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Hangovers tend to make me melodramatic, only I don’t really feel hungover anymore. Best cure for a hangover? Shock, apparently. Sure, my mouth is dry. Okay, nasty. But the wool hampering my head seems to have gone. I feel lucid, almost. Headache free. Though there are other aches. Ones I expect I’ll be delighting in for days . . .

  So it had happened. I’d experience the forbidden—my ultimate fantasy—and I hadn’t been forced to pass go, missing my two hundred and shooting straight to hell. But better to blame the tequila than to admit responsibility. Because intention is everything.

  The sheets rustle as the man stirs again, bringing me back to my predicament pretty quickly. As it becomes clear he’s still asleep, I use the opportunity to reacquaint myself with him, as best I can, when faced with the back of his head.

  His dark hair I recall clearly, thick and glossy, tamed by an expensive cut. And blue eyes, I think. Well-dressed, blue eyes, dark hair, but what else? Judging from the feeling between my legs, pretty well endowed.

  I inhale, counting to three then release the breath over the same count. That he’s a deep sleeper is a plus because escape is just a few steps away. Awkward greetings and morning breath would be bad enough, but I’m almost certain we hadn’t exchanged names. Because I would’ve remembered that, surely?

  Besides, after my behaviour last night, I think I’d rather not face him right now. Whoever he is.

  As my phone chirps with a text, I swipe it from the nightstand, sore in places I’d rather not think about. Sliding my legs from under the covers, I peel the sheet back. Not daring to drag it with me even the shortest of distance, I find my toes are not the only thing exposed to the morning air. Trying hard to remember where I’d abandoned my clothes, I scan the room as I swipe my thumb across the screen of my phone.

  I find a missed call and a text from Flo, the woman whose demise I’ll schedule sometime later today.

  The text reads:

  Wassup, bitch? If the bubbling spots on the screen are anything to go by, another text would be following shortly.

  Come on, Loo, answer da fone!! I’m well jel of the stud you pulled. I need deets!

  Sorry, Louise is dead. Lots of love, last night’s serial killer, I reply, typing with both thumbs, surprised not to see matching bruises on my wrists. I rotate them, savouring in the silent bruising, wondering how long it would be before the colour shows. Then I spot my panties hanging from the post at the end of the bed. Seconds later, I’ve wiggled them up over my hips, my thumbs then continuing our conversation as I search the room for my bra and the rest of my clothes.

  How could you let me go home with a stranger?

  What kind of a friend are you?

  How could I have NOT let you? comes Flo’s retort. The stud was wearing you like a coat.

  I snort, regretting the action immediately, but as I turn my head, sleeping studly hasn’t stirred.

  Flo likes to pretend, at least by text, that her first language is street. No one would guess from her texts that her accent is more Knightsbridge than Newham, or that Flora, as she’s known at home, is the daughter of someone in Parliament. Or that her mother possesses the title The Right Honourable. There’s a strange sort of symmetry in this, considering Flo is definitely more dishonourable.

  Don’t get your knickers in a knot, darling, Flo’s next text read. Get them up your legs and meet me at the coffee shop on the corner. I’ve known where you were all along. Turn left out of his front door. I’ll be the one wearing a rather natty fedora I’ve snagged from the back of your bedroom door. Ciao x

  God knows what else she’s “borrowed” from the visit to my room. My smile doesn’t last very long, replaced by a frown. His front door. How did I allow myself to get here? And how does she know where I am?

  It might not exactly be my first, but one-night stands aren’t a regular occurrence for me. In fact, the last time I’d woken in a stranger’s bed, I’d been eighteen and miles from my college dorm. Tequila had also been to blame then. But this time is . . . different. Items checked off my bucket list.

  A night of kinky sex ✓

  A night of Fifty-Shading fun ✓

  I shake my head and the absurd thoughts away, spotting my black bra hanging from a chair on the other side of the bed. A chair very close to my companion’s head. Stealthily, I creep around the edge, stepping over a couple of torn condom wrappers with a silent sigh of relief. At least someone was paying attention to such things.

  I gingerly pull the lacy strap, unravelling it from inside a man’s oxford shirt, and fight the urge to look at him as I turn. It’s not that I think I’ll be disappointed—in my mind, he’s definitely handsome. But it’s maybe better to leave it that way; a vague impression of the man. Memories of a dark-haired stranger. And I might’ve managed it had Flo’s words not echoed that moment in my head.

  I’ve never been to bed with an ugly man, but I may have inadvertently woken up with one or two.

  My reluctance to look at him isn’t vanity—I’m not afraid of tequila goggles. It’s more a feeling that, in looking at him, I’ll validate my recklessness. If I don’t look, it might be easier to ignore the night I’ve spent with a stranger, doing things that, this morning, I . . . I can’t exactly recall.

  But for all the lies I tell myself, my eyes are drawn to him as I turn.

  He’s instantly familiar from last night rather than any prior acquaintance. Flashes of complete images follow. Lounged in his chair, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other wrapped around me. The flash of white teeth as he laughed. The way he whispered in the cab how he couldn’t wait to be inside me. Images of us in this bedroom, his dark hair entwined in my fingers, his mouth between my legs. His hand on my breasts, the warm sense of being held in his arms. In his hands. The sensation his body against mine.

  His hair is unruly in sleep, neither black nor brown. His profile, though still chiseled, is softer than in my head, sleep blurring his hard edges. His mouth is ridiculously sensual for a man, though a strong jaw balances his features, dark stubble completing the near perfection. Heat crawls from my belly as I remember the bristling sensation at my shoulder. The echo of it between my legs. My blush only deepens as I realise my fingers are absently tracing that same path.

  I fold my arms across my chest, aching to touch myself yet not ready to move or look away. The skin of his bare torso is porcelain to my gold, the muscles in his shoulders and arms, from what I can see, highly defined. One bare ass cheek peeks from the sheet across his hips. From what I can discern from the sum of the parts on display, it’s safe to say this man keeps very fit.

  I shake my head, rousing myself. No matter how handsome he is, I need to leave before he wakes and the inevitable awkwardness of a second meeting sets in.

  Silently slipping on my bra, I suffer a sudden flashback of dropping my blouse and skirt to the floor of another room. A striptease? No. I don’t have that sort of confidence. Picking up my phone once again, I swear my heart touches my tonsils as I reach for the door handle when he speaks. I swallow past the lump of discomfort, not daring to turn, but he isn’t awake. Thank you, Lord, for unintelligible sleep ramblings. Without turning, I slip from the room like a thief, the echoes of his sleep-roughened voice conjuring other memories . . .

  In the club, he’d ordered a bottle of tequila, smiling as I’d directed the waitress to take away the limes and salt.

  ‘Serious tequila doesn’t need embellishments,’ I’d said. He’d chuckled darkly as I added, ‘And all bets are off after a couple of shots.’

  Curled into his liquor-damp shirt, both our sets of friends were quickly forgotten as shot after shot was poured. I’d heard of the strong, silent type, though never experienced the thrill of attention accompanying this. Dark eyes watching. Weighing. Seeing right through me. And when he did speak, his words hit almost viscerally. Like a sign from the universe, I’d thought. It wasn’t long before our tentative flirting became a hot and heavy make-out session, right there in the club.

  I clos
e the bedroom door behind me with a click, finding my fingers at my lips as I recall how the stranger’s lips emancipated my reasoning. Last night, I was someone else. Someone a little reckless. Someone drunk off her ass. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, especially as I recall what happened next.

  As I’d come up for air, kiss-drunk and so aroused, I’d whispered a question so daring, my cheeks still burn with the memory.

  ‘Do you want to go someplace else?’

  My tone was so sultry, he couldn’t have misunderstood. I may as well have had a neon sign saying, This Girl is DTF.

  His answer? In my experience, men in real life don’t say the sorts of things that make a girl ache with need.

  He told me he’d love to.

  That he’d take me home in a heartbeat.

  But that his tastes were rather hard edged.

  He’d sought to shock me, for sure, unaware of the pulse of pleasure beating between my legs. Because I wanted to be sure—because I’d wanted to hear those words again—I’d lowered my gaze and asked him quietly asked to elaborate.

  And he did.

  He said he got a kick out of marking beautiful skin. That he liked nothing more than to see a woman’s body tied, every line taut and elegant in her distress. And that, for him, this wasn’t just a prelude to sex.

  In my whole life, I’d never been so turned on, and in my haste to have him inside me, I would’ve forgotten my purse if it hadn’t been for him. Then outside as we’d waited for a cab, I couldn’t stop myself from touching him. Kissing him. Pushing my body up against his. When his fingers tightened suddenly around my wrists, it had taken me a moment to appreciate he was restraining me physically. Rather than a warning, it was a green light for direction—a green light for go. Excited didn’t come close to how I was feeling, and I think, without his strong hands wrapped around mine, I might’ve gotten down on my knees in that dirty street, promising to swallow him whole.

  Fuck. If I can recall his answer, does that really mean I said those things?

  Because he’d said the first time I got on my knees for him, I’d be naked with my hair wrapped in his fist. That he’d take his pleasure from me like a gift.

  And I wanted it. I wanted it all. By the ache in my jaw, I guess I received it. And then a little bit more.

  ‘This isn’t like me,’ I’d whispered just moments after we’d climbed into the cab. A moment of lucidity? Was I scared or making excuses for myself?

  As he’d bent to kiss my forehead, he seemed to be fighting a smile.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re leading me up the garden path?’ His voice, low in register, rippled down my spine.

  ‘Yeah,’ I’d replied, suppressing the shiver. ‘The lady garden path.’ I’d made a drunkenly lewd gesture in the vague direction my crotch when he’d grabbed my hand in one of his, moving the other to the nape of my neck.

  ‘All roads lead to Rome?’ I murmured weakly, not wanting to appear cowed. His predatory gaze caused a flare between my legs, drowning out every one of my thoughts.

  ‘I take a path less travelled,’ he’d whispered, his lips brushing my face. ‘I like to be in charge.’ The flare turned molten, my insides dissolving as his thumb stroked the thundering pulse in my neck.

  Back in the stranger’s house, I try to force the sensory memories away. How can I still feel the effects of his words dancing down my spine? Pulsing between my legs?

  I follow the weak sunlight spilling down the unfamiliar stairs. My feet are light as I tiptoe along the hallway, opening the door to what I think might be the living room.

  Jackpot.

  In an unruly heap on the floor, I find my skirt and blouse. And underneath, my shoes. Dressing quickly, I slip back out into the hallway, picking up my purse and jacket from an antique hall stand. Clothes to door, I’m out of the house in two minutes flat.

  The path to the garden gate is unremarkable. An Edwardian terraced house, it’s quite large. A dark red door with brass fittings leads to a pebbled pathway leading to a wrought-iron gate under an awning of neat vines. I remember the footpath crunching beneath the soles of my shoes, thinking how comfortingly ordinary his house appeared to be. I’d stared at the door in the darkness while he spoke with the cab driver. Comfortingly ordinary, at least, until he’d pushed me against it, the handle unforgiving at the small of my back, his hips—his hard-on—pinning me there.

  ‘The point of no return.’ In contrast to the discomfort of the large handle digging into my back, he’d smiled sweetly, and all I could think was how much I’d wanted to run my fingers against his mouth. Slide my tongue between his lips. ‘I do think you’d let me fuck you right here.’

  I made a noise; it didn’t resemble a denial, my head filling with images of just that. He’d fuck me hard, my legs wrapped around him, his fingers hard, hot points against my hips as I—

  He chuckled. Was it my expression? It sounded dark and bitter and sweet. It matched the man. It matched his accent. And what he said next was my undoing.

  ‘You like the sound of that? You’re wet for it. You want the feel of the night air on your nakedness as I fuck you hard and fast.’ But then he’d gestured behind to the cab. ‘Before he leaves, you need to decide. I want to fuck you until you can’t stand, but you leave your wants and desires at this door. You understand? I like things my way.’

  ‘Are you going to hurt me?’ My question sounded like pure encouragement. I didn’t consider the implications as I slid my lips against his. Tongues tangled as our kiss deepened, my fingers grasping his shirt as though to hang on to my sanity. It was a kiss like I’d never experienced before. A kiss that was hot, wet, and heavy, and a promise of things to come.

  He’d groaned as he pulled away, signalling silently for the cab to leave.

  ‘My way.’ As he’d turned back, his eyes shined black in the moonlight, his fingers finding my chin. ‘Means you wait for an invitation.’

  He’d kissed me again. Hard this time, his choice, and my further undoing. I leaned against the handle more heavily, the ache between my legs loosening my limbs. As our mouths parted, he’d slipped the key in the lock before leading me inside. Meek and disheveled, my mouth tingled as much as my back ached, but I was so fucking aroused.

  Back in the morning light, and in the shade of the hedges surrounding the garden gate, I push away the recollection before I drown in sensation overload. Rousing myself, I pull an ever-present elastic from my purse, gathering my blonde hair into a messy topknot. Then, pulling down the hem of my skirt, I push my shoulders back and swing open the gate to step out onto the street. If I’m doing the walk of shame through whichever London borough I’m in, I’ll do it as I do everything. With my head held high.

  Two

  LOUISE

  ‘My slutty senses are tingling!’ Flo rises from the café outdoor table setting just around the corner as she’d promised. My borrowed hat sits on the table, her black hair loose around her shoulders, shining almost blue in the sun. ‘Where’ve you left your horse?’

  I glance down at my crumpled clothing, taking a beat to decipher her non-sequitur. I suddenly feel a little old. Old enough to know better, at least.

  ‘It’s my shoes,’ I answer belatedly, realising she’s teasing me. Anyone who’d worn four-inch heels one full day and part of the night was bound to have an awkward gait. And here I was, wearing them again. There were, of course, other aches, but I wasn’t about to share those details.

  Collapsing into the chair opposite, I swipe Flo’s cup and swallow a mouthful. My grimace is instant. ‘Green tea?’ When I so need a coffee. When she doesn’t respond, I look up; I’m greeted by one highly defined and eloquently raised brow. It’s the kind of look that demands details. The kind of look hard to ignore.

  ‘It’s true,’ I protest. ‘My feet are killing me.’

  Flo’s response is a dirty, sniggering laugh. ‘Only your feet, sweets? And do leave my tea alone. I’ve no idea where your mouth has been.’ Ignoring my shocked
expression, she passes me my canvas tote. ‘Here. I’ve brought those god-awful plimsolls you wear. And a cardigan.’ Somehow, I sense she isn’t done, proven right when she breaks out into a sing-song tone, ‘Because appearances are everything!’

  ‘Only to the vain and shallow,’ I mumble, placing the bag on the empty chair next to mine.

  ‘Just ninety-eight percent of the city’s population, then?’ She lifts her cup as she stands. ‘Make yours a latte and a banana muffin?’

  ‘You know me so well,’ I reply gratefully, shrugging on the long-line sweater. I look down at my feet, realising this isn’t the case at all. After last night, I barely know myself. I slip my feet into my favourite pink Chucks and wrap the pale scarf around my neck. While I might be in desperate need of a shower, at least I’m now more suitably dressed for a Saturday morning, though a little cold.

  Adele begins to croon from the café shop door as Flo pushes it open from the inside, cups in hand.

  ‘Anal,’ she states certainly, flopping into the metallic chair opposite. ‘It had to be.’

  ‘What?’ I splutter, my gaze darting around. Lowering my voice, I hiss, ‘I would . . . I . . . never did that.’ But would I have said no? The pulse between my legs isn’t the answer I’m looking for.

  ‘Not you, silly. The song.’ She breaks into a couple of surprisingly melodic lines from Adele’s hit; words about the delights of a new lover and the things unshared. ‘The other tart gave him things she couldn’t. It had to be anal,’ she repeats with certainty.

  ‘I worry about what goes through your head sometimes.’ My tone is disparaging.

  ‘Only my head?’ Along with her response, she shoots me a bawdy wink.

  ‘It’s too early for sex talk.’

  ‘And don’t knock what you haven’t tried,’ she adds, ignoring my plea with a narrowed gaze. I feel the full weight of her scrutiny as I concentrate on the contents of my cup. ‘If I were a betting girl, my money would be on last night’s piece of hotness.’

  ‘Money? For what?’ I ask, glancing up from my cup.