Page 82 of A Taste of Vanilla

Eventually, it leads somewhere.

The second time is slower, but not softer. More deliberate. Less grief. More curiosity. His hands learn me like he’s desperate to remember. I learn what makes his control slip. Where to touch. How to make his breath catch. How his jaw clenches when I moan and when I pull his hair.

When we finally sleep, it’s tangled and accidental.

My face against his shoulder, his heavy arm around my waist.

For the first time in a week, I don’t dream about Grant’s office.

I wake before dawn to the pale blue wash of morning through the window. For a few seconds, I stay still.

The stranger is beside me, asleep on his back, one arm bent over his head, his hair loose over the pillow. In sleep, the severity has left his face. He still looks hard-edged and unfamiliar, but much less guarded.

My chest flutters.

No.

Absolutely not.

This is a one-night stand. A good one. An excellent one, even.

A one-night stand so excellent it should probably be reported to someone.

But still one night.

I slide carefully out from under his arm.

He wakes immediately.

“Morning,” I whisper.

His voice is rough. “Morning.”

The sound does something I do not have time to examine.

“I have to go to work soon,” I say.

He looks at the window. “What time?”

“Five twenty.”

“You always start that early?”

“I know. It’s glamorous.”

He sits up, hair falling around his shoulders.

He gets up, and I flush. The casual way he moves naked through my unfinished apartment should be illegal.

I look away because I am a woman of dignity.

Then I look back because dignity has never paid my bills.

He gets dressed quickly, and when he reaches for his shirt, I feel disappointed watching the tattoos disappear, knowing I’ll likely never see them again.

He steps closer, bends, and kisses me.

Once.