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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. She was the number one office administrator in West Florida, dammit! She should be reigning supreme in the office. Too bad nepotism, misogyny, and cocaine were the order of the day at Sharp Image Marketing. She hated her job, 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. He could burn in hell for all she cared, and she wished he would. It was where he belonged. And she certainly wasn’t touching the money in her other bank account, the account her brother was adamant about her using. The money her mother had left to her children. The money Sallina considered blood money.
Whenever her brother Alejandro—AJ—tried talking to her about using that money, she felt the urge to punch him in the throat—beloved older brother or not. He just didn’t get it. He didn’t understand what the money represented—the fact that their mother had chosen death over them. AJ didn’t understand that the money wouldn’t even be there if their mother hadn’t been planning it all along…planning her death all along. AJ didn’t—couldn’t—understand that Sally had escaped the terror of their father…leaving their mother behind.
He never will….
So, she’d boo-hiss at the money as long as it was there. Untouched. Ignored. Hated. Like her mother had been at the end.
Tossing her jangling ball of keys into the ceramic bowl on the entry table, she shucked her stilettos, her plum-colored suit coat, and her faux Fendi purse right where she was standing, and shuffled into the kitchen where wine, glorious wine, was chilling for her in the fridge. Her feet, which were used to the abuse of all-day heels, still enjoyed the cooling sensation of the hardwood floors, a feature she’d demanded be installed before she purchased the apartment. Carpets required cleaning, tiles had grout that could look grimy, but hardwoods were a classy statement. And she loved making statements.
At least she used to. Now, she was all about comfort.
When did I become that woman? The one who felt…over it?
At twenty-six, she should still be living the life, right? She should be dropping her work shit, throwing on a slinky dress and strappy heels, and hitting the nightclubs in nearby Tampa. But now…all she wanted to do was stuff herself into yoga pants, wallow in an oversized sweater, and wine and dine herself. White Zinfandel and a Marie Callendar’s Cheesy Chicken and Rice meal.
Aw, that’s the life….
Groaning, she leaned against the counter and tried not to recount the day from hell she’d just endured. It wasn’t just the long day dealing with assholes that had sapped the energy from her usual energetic self. 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, 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. And…that was another reason for her shit day.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. The man from Happy Jack’s. The man who’d grinned at her from across the bar like a wolf on the prowl. The man who’d charmed the hell out of her with his humor, his playful arrogance, and his intelligence. The man who’d seemed to peer deep down into her soul and found…a connection. The man who’d rocked her body, tilted her world, and then…disappeared.
Heaving a sigh, she did what she should have done that morning: she focused, grit her teeth, and said, “Fuck it.”
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 three nights ago, flashed by.
She didn’t know his name, didn’t know where he was from—if he was a local, just visiting, or new in town. But, damn him, she wanted to know now, even though the chance of ever seeing him again was about as good as her getting a promotion.
Never going to happen.
Again, memories of him…the way he touched her; his tongue on her neck, his teeth teasing her nipples, his lips fucking her mouth, his long, thick cock sliding into her….
She shuddered, her body re-tuning itself to a new, deeper vibration.
Shit.
And it wasn’t just what he did with his body that wrecked her; the wrecking began even before he laid a finger on her. It took a single glance—that’s it. The man was beautiful. His ink-black hair, styled like a GQ model. His shocking green eyes that spoke of pleasure. Beneath his well-tailored black suit, a body, big, taut, and hard that made her mouth water and her lady bits tingle. A face chiseled from perfection and masculine sensuality, complete with lips made for filthy words and even filthier kisses.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he enthralled her. The surprisingly interesting and intelligent conversation should have been a warning sign that she was getting a little deeper than she should for a one-night hookup. When he asked a question, he listened to the answer and then asked another question. And she did the same in return. They’d sat at the bar for three hours after their gazes met across the room, their drinks gone dry, as they chose conversation over booze. No, they hadn’t shared anything immediately personal like names, occupations, or credit card numbers—she was far more cautious than that as a single woman in the 21st century, but what they did talk about showed her that conversation between them was easy. Like she could talk with him forever. And she’d realized—startlingly—that she’d wanted that, to talk to him forever. Which was a first to someone who preferred orgasms over chit-chat. Not that what they shared was as hallow as superficial chatter. No. What they’d shared was as deep and mystifying…as though they could peer into each other’s souls and see the truth.
And that’s why she let him into her apartment—something she’d never done before. Yes, she had an active sex life; hookups and one-night stands several times a month, but they always went back to his place or hit up the local Marriot for the night. Letting a man into her home crossed too many lines; letting him into her private life, her sanctuary, the very heart and soul of what made her Sallina Mendez.
But she’d let him in. She’d thrown open the door and followed him across the threshold, but she hadn’t had a moment to think too deeply about it because he’d backed her up against the door and devoured her.
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.
