Page 12 of The Plus One Contract

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he’s completely opposite to the man who broke my heart.

I bite down gently on my lip, and his eyes drop to the movement, his grip visibly tightening around his glass.

Bingo.

The bartender sets our drinks down, and I take mine, savoring the slow burn of courage sliding down my throat.

“What's your name?” I finally ask.

Thumb on his cheek, he glides a finger over his lips. Over and back. Over and back.

“Why?”

I lean closer, my voice dropping to something husky, something I don’t recognize. “Because I need something to moan later.”

Seven

Nathan.

His name is Nathan.

I know this because he had me screaming it for hours.

I mean, he looks like the kind of man who'd be good in bed—tall, dark, devastatingly gorgeous, with a face that should be studied. But Nathan doesn’t just fuck well. He fucks like he has something to prove. And last night, he was determined to prove he could wreck my entire life in a matter of hours.

Mission accomplished.

I’m ruined. Completely, utterly, deliciously ruined. My legs barely function, my thighs are jelly, and my body aches in ways that suggest I should probably consult a chiropractor.

One-night stands aren’t supposed to be this good. They're supposed to be quick, meaningless distractions. They’re supposed to be messy and fun and forgettable. Not earth-shattering, soul-leaving-body, might-need-medical-attention levels of mind-blowing.

From the moment Nathan pressed me against the door of his penthouse—yes, penthouse, because my impulsive hookups now have city views and designer furniture—I knew I was fucked. Literally and figuratively.

He kissed me like he was claiming me, like he intended to memorize every single detail of my mouth, my skin, my taste. His hands slid beneath my dress, scorching paths up my thighs, leaving me gasping and helpless.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I whispered, trembling.

He made a low sound of approval and then walked me backward toward the bedroom, stripping away every ounce of hesitation I had left.

I barely registered the sleek décor or the floor-to-ceiling windows. My world narrowed to his touch, his mouth on my neck, the scrape of his teeth along my collarbone.

“Is this okay?” he asked roughly, dark eyes burning into mine as I landed on the bed.

“God, yes.”

He took his time with me, savoring every gasp, every shudder, every helpless sound he coaxed from my throat. He pinned my hips down, dragging his mouth between my thighs, unraveling me slowly until I was begging—literally begging—for mercy.

He didn't grant it.

Instead, he pushed me over the edge again and again, holding me there until my vision blurred and my legs shook, wringing every last drop of pleasure from my exhausted body.

When he finally pulled back, I was breathless, boneless, and panting into his sheets.

“That’s one,” he said, lips brushing my shoulder.

“One?” My voice cracked. I think I convulsed. “You’re counting?”

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