, and our exchange might be an AA meeting but for grief.
He tells me about his family and the pressure his parents now put on him to take over the family business but all he knows is football and it’s all he’s ever been good at.
Clearly, he’s never had sex with himself because I can attest that he’s good at, at least one other thing than throwing around a football and tackling other men.
But eventually, even the best nights end.
Even the best strangers leave.
And after tonight I now know even the most fleeting of romances can be cosmic.
My eyelids become heavy, and I drift off wrapped up in a perfect stranger, smiling out at the view and listening to a mix tape of the ocean waves and the deep breaths of Mr Mysterious.
* * *
I roll over and groan.
My body aches in the best way, and my brain… well, my brain feels like tequila took a sledgehammer to it. Thanks, Jen.
Never again.
Okay, probably again. But not anytime soon.
The light bleeds in through my balcony windows—wait. The thin linen curtains are wide open…
Weird.
I never open the curtains anymore.
Oh.
My.
God.
The realisation hits and the events of last night snap back into the forefront of my mind like a rubber band.
Mr. “Hates Football” is gone. The orgasms—or maybe the hangover—have me totally disoriented. Did I dream him?
I glance around and freeze.
The apartment is… clean.
Spotless.
My folded clothes are stacked neatly on my favourite little white boucle lounge. Books back in place on the bookshelf. Every dish washed. Rubbish gone.
Who is this man? Was this man.
I do a double take of the space; he is certainly gone.
I blink at my bedside table—also now clean—and spot a yellow post it. A note scribbled in pen and a handwriting that only a man with a sporting career would possess. I’ve seen enough signed contracts to know.
Thank you for the distraction. You’re welcome, as well.
Sometimes we just need a fresh start—and someone to take care of us.
Try keeping your apartment clean, you’ll feel better. Trust me.
PS: Sorry about Rule Number Four.
PPS: I’m not sorry at all.
Xo
I read it aloud.
And grin.
The goofiest, dopiest, can’t-fight-it grin.
No one has done something like this for me before. Not in a long time. Ever actually.
I feel a tiny sting of disappointment—just a flicker—because I did make the no-names rule. But now I hate that I did. No number. No last name. No “let’s do this again sometime.”
Did we have different nights?
“No,” I mutter to myself. “The man cleaned your apartment after giving you the best night of your damn life, Scarlett. Pull yourself together.”
It was exactly what I needed.
The universe delivering Mr Perfect on a platter to get me out of this self-loathing, man hating—man less—slump.
Now I can start fresh.
A little lighter. A little more space. A little more hope.
Definitely less tequila, though.
My phone pings.
My heart jumps—could it be?
Nope. Of course not, just Jen.
How was your night? Coffee catch up at our place to discuss logistics. See you in 20.
I smile and reply, already picturing her face when I spill the whole ridiculous, steamy, soul-shaking truth whilst surrounded by unsuspecting café regulars at our favourite café in town—Roasted Brew.
See you soon. You’ll beat me—order me a caramel latte and something very greasy x