Promise Me Forever: Manhattan Ruthless

Oh dear lord, how much did I drink last night? My temples throb with a dull ache, and my mouth is drier than sand. I yawn my way back to consciousness and stretch out on the cool sheets. They feel expensive and luxurious and nothing at all like the bedding in my apartment.

My eyes fly open as memories of last night flood back. Shit. I’m not in my apartment, am I? There was the wedding. There was an incredibly hot guy. There was even hotter sex. Oh. My. God.

My heart flutters in my ribcage, and I look around for signs of him. The room is empty, but the shower is running. I sit up and smooth back my hair, noticing all the tender spots in my body as I move. Wowzers. That really was some night, and now I have to do the walk of shame for the first time in my entire life. And I’ll be doing it in a strapless bridesmaid’s dress, which is extra shameful somehow—yes, I was that cliché. I put my head in my hands and groan.

“Feeling that bad?” I hear him say in his perfectly smooth voice, and I look up to see Drake walking out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a white towel tucked around his waist. His skin is still damp, and he looks good enough to eat or, at the very least, lick.

When I was replaying last night, I wondered if the alcohol made him appear hotter than he really was, but no. Here he is, still hotter than the earth’s core. I suddenly feel very self-conscious, lying naked in his bed with wild hair and breath untouched by toothpaste. I must look like a hot mess, especially when compared to him.

“I don’t feel too bad, considering,” I say with a faint smile. “I’m just pondering the trip back to my apartment in last night’s dress.”

“Hey, this is New York. Nobody will even notice. But don’t worry about it. I’ll get my driver to take you home.”

His driver? Who the hell has a driver? It’s an odd concept, and one I’m not entirely comfortable with. It’s not like he handed me a wad of dollar bills, but being handed off to a member of staff still makes me feel a little cheap. What did I expect? For him to walk me home, for us to stroll hand in hand through Central Park like we’re in some rom-com? This was a one-night stand, and we promised each other nothing.

He starts to get dressed after pulling clean boxers from a full drawer and a shirt from a crowded closet. “Wait,” I say, frowning. “Do you actually, like, live here?”

He pulls on the white dress shirt but leaves it unbuttoned. Damn, the man is built. Amused, he quirks an eyebrow. “Like, uh, yeah? I told you last night, I’ve just moved back. I’m in the process of buying somewhere, but these things take forever to go through. Damn lawyers slow everything down.” He grins at his own comment like he’s just made a joke and carries on getting dressed.

Before I can reply, there’s a knock on the door, and I tug the sheet right up to my neck. In case, you know, the person knocking has x-ray vision and can see through doors and walls.

“Relax,” he says on his way out of the bedroom. “I promised you breakfast, and I thought we both might prefer to eat in private rather than in the restaurant.”

Well, yes. Especially in last night’s bridesmaid’s dress. That wouldn’t be a good look for either of us. Speaking of which, I realize that it’s in the other room, along with breakfast. A sudden rumble in my tummy lets me know that my body needs sustenance, and I cast my eyes around, looking for something else to wear.

When he walks back into the bedroom, he catches me scrambling back under the covers. “Don’t be coy.” He smirks at the one bare leg that’s still exposed. “It’s not like I didn’t kiss every inch of your body last night, is it, Scarlet?”

I feel myself blush brighter than my alter ego’s name, and he seems to be trying to hide his amusement as he passes me a shirt. It’s the one he had on last night, and it still smells of his cologne.

“Come on, let’s eat. Get your caffeine fix. Whatever. I don’t know about you, but I need to work.”

I slip on the shirt, glad that it at least covers my ass, and follow him through to the other room. There’s a tray laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and pancakes, and the dining table is set for two. He grabs himself food and a coffee and watches me as I hesitantly do the same. This feels beyond weird, and I’m kinda desperate to escape now. He seems different this morning. More distant, colder. Too polite.

He’s still drop-dead gorgeous, but somehow less approachable. Last night, before all the mind-melting sex, we talked. Really talked. About our childhoods, our families, our moms. This morning, he seems more interested in his phone. I tell myself I’m being an idiot and pour myself a cup of coffee. The smoky aroma of top-quality coffee automatically makes me feel better.

“You’re working on a Sunday?” I ask, grabbing a flaky croissant and sitting down opposite him. I bite into it, sending a shower of crumbs all over my cleavage.

He stares at my chest, and his jaw twitches. I suppress a smile at his reaction, but then a healthy dose of humility bites me in the ass. What if I’ve read this completely wrong? Maybe he’s a neat freak and he’s having a meltdown about the mess. “I am, yes. I work every day. What about you?”

I brush the crumbs away, noting his eyes following my fingers, and shrug. “I’m not important enough to work on a Sunday. I am starting that new job tomorrow, though.”

“The one with the asshole boss?”

I cringe when I recall our conversation from last night. I gave him some scant information about my new job. Nothing about the kind of work I’d be doing or who I’d be working for—I am neither indiscreet nor an idiot—but I definitely told him stuff that I should have kept to myself. Scarlet was way too chatty.

“Well, I feel bad for saying that now. I mean, that’s just repeating gossip. When I met him during my interview, he was okay. Nice even. And maybe it’s not weird that he has this reputation—you don’t get to be the boss of a huge firm without being a bit of a ball-buster, do you? People say he’s a crazy perfectionist with super-high standards. But again, maybe not a bad thing given how many people work for him.”

He nods and lays his phone down on the table. “No, it’s not, and as long as he expects the same high standards from himself, it probably doesn’t qualify him as an asshole either. But if he turns out to be one, you don’t have to keep working for him.”

I shake my head and sip my coffee, smiling at how simple he seems to think it is. “What’s so funny?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“That comment. Only a man like you could say something like that.”

“A man like me?”

“Yeah, you know.” I wave my hand, indicating the grand room. “Guys who live like Bruce Wayne.”

“You think I’m Batman?”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is your driver’s name Alfred?” I’m at risk of babbling now, and I need to shut up. It’s only because I’m nervous.

“It’s Constantine, actually.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, ordinary people—people like me—can’t just walk out on a good job because their boss is an asshole, you know? We need little things like healthcare and money for groceries and to make our rent.”

He stares at me, and I feel a flush creeping over my neck. I suppose he might consider what I just said as rude, even if it is true. Since my split from Chad, cash has been tight, and my limited experience in the world of work has meant I’ve had to do a lot of temporary jobs. Nobody cares if you went to Harvard when they want someone to manage an office. I suppose it’s made me more aware than ever of the importance of being self-sufficient, especially with my mom’s health needs.

“I have heard of things like rent,” he says slowly, his tone calm but also frosty. “Of course, up here in my ivory tower, I’ve never been concerned with such trivialities. My life is, naturally, completely perfect in every way and totally free of all stress and worry. How is your croissant?”

I blink at him. I guess being rich doesn’t automatically mean you don’t have problems, but men like Drake have no idea about the cruel hardships of the real world. And that isn’t his fault; it’s simply a fact of life. “It’s good. Uh, I think I’d better go. Leave you to build your empire or buy Arizona, or whatever it is you have on your to-do list today.”

He nods and gazes at me over the steam from his coffee mug. “Okay. But that’s my favorite shirt you’re wearing. I’d like it back before you go.”

Seriously? Does this guy think I’m some kind of international shirt thief? “Of course you can have it back. I’m pretty sure walking out of here in nothing but your shirt and my panties will look even worse than me walking out in my bridesmaid dress.”

“Take it off, then.”

“What? Right now? You can’t wait like five minutes?”

“No. It’s my favorite shirt. Take it off. Now, Scarlet,” he demands. I’m about to call him out for being such a dick when I see the look in his dark eyes. It’s not a look that says he gives a shit about a shirt. It’s a look that says he gives a shit about what’s underneath the shirt. My body immediately responds to both the fire in his eyes and the command in his voice, and my lips tremble as I lick the last crumb of my croissant from them.

My pulse speeds up, and I squeeze my thighs together in response to the soft throb that now lives between them. Fuck. What is it about this guy that makes me act so out of character?

He raises one eyebrow at me, looking cool and calm while I quiver before him.

“Why is it,” I say quietly as I stand up, “that I behave like this when I’m with you? I’m usually a very respectable woman, you know.”

I unbutton the shirt with unsteady fingers, and he follows every move I make. “I’m sure you are. But isn’t this more fun?”

It’s not only fun, it’s scintillating. It’s like being on vacation from my real life, from being myself. I’m not sure I even like this guy, with his mood swings from hot to cold, but I definitely want him. I slide the soft cotton over my shoulder blades and walk slowly around the table, completely naked. Ignoring every instinct that tells me to be embarrassed, I hand him the shirt. His fingers brush mine as he takes it from me, then he tosses it to the floor.

My mouth drops open in mock horror. “I thought that was your favorite shirt?”

“I lied.” With a sharp jerk of my wrist, he pulls me onto his lap. Tugging my hair back with one hand, he slips the other straight between my thighs. I’d like to make him work for it, but my body has other ideas, and I’m already wet. I tip my head back, and he nips at my skin, running his teeth along my jawline and kissing my neck.

“Drake,” I gasp as he slides his fingers between my slick folds.

“You know there is no way you’re leaving this hotel room without getting fucked again, Scarlet, don’t you?”

I’m thrilled when I wriggle on his lap and feel how hard his cock is. “I hope not,” I moan as his fingers continue teasing me.

“So damn wet.” He pumps them in and out of me, the obscene sucking sound filling the room. My orgasm building, I wrap my arms around his neck and suck my bottom lip between my teeth.

“That’s it, mi rosa. Show me how much you want my fingers,” he says into my ear. “I’m going to make you come, then I’m going to spread you open on this table and bury myself inside you.”

His words make me clench against his probing fingers, and when he rubs the pad of his thumb over my swollen bud, my legs tremble.

“Oh, fu—Drake!” The orgasm washes over my body, drowning me in a wave of pleasure. He rubs the last of it from my body, then crushes his mouth possessively over mine. The man is a magician; I’ve never felt a physical response like this with anyone else. He breaks the kiss, and I melt as I look into those incredible deep brown eyes. I know I’m inexperienced, but surely it isn’t possible to have this kind of connection without feeling something. Without it meaning something. Am I that naive, or do I see a flicker of emotion cross his perfect features as he gazes at me?

He stands up with my legs wrapped around his waist and holds me there with one hand firmly on my ass. With the other, he sweeps the table clear, sending cups and plates flying and obviously not giving a damn. He lays me on my back and pushes my thighs apart. “Jesus,” he mutters, his eyes on fire as he inspects my body. “You are so damn fuckable.”

He pulls that final condom from his pocket and unzips his pants. Within seconds, he’s ready, and I’m wet and waiting. I squeal as he hoists my legs over his broad shoulders, almost bending me in two, and guides himself inside me.

His hands go to my breasts, and he teases my tight nipples as he slams into me, rolling them between his thumb and fingers in a way that perfectly straddles the delicious line between pleasure and pain. My hands scrabble for a grip on the smooth wood of the table, but he’s fucking me so hard that I’m sliding backward and forward with each dynamic thrust.

“You’re lucky I have to work,” he growls, not slowing his pace for a moment, each stroke precise and deliberate. “Otherwise, I’d chain you to the bed and fuck you all day long.”

The dirty talk pushes me over the edge, and as he leans down to nip at my neck, I scream his name yet again.

“Come for me, Scarlet,” he commands as he drives into me. “Because if this is going to be the last time I ever fuck you, I’m going to make sure you feel it.”

For some reason, a deep sadness settles in the pit of my stomach and tears burn behind my eyes, but I quickly blink them away and focus instead on the pleasure this man’s body wrings from mine. This was a one-time deal. I’ll never see him again, and that’s exactly the way I want it.

Isn’t it?