Page 65 of Breaking Blaze

Sallina Mendez closed the door behind her and sighed into the immaculate emptiness of her condo. A one bedroom dream space she’d worked her ass off to afford—a frustrating office job, working for assholes, for only marginally acceptable pay. But she did what she had to do, because there was no way she was ever going to tuck her tail and go back there and beg him for money.

Tossing her keys into the ceramic bowl on the entry table, she shucked her shoes, her suit coat, and her purse right where she was standing, and shuffled into the kitchen where wine, glorious wine, was chilling for her in the fridge.

It wasn’t just the long day dealing with assholes that had sapped the energy from her usually stamina-rific body—her yoga routine was en pointe—it was also that her best friend, Anna, had been shit on by the man she’d been in love with, his douchiness revealed during a butt-dial and “accidental” eavesdropping session. Was it eavesdropping, though, when the caller dialed the phone and the person answered—ass dial or not? Besides that, the asshat, Blaze, had been talking to Sally’s older brother, Alejandro—AJ—so it wasn’t like Sally felt any real guilt. AJ had eavesdropped on her plenty of times, ruining more dates than an ill-timed visit from Aunt Flo.

In the days since Anna had overheard some seriously horrible shit from Blaze’s mouth, Sally had been thinking much too hard about how shitty men could be. It wasn’t like she didn’t know from her own experiences.

Too many of her own experiences, actually.

Wine bottle in hand, she filled a glass, nearly to the brim, and sipped happily.

Aaaaah, that was better.

Wine glass in hand, she headed to her bedroom and slipped through the door, her gaze catching on the bed.

Unbidden, images of that bed, just two nights ago, flashed by.

Sexy as hell man at the end of the bar. His ink black hair, styled like a GQ model. His shocking green eyes that spoke of pleasure. A body, big, taut, and hard that made her mouth water. A face chiseled from perfection and masculine sensuality, complete with lips that were made for filthy words and even filthier kisses. The surprisingly interesting and intelligent conversation. The short trip back to her apartment. The searing kisses that had melted her from the inside out. The sex. The teeth-clattering, heart-pounding sex that had left her a pool of goo in the bed, satiated, gloriously replete, and shockingly eager to take their one night and see where things would go.

But that wasn’t what happened.

The one time she’d wanted more and it all fell to shit.

That was the last time she’d ever allow herself to feel anything but well-fucked. No more emotions. No more mixing feelings with flings.

A sneer lifted one corner of her mouth when she remembered that, though she had experienced a life altering encounter, he obviously hadn’t. He’d ghosted her, waiting until she fell into a post-coital coma to skip out. He didn’t leave his number, a thank you note, or even the condom and condom wrapper. It was like he hadn’t even been there. Like a sex ninja assassin—in and out with the least evidence of having been there.

The fucker. The sex god of a man who’d made her feel—even for just one night—that she was everything to someone. Truly and honestly wanted. And it had meant nothing to him. His beautiful, heated words whispered in her ear were lies. He hadn’t meant any of them.

Her heart gave a sickening twist in her chest.

She was done—done!—with men. Screw them all. They only ever hurt. Selfish, arrogant, and careless to their core.

Dragging her eyes from the bed and the love-hate memories, Sally set her wine glass on top of her dresser and pulled out the clothes she’d need after her long, hot shower.

An hour later, Sally began sipping her second glass of wine as she slid onto her overstuffed couch. When she’d gotten her apartment, she’d lucked out finding this couch at the Salvation Army. After a thorough cleaning and reupholstering, it fit perfectly into Sally’s work hard-relax hard lifestyle. Snuggling down into the couch, she snatched the TV remote from the seat next to her and clicked it on.

One of her weirdest relaxation activities was to watch gossip news—the smarmier the better. All the crud in the tabloids never failed to make her feel better about herself and her life choices.

She snickered, hunkering down for celebrity dirt goodness.

“And now for the juiciest dish of the night!” the high-pitched, too excited voiceover announced. “Newly minted billionaire, Sylvester White, is headed back on to the Miami singles market after his former model wife, Yolanda, filed for divorce on Monday. Whispers of his numerous affairs are swirling….”

Her ears stopped working, the rest of the report lost to the tympanic pounding in her ears. Sally couldn’t breathe. Her hands shaking, the wine sloshing from the glass onto her sweatpants, the remote in her other hand falling onto the floor. Her heart thudded painfully, racing to find someplace dark to hide away from the hideous truth grinning like a Greek god from the screen.

It was him.

Her one-night stand. The man she’d stupidly fallen for after the best night of sex of her life.

The married man.

Sick rose into her throat, making her mouth tingle.

Sylvester White. Billionaire. Married.

Married.

And she’d slept with him. He’d fucked her so hard and so well, she was still feeling him between her legs. She’d welcomed him into her bed, her body, had been seduced by his scent, his words, his sensual touch, and his giant cock. She’d begged him, screamed for him, had fallen asleep beside him, her heart foolishly wishing for more.

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