After six years in Maine, I was back in New York.
To me, coming home felt like starting over. Again. Life had handed me a reset button for the third time—and I planned to hit it hard.
I had just finished unpacking when my phone buzzed in the kitchen. Like the klutz I am, I tripped over a box, dodged a landmine of bubble wrap, and grabbed it just in time.
"Hello?"
There was a pause, then a crisp female voice answered.
"Hi, this is the secretary for Mr. Simmons at Mallzen Corporation. I'm calling to inform Miss Jackson that her start date is tomorrow."
I froze, then nearly screamed. "Oh my God, thank you! Please tell Mr. Simmons he won't regret it!"
She hung up without a word, but I didn't care—I was on top of the world.
I grabbed the bottle of red I'd been saving for a "someday," popped the cork, and poured two glasses—one for celebration, one for survival. I sipped, spun in a circle, and laughed out loud.
Then I called my sister.
"Lydia, guess what? I start tomorrow. Can you believe it?"
"I'm happy for you," she said dryly, "but I've got to go."
Click.
I stared at my phone, lips parted, but whatever. I was still glowing.
Later that night, I found a low-lit bar a few blocks away. The music was soft, the air smelled like whiskey and leather, and I took a seat at the bar.
"One White Russian, please."
"That's an unexpected choice," came a voice like bourbon—smooth and deep—next to me.
I turned and saw him. Blue eyes. Tall. Dangerous in a suit that fit him like sin.
"That's one bold drink for someone your size," he added with a smirk.
I grinned and slid a seat closer. "I can handle about four of these before I feel anything."
He tilted his head, eyes roaming unapologetically. "Then I bet you can handle a lot more than that."
My body responded before my mind caught up. He oozed confidence and danger. I was already hooked.
"Is that a challenge, handsome?"
He leaned in, voice lower. "Not yet. But when a woman like you starts flirting, I take it seriously."
I blinked. A woman like me?
He turned to the bartender. "Vodka shots. Five each."
I leaned on the bar, watching him like he was already mine. "What's the game?"
"If you win," he said, "you get to choose what happens next. If I win, I get your number... and your attention."
I smirked, leaned in so close our noses almost touched. "If I win, we go back to your place."
His grin was wicked. "Deal."
"I'm Alaina."
"Aaron." He took my hand and kissed the back of it—like we were in some old black-and-white movie. But his eyes told me he wasn't here to play games.
We downed the shots one after another, laughing, teasing, until I lost count—and Aaron lost. Badly.
He looked at me, flushed and grinning. "You're dangerous."
"You have no idea."
He stood, threw some bills on the bar, and offered his hand. I hesitated just long enough to remember I was supposed to be careful. Then I took it anyway.
The car that pulled up was black and sleek. A driver got out and opened the door like Aaron owned the city.
"This is... a lot," I muttered, sliding in.
"What, the car?" he said, amused. "You haven't seen 'a lot' yet."
As I tried to get comfortable, my hand landed in his lap. I froze.
His jaw tightened. "Don't tease if you're not ready to be handled."
"I'm not teasing," I said, heart pounding.
That was all it took. He grabbed my chin and kissed me, deep and hungry. His hand gripped my thigh hard, pulling me against him, and for a second I forgot we weren't alone.
The car stopped, but we didn't. Not until his phone buzzed.
He pulled back with a growl, annoyed. "Yeah?" he answered. "Jake, I'll call you after the meeting tomorrow."
He hung up, eyes locked on me.
"You still want this?" he asked, voice rough.
I nodded.
"Good. Because I'm not half-assing anything tonight."
The elevator ride to his place was a blur. I barely remember the hallway, only the weight of his hand gripping mine like he wasn't letting go.
Once we were inside, I dropped my bag—and he had me up against the door in seconds.
My shirt was gone. His hands were on my waist, my hips, gripping tight like he owned every inch. He picked me up and carried me down the hall, mouth on my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
He laid me on the bed and stepped back to undress, eyes fixed on me the entire time.
"Take your clothes off," he said.
I obeyed without thinking. Something in his tone left no room for question.
He leaned over me, kissed down my stomach, then slipped his fingers inside me so slow I whimpered.
"You're already shaking," he said in a low voice, proud. "You sure you're ready?"
"Hell yes," I breathed.
He ripped my panties off with a single, controlled pull. Then he reached into the drawer beside the bed, tore open a condom, and rolled it on without breaking eye contact.
He flipped me over, pinned my wrists down, and kissed my spine, my shoulder, the side of my neck—soft, slow, torturous.
Then he pushed inside me.
I moaned so loud I startled myself. He moved with force, each thrust deliberate, like he was proving a point—like he was claiming me.
He tugged my hair gently, pulled my hips up higher, and whispered against my ear.
"Take it. Just like that."
And I did.
My body was trembling under his, every nerve on fire. He growled as he moved faster, deeper, owning me in every sense of the word.
When I finally collapsed under him, boneless and breathless, he kissed the back of my shoulder and whispered something I didn't catch.
I just knew I didn't want to leave.
And I had no idea what was coming tomorrow.