1. One Reckless Night #2
Stubble shadowed a sharp jaw; a faint scar tugged at one eyebrow, interrupting the perfect line. He wore no ring. Of course you checked, Riley.
His throat worked as he swallowed the amber, and the subtle flex of his forearm sent a ridiculous shiver down my spine—like my body understood a language my brain hadn't decoded yet.
Up close, I bet he smelled expensive and dangerous—two things currently missing from both my life and my bank account.
I wondered what story his tattoos told, and whether I was reckless enough to ask.
A nervous, soft laugh burst from me, lost beneath the music. He saw the movement; those eyes locked on mine, assessing, curious, utterly calm.
Heat skittered across my collarbones. I raised my glass in a polite half-toast before I could chicken out. He tipped his whiskey in return, finally lifting it to his lips.
One heartbeat, two.
I tasted lime and molten daring and decided Maddie would be proud.
I took a step toward him.
He held my stare until I was close enough to smell oak and sea spray on his skin. The noise receded, the way waves hush beneath a pier, and we occupied a strange hush inside the chaos. I set my half-empty rum beside his barely touched whiskey.
"You babysitting the exits, or just allergic to fun?" I asked, lifting a brow.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Old reflex. I like knowing the way out before the fire starts."
"Planning on setting one?"
"Not tonight." He nudged his glass, eyes still on me. "You?"
"Depends on how good this rum is." I tipped the glass to prove a point; he watched the movement like it mattered.
The bartender drifted over, but the stranger raised two fingers first—a quiet command. "Another Flor de Ca?a for the lady," he said, his voice rough velvet. To me: "You drink it like you know what you're doing."
"I fake it like I know everything," I shot back. "Comes with the territory."
"And what territory is that?"
"People-pleasing event planner in training." I shrugged. "Tonight, though, I'm on strike."
He accepted the refill for me, sliding the glass nearer than necessary. "Even rebels have rules. What's yours?"
"No regrets." The words escaped before I could edit them.
A shadow crossed his gaze. "Regret's a tricky vice." He took his first swallow of whiskey, throat working. "Hurts more the longer you carry it."
"Then don't carry it," I said, surprising us both with the conviction in my voice.
His quiet laugh was darker than the liquor. "If only it were that simple."
Something shifted—the air tightening between us like a drawn bow. His knuckles brushed mine on the bar, casual yet electric, and suddenly the music felt too slow, the room too small. I wondered if he sensed my pulse sprinting beneath my skin.
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then returned to my eyes. "Dance with me."
"I don't dance with strangers."
"Neither do I. Luca." He offered his name like a key.
"Riley." Our fingers linked, solid and sure.
He didn't drag me; he waited until my feet decided first. When they did, heat streaked up my calves as if the floor itself approved.
The knot of crew whistled as we passed, but their noise slid off the charged silence between us. I caught a whiff of breeze off the water, bright with salt and something like risk.
Behind us, the bartender lifted Luca's card. Luca nodded once, apparently having settled both tabs without me noticing.
We moved toward the open sliders, toward the music and the maybe of the night, his hand warm around mine. And for the first time all day, my mind stopped calculating.
Because right now, regret had nothing on possibility.
The dance floor bled onto an open-air deck. I stopped at the rail, and Luca came up behind me, settling his hands on either side of mine. The bass thumped through the planks, but our sway slowed, more tide than beat. My back skimmed his chest; every breath I took, he borrowed half.
He dipped his head, voice brushing my ear. "Too loud in there."
"I noticed."
"Somewhere quieter?"
He waited, leaving the decision with me. I nodded once, pulse hammering.
A rideshare whisked us over the causeway, city lights winking like we were already telling lies about where this was heading.
Luca's thigh pressed along mine on the vinyl seat; neither of us shifted.
He smelled like wind now, leather cleansed by salt spray, and I tucked the scent away because it felt important.
During the ride, Luca booked a small hotel two blocks off the beach. The confirmation text arrived with a room number and keypad code.
The hotel was white stucco with a blue neon sign that hummed like summer insects. No lobby bar. No crowded front desk. Just a keypad and the hush of a hallway. Luca entered the code from his confirmation text and led me inside.
Inside the room, moonlight striped the tile floor. The space was spare—king bed, balcony door cracked to let the ocean breathe for us. Luca closed it gently, then faced me like he wasn't sure which of us would speak first.
"I don't usually—" I began.
"Me neither." His smile was rueful. "But tonight feels like borrowed time."
I stepped forward until the leather cuff of his watch kissed my wrist. "Then let's spend it."
Our mouths crashed—a spark finally finding tinder. His hands bracketed my face, reverent, while mine traced the map of muscle beneath his cotton shirt. A low sound escaped my throat that didn't sound like me at all when his fingers tunneled into my hair.
My dress hit the floor first, then his shirt. I stood in my underwear while his belt buckle gleamed between us.
His breath stuttered, a low growl vibrating in his chest as his fingers bit gently into my hips, letting the pressure build without rushing the zipper. Cool air kissed the strip of skin above his waistband, every thrum of blood echoing in my ears.
The backs of my knees met the mattress. I sat, and Luca lowered to the floor between my thighs, his gaze holding mine in a silent question. I threaded trembling fingers through his hair.
His mouth found the inside of my thigh first, a deliberate drag of stubble against sensitive skin that made my spine arch involuntarily. The heat of his breath preceded his tongue—warm, wet, devastatingly slow as he traced upward with a patience that felt almost cruel.
My fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to feel the tension in his scalp, and he answered with a sound against my flesh that vibrated straight through my core.
"Luca—" His name broke on something between plea and praise.
He didn't rush. His hands spread my thighs wider, thumbs pressing into the creases of my hips with a grounding weight. Then his fingers hooked beneath the edge of my underwear and drew the fabric aside. The first teasing touch of his tongue lit every nerve in my body.
My breath caught in my throat, and I struggled to find a rhythm as his mouth explored, swirling and teasing with an artist's precision.
His whole body went still.
One moment his mouth was on me, his hands sure and hungry, and the next he was kneeling back like he'd been struck by something I couldn't see. His chest rose hard. His gaze dropped to my bare skin, then jerked away, shame cutting across his face so sharply it sobered me faster than cold water.
"Wait," he said, his voice rough.
I pushed up on my elbows, heat and confusion tangling in my throat. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." The word came too fast. He dragged both hands through his hair, then looked at me like looking hurt. "God, no. This is me."
He stood, turning away as if he needed distance to keep from reaching for me again. His fist opened and closed at his side. "I shouldn't have brought you here."
The ache in his voice made my stomach dip. "Luca..."
"I wanted one night where I didn't have to remember." His laugh held no humor. "Then I saw you, and for a little while, I almost got it."
Something inside my chest missed a step.
He faced me then, the pain in his eyes no longer hidden behind whiskey and charm. "But this isn't fair to you." His jaw tightened. "You don't even know what I'm trying to run from."
"Wanting me doesn't make you a bad person," I whispered, reaching for him.
He caught my wrist, his thumb stroking once—gentle, apologetic—before pressing a kiss to the inside of my palm. "I do want." His voice nearly broke. "Too much. That's the problem."
The words settled between us, heavy and unfinished, like a declaration cut short.
He released me slowly, as if the act physically cost him, then dragged his shirt over those carved shoulders with jerky, uneven movements. At the door, he paused, his hand white-knuckled on the knob.
"Riley..." My name cracked on his tongue. "You deserve a man who's here because he's free to be. Not one who's trying to bury his ghosts in your skin."
"I could decide that," I countered, hope a raw, exposed nerve.
His smile was wreckage and wonder, a beautiful disaster. "Not tonight." He touched two fingers to his brow in a crooked, broken salute, then slipped into the hallway.
The latch clicked. Silence flooded the room so fast my ears rang.
I sat frozen, my pulse still shivering between my thighs, the smell of his skin and whiskey trapped in the room. I pressed the palm he'd kissed to my lips. The warmth was already fading, but the ache he'd left behind wasn't.
Shame came first. I'd been reckless, stupid, painfully predictable. Then longing slid in behind it, hot and stubborn.
Tomorrow, I would swear off reckless men and rum with fancy labels. Tonight, I ached for him—not for the stranger who had brought me here, but for the man who'd walked away trembling. The man who hated regret and had just handed me mine.
Ridiculously, I hoped our unfinished story had only stopped to catch its breath.