Just One Night (Tantalizing Trope Novella Book 2) Read online

  Just One Night by Dee Ellis

  © 2018 by Dee Ellis. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Cover Design: Dee Ellis for Indies Ink

  Interior Design: Dee Ellis for Indies Ink

  Publisher: Hummingbird Press

  First Edition

  Ella

  Knox

  Ella

  Knox

  Ella

  Knox

  Ella

  Knox

  Ella

  Knox

  Ella

  Ella

  Walking through the park might be the best part of my day. I start my day that way and end it the same. I cut though the lush green walking path in an effort to ground me a little. Feel at one with the earth. Or something like that.

  It adds a few moments to my walk. But that means less time on the subway, and less time at home in my shoebox of an apartment. Where no one but my cat Bilbo waits for me, demanding fancy feast and copious cuddles.

  Gray skies make for a gloomy day but I still take on my way home. I wander through the footpath, admiring the flowers dotting the landscape. A glitter of something catches my eye right before I step off the path and onto the street. Bending, I swipe my skirt between my legs and lean over to check it out. A smart phone.

  “Someone dropped their phone.” I announce to no one. Actually, I look around the path as I pick it up, trying to spot who it might belong to.

  No one is in sight so I pick it up, hoping to find a way to return it. I shove it in my messenger bag and head towards the subway as a few fat raindrops fall. I rush through the tunnel and hit the subway entrance just as it turns to a downpour. Shaking the rain off my peasant's blouse, I laugh as I brush a hand through my damp hair. It will be ruined now; instead of the silky smooth layers my flat iron tamed it into, it will curl up in waves I can barely manage. Oh well.

  Finding a seat on the car just before the doors close, I wonder how long the rain will last. Then I wonder if I left my bedroom window open like I usually do. Bilbo likes to converse with the neighborhood cats. Never leaves, though. Sits his chunky ass on the window sill, doling out his thoughts to any tomcat that stops to listen.

  When my phone rings, I suddenly remember finding the lost phone in the park. Instead of answering my phone—knowing it could be only one person--I pull out the large smart phone, frowning at it. Wrapped in an expensive looking leather case, it doesn't look damaged. Touching the screen, a request for the access lock code comes up. A sleek metallic logo is the background but I don't recognize it.

  “Let me try just once.” I cock my head, considering a code; going with the obvious, I hit four zeros.

  It unlocks.

  I laugh out loud, oblivious to the other passengers side-eying me for the triumphant giggle. Just as I swipe to the contacts section, looking for some answer as to who it might belong to, the car whooshes to a stop. Grumbling, I shove the phone back in my bag beside my own. Seeing the missed call on my screen, my mood sours even more.

  “Of course.” I mumble, snaking through the crowd to head home.

  Taking my time in the rain without an umbrella, I look like a madwoman. I don't care, of course. I love the rain, something about it refreshes me. Walks through lush parks, strolls through the pouring rain, anything that makes me feel alive, connected to the earth, it somehow soothes my soul.

  New York is loud, congested, crowded and everything is in shades of gray. I moved here two years ago for all the wrong reasons. I stay because I found a job I love teaching dance, something I would never find back home in Ohio. I don't like much about the city, but I'm finding a few things I do. Like the hot dog stand at the end of my block which I stop at for dinner.

  “Evening, Ella.” Morty, the vendor, stands safely beneath his huge red and white stripped umbrella, serving the few of us crazy enough to brave the rain.

  “Fine night out, huh Morty? Give me two of the usual, please.” I dig cash out, adding a nice tip as he makes my cheese covered hot dog dinner for me.

  Passing me a bottle of soda, he tries to give me change like always but I wave it away and dance through the puddles. When I push into my building, I let out a whoot of laughter as I shake out my ruined hair. I carefully pull the cheesy goodness of my hot dogs out from beneath my jacket. Score, no ruined buns or watered down cheese.

  “Evening Mrs. Gardner.” I shout as I pass the door on the bottom floor. She pounds back an answer and I smile, taking the two flights of stairs to my place.

  Once I get my key to stop sticking, I shove into my apartment, dancing around Bilbo as he tries to tangle himself in my feet. Smart cat. Trips me up, makes me feel guilty for stumbling over him so I reward him with snacks. Not today, Bilbo. Not today.

  Dropping my bag at the couch, I set my food on the counter, taking my jacket off to hang it over one of the bar stools there. Although I gripe about my place, it's clean, in a decent neighborhood and it is all mine. From the pastel painted walls to the mermaid themed bathroom. It's not Springboro, but it's not so bad.

  I kick off my flats and step from my skirt, peeling out of my leggings and bodysuit. Snagging my night shirt off the hook I hung it on this morning. It's not a night shirt, really. It’s the one memento I hold on to from he-who-shall-not-be-named. A worn old jersey he let me wear our first weekend together. Ah, memories. Yech.

  “You better not be on that counter, Bilbo!” I shout as I head back down the hallway, just catching him darting down from said counter. Little jerk.

  Two tiny nibbles are gone from one of the buns. I tear off the chunk and toss it at him, sticking my tongue out when he looks at me as if that's not sufficient. Grabbing my drink, I head to the couch to settle in for a night of terrible television.

  Just as I turn on my current obsession, Outlander, my phone starts to ring. I have zero intentions of answering it, but it reminds me of the lost phone. I grab both, making a face at the number I should just block flashing on my screen.

  Tossing my phone aside carelessly, I cross my legs as I take my first bite of nitrates and sodium phosphate dinner. Careful of the cheese dripping down my thumb, I put in the lock code I can't believe someone foolishly uses. The phone comes to life, and I set it on the pillow resting between my crossed legs, staring at it.

  “Gotta find out who it belongs to if you want to return it, genius.” It is not uncommon for me to converse with myself. Sometimes in two sided conversations, in fact. Gotta be better than talking to Bilbo.

  Sliding my thumb over icons until I find the contact list, I look for some answers. Lots of contacts fill the list; none say home or office or even a wife or husband. Deciding perhaps there are answers in the email, I go there. Its password protected, however, and the simple code that unlocked the phone does not let me in to emails. Darn.

  “Someone's missing a phone. I would call my phone if I lost it. Looks like we wait.” I shrug a shoulder and turn back to Outlander.

  Except, I can see that fancy smart phone sitting beside mine on the coffee table. Something about the two of them sitting there makes me itchy. Curious. I reach out, snatching it back up again. Swallowing back a bit of guilt, I go to the photos. Hotel rooms. Hotel fronts. Lots and lots of hotels. What the shit? Fancy places with elaborate suites. Amazing views. A few shots of swanky bedrooms with beds that look incredibly inviting.

  “Who is t
his guy?” Not sure why I decide it's a guy.

  Until I swipe again. I gasp. Actually gasp out loud, a hand flying to my mouth.

  Steam fills most the image, but in the mirror, a man stands. A naked man. A beautiful, ripped, Adonis of a man. It's a mirror selfie, steam wiped from the foggy mirror in a strip wide enough to capture his perfection.

  Dark hair, wet from a shower, frames his handsome face. Wide, muscled shoulders and defined chest tapers down to a slender waist. And abs. A mountain range of abs. A dark trail of hair leading from his navel disappears from the shot. Oh shit. He's naked! Nothing makes it into the image but just knowing it makes me flush.

  One muscled arm is bent to hold the phone, a smirk at his full lips, perfect white teeth sinking into the bottom one. Makes me want to bite it. Besides a defined jaw and a straight nose, his face is hidden a little behind the phone. But, I've seen enough.

  “You're a creeper, Ella Foster. Fucking creeper.” I lock the phone and toss it aside as if the image burnt me.

  Truthfully, it kind of did. Between my legs, at least. It's been months--no almost a year--since a man touched me. Since I wanted a man to touch me. I get by with a little help from my DJ skills, but it’s not the same. Nothing like the weight of a man, the press of him on top of you, inside you, behind you. And now I'm horny.

  Flicking from Outlander to Vikings, knowing the latter will not help my situation, I ignore it. Ignore the throbbing growing between my legs. Until a flash of that photo comes to life in my head. Except, unlike the photo, selfie-guy is not alone. Oh no. I'm there, too.

  Stepping out of the shower after him. Wet. Naked. Ready. I move behind him, just visible above his broad shoulder. His smile widens. He reaches behind him, pressing my naked skin to his. A groan rumbles through him. Tugging me to his side, he takes another photo. Of him holding me, arm banded over my breasts, head dropped to my shoulder. My head lies back against his opposite shoulder as we post naked for the shot.

  Here and now, I hike up the long jersey hem, skimming my hand between my thighs. Of course. Wet. Tipping my head back as I stretch out on the couch, letting my legs spread wider, I reach for the phone again. Tapping in the code with fast fingers, I get to the photo in a few seconds.

  I imagine him dropping his hand down between my legs. Oh yes. Just there. Flicking the camera to video as he films it. Captures the sounds I make as he slides thick, skilled fingers between my legs. Coating them in the stickiness he finds. Shoving inside without hesitation. I cry out, arching into his touch as he steadies me with a strong arm.

  Watching me in the mirror and the camera on his phone, he strokes me, teases me, drives me right to the edge. I am so close. I feel it building. Feel it crashing against my walls, wide and deep. And then, just when I am ready to come, he drops his hand, hooking my leg up onto the vanity. Still filming, he plunges inside me from behind.

  “Oh fuck.” I cry out for real, imagining how hot it would be as he filmed us fucking in the mirror, making me come so easy it should be embarrassing.

  And it kind of is, I decide as I come back down from my actual orgasm, my fingers still rubbing it out against my sensitive clit. Bilbo watches me from his perch on the table, shaming me. I laugh out loud, throwing the last bite of my hotdog at him to shut him up.

  “Fuck you, Bilbo. Mother has needs.” I laugh again, locking the phone once more, a little shamed I used a stranger’s selfie to get off to.

  Oh well.

  It's not like he might ever know, whoever he is. Not like I might answer the phone if he calls looking for it, “Yeah, found it in the park, Good Sir. Tossed one off to that little mirror selfie of yours. Thank you kindly.” I laugh again, turning back to my show.

  It's times like this, I realize why I am single.

  Levity is broken as I scold myself. Not true. I am single because men are disappointments waiting to show you how shitty life can be. At least, in my personal experience.

  My father spent most my life reminding me I was an unwanted mistake. A trucker who drove across country, he bedded the wrong waitress at the wrong time and got her pregnant. Never even bothered to put a ring on it. After he blew out, my mother kind of did too. Only, she stuck around, she was just never really there anymore.

  Might have left me with abandonment issues. Made me a bit clingy. Maybe.

  He seemed to think so. Thought I wanted too much time, too much attention. Thought it was crazy that when I caught him texting other women--things he never said to me--I got upset over it. Said being jealous was juvenile. We had a solid thing going, he would always say.

  Solid. Not important or exciting or special. Solid.

  Not solid enough because the texting became photos that became phone calls that became long weekends away. I am no idiot. I might have pretended to be one for a lot longer than I am proud of. I knew. Of course, I knew.

  I moved to New York because of him. Because he got a good marketing job at some firm, he'd had a hard-on for since we were in college. Yeah, college sweethearts. How pathetic. I came with him without a plan for myself, other than to be his partner in life. What a fucking joke.

  We got a nice place in a part of town I was certain we couldn't afford. At first, things were good. He liked his job, liked coming home to me making the place into a home. Doing my best, at least. Not like I had experience at what a home was really like. And, I think that's why he chose me.

  Because I had nothing, no way to compare what was good or bad. As far as he was concerned, climbing atop me and rutting for a few minutes a couple times a month or dinner out when he felt like being generous were good enough. Shouldn't matter to me—some charity case he thought he could turn into a docile housewife—what he did with the rest of his time. Or who he did, rather.

  Moving to New York had been for him. Living in New York became about me. Learning my way around the massive city had done more than taught me to become self-sufficient. It had broadened my horizons to the opportunities waiting out there. It was exciting to try new things, eat new foods, meet new people.

  Once I took chances, got out there in the city, I realized how little I had expected from him. How little I got. When I realized our place was subsidized by the wife of his boss—because he was her side bitch as it were—I decided I was done accepting bare minimum from a man who couldn't even make me come.

  “I came for you, but I never come for you. Life might not be just about pleasure but it certainly ain't just about pain either.” I am still proud of the snarky parting comments I left him with as I moved out almost ten months ago.

  Fast forward through getting a new place of my own, a job I loved and making a few friends, I was in a much better place. A good place. And hell, I was even coming these days.

  Even if it was thanks to a stranger's sexy selfie.

  As I think it, the phone buzzes across the table. I pick it up, reading the message displayed there.

  “Lost my phone. Reward if you return it. Call me. 555-8675.” Darn it. Looks like sexy selfie wants his phone back after all.

  Swiping it open once more, I decide one more look can't hurt.

  “How wrong you always are, Ella.” I chastise myself.

  At second glance sexy stranger has grown hotter exponentially.

  What's this? More selfies? Hundreds more? In flashy cars and on a boat. On a freaking boat? In more hotel rooms, each nicer than the last. All nicer than my apartment. Seems he takes a mirror selfie in nearly every one of them. Either he's a world traveler or a high-priced prostitute.

  “I would not judge you for either, handsome.... oh, holy hell!” My smirk becomes a gasp as I thumb to the next photo.

  Oh, what have you done to yourself, Ella?

  Naked. Adonis.

  Naked Adonis in silk sheets. A healthy handful of man steak fills his hand as he smirks at whomever he might take such a photo for.

  “Praise Jesus. Someone's a lucky girl. Or guy, I suppose. Whoever is on the receiving end of that business is lucky. Christ.” I giggle
at myself before guilt cuts my smile in half. Fucking creeper.

  Texting selfie stranger back, I suggest we meet tomorrow so he can get his phone back. Save yourself from creeper Ella, selfie stranger!

  Knox

  “Found your phone, Good Sir. Will meet to return. Name time, place. No reward needed.” I smiled at the text message lighting up my screen.

  Thank Christ.

  Need to get that phone back. Leave it to me to lose my personal phone, not my business cell. Not the one chocked full of boring business contacts and my jam-packed schedule. Still had that one.

  Oh, no. No, I lost my other phone. My personal cell. My very personal cell.

  Yeah... the one I scope out new prospects with, take shots of competition hotels. And, my junk. Lots and lots of shots of my junk. Naked. In the shower. Flexing. Doing things. Like plowing a few pussies.

  In live action, too.

  I scrub my hand down my face, regretting that fact.

  It's always their idea. I swear. Take a video of you fucking me. Take a video of you eating me out. Send me photos of that perfect cock. Tell me what that beast will do to me. What can I say? I bring it out in them.

  I am a fucking idiot for playing that reckless game. Too old for it, too. But, I like women, I like sex and I like to take photos. Truthfully, both my phones are full of photos and I have flash drives full of more. It's my second passion.

  First would be building a hotel empire with my best friend.

  Maybe photos are my third passion.

  Second? Plowing pussies.

  “Knox! You hear me, dick?” I smirk, catching the pen my best friend, Taylor Lassiter, throws at my head. Too slow, this kid.

  “I did not. Someone found my phone. I am setting up a meet to get it back.” My fingers fly across the screen, responding to the text message from last night. Good Sir. I like that. It's cute.

  “Meet at Grind at 50th and Lexington? Four o'clock tomorrow?” I glance at my watch, noting the flight we're headed out on in an hour. Otherwise, it would be today.