Page 1 of One Naughty Night

Chapter 1

One night, that’s all I want. No, strike that, it’s all I’ll ever get…and exactly what I need. One good fuck, of my choosing, purely for my own enjoyment and rebellious independence rather than shady deals and the “in everyone’s best interest” firing squad I’ll soon face. I may be a little rusty at actually giving enough of a damn to put forth effort, but standing in front of my mirror in the snug red dress I keep hidden at the back of my closet and wearing my favorite pair of black patent leather heels that I never wear, my confidence boosts and the heady determination of a woman who knows what she’s after ignites. I watch my smile grow as realization sinks in. I’ve got this on lock. Pure adrenalized anticipation prompts me out the door.

The bar’s fairly packed by the time I stroll inside just after ten o’ clock. It’s a Saturday night and since it’s so close to the beach as well as the holidays, it’s filled mainly with college kids having their last hoorahs before they leave for home or reunion celebrations with old buddies back in town for Christmas. Far from the crowd I’m used to, even though they’re my age.

And that’s not eggnog they’re tossing back at warp speed, which is fine by me—the more amicable, the better. After one more swipe of red gloss across my lips, I move to the bar and take a seat, hoping like hell to find some festivities of my own.

With all I’ve seen in life, I feel closer to forty than my actual twenty-three even though I don’t look it, nor like a complete floozy. Given my little buzz and the huge amount of options milling around the place, I’m feeling better about my odds of getting precisely what I’m seeking than I had been when I first hatched this plan.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender, definitely too old for my agenda, yells over the house music.

“I’ll have a—” My words catch before I can finish. Tonight is all about proving who I really am and showing the authentic version of myself that’d blossom if left to my own will and spirit—my standard order of vodka on the rocks isn’t mine. No, it’s always “my” drink because it’s what is always chosen for me, something I was told I’d like…and never questioned.

Here I am, just a normal young woman out on a Saturday night, ready for a cocktail and a good time. But what the hell do normal girls drink? Colorful shit with little umbrellas it seems, judging by those around me.

“So what’ll it be, sweet pea?” he asks again, growing impatience evident in his expression and tone.

Shit, why don’t I know more drink names? Maybe I could just point at the lady’s concoction next to me? No, horrible idea. I am a grown damn woman and should know at least one mixed drink that would be decent. Or I could order a beer…but that’s no fun. Given the gene pool and life into which I was dropped, unasked, it’d be stereotypical perfection for me to enjoy beer or “one of the boys”—Jim, Johnnie, or Jack—but even cold (and obviously having no actual experience by which to base my comparison), the smell, taste, and color of them all remind me of what it must be like to literally drink urine.

Besides, I should be allowed to order my own, one fruity drink in my life…right?

“She’ll take a Sex on the Beach and I’ll have another bourbon and Coke,” a deep voice brimming with virile authority says from behind me as I sense a warm body slide onto the stool next to me.

The bartender nods and turns away, but all I can do is remain rigidly immobile, eyes forward, suddenly nervous under the weight of a stare penetrating me from the side. This is it, my one shot. I close my eyes and send up a silent prayer for seductive yet subtle bravery to the same God I figure just laughed off my earlier request to place a gorgeous man, ready and willing to guide me through a night of paradise, in my path.

And maybe he did. I’ve yet to turn my head…in a few seconds, I could be thinking of polite ways to brush off Bald Barry, a dumpy, beer-bellied accountant whose own wife doesn’t even care that he’s here.

I turn my neck slowly, my gaze landing first on his expansive chest, only just reined in by a black thermal. A gorgeous start, but nothing I’m not used to from most of the men surrounding me every day, so I continue my perusal of him downward rather than up, not yet ready to take in the face of who may or may not be allowed in my panties very soon.

His crotch is impressive, not stiff and outlined yet, but definitely a noteworthy bulge encased in black button-fly jeans. I do my best to hide the intrigued gulp I can’t stop and move along. His legs look strong, thick and not lanky, ending at black combat boots—another familiar item that’s never instigated the surge of raw felinity coursing through me as it does now. So far…everything I’ve been looking for.

“My eyes aren’t half bad either, from what I’ve been told.” His breath fans my ear, warm and carnal, then his finger hooks under my chin, lifting it in gentle demand. “Why don’t you have a look and tell me if you agree, baby?”

Oh God, his voice. That alone does things, delicious things, to parts of me I’d forgotten even existed…probably because they’ve never been solicited. When our eyes finally connect, my breath catches mid-inhale. He, and everyone who told him so, is absolutely right. His piercing blue eyes are spellbinding…and shine with an unbridled freedom I long to possess. Everything about him exudes an easygoing breath of fresh air.

I must give myself, and obvious lust, away if his lascivious, confident gaze fixed on me is any indication. But the last thing I want is to come off desperate, so I return my focus to the bar and mutter a poorly aloof, “Not bad,” unable to contain the smile I hope is at least somewhat hidden. Not bad. Who am I kidding? His “fuck me” eyes alone should be on billboards. Hell, I’d gladly settle for just fucking them.

“Right” is all he says before reaching out to take my hand and bringing it to his lips, placing an inviting, open-mouthed kiss on my knuckles that I can’t help but look up to watch, enraptured.

This guy can’t be much older than twenty-oneish, but he has more charisma oozing from him than all the other men in my life combined.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?”

This stops my erratically beating heart cold. My name? Shit. I managed to buy myself an unguarded night alone and dress saucy, but I was supposed to have a name and drink planned too? He watches me with gauging intent, sparing me no time to think, so I spew out the first thing that comes to mind—a flash of the blonde bimbo decked out in a pink mini-dress I saw when I arrived my inspiration.

“Barbie.”

His lips twitch but he doesn’t laugh. “Barbie,” he repeats in low, entertained question, his eyes glistening with humor and disbelief.

Barbie? Fuck, fuck, fuck!How about Nikki or Jamie? Hell, even Debbie would be better than Barbie! I knew I wouldn’t be stellar at this whole charade thing, but damn, I’m exceeding my own doubtful expectations.

“Yeah,” I mumble, deceit cracking my reply as I dart my gaze to the bartender, setting our drinks down in front of us.

“My tab,” Mystery man says and the bartender does the guy “head up” thing in acknowledgement, then leaves just as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Thanks,” I utter, mesmerized by the drink I pick up. Not merely a little umbrella in my tall, slender glass of sunset-colored refreshment, but an orange slice on a tiny sword! Fascinating. And with one trial sip, I have to admit, I completely understand the popularity.

“So, Barbie…” he begins, his amused-laden murmur so close I clearly hear it over the music without even trying. He pauses for a swig of his drink then settles his hand on my bare knee. “You looking for a Ken?”

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