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Looking in the mirror, I tug on the tight, red mini dress that I’m wearing. It’s hugging my h*ps like a glove, and my br**sts are practically spilling out. The only good thing is that the color goes wonderfully with my raven-colored hair and green eyes.
“I look like a slut,” I complain to Macy.
She comes to stand behind me, perusing my appearance. “Exactly! That’s just what I was going for. ”
Turning to her with pleading eyes, I say, “I can’t go through with this. I was drunk when I agreed to it. ”
Macy’s blue eyes alight with mischief as she takes me by the shoulders, turning me back around to the mirror. She looks at me in the reflection. “Yet you agreed all the same, McKayla, and you only have five minutes left before you have to leave to meet your date. Now, go put on that sexy red lipstick to match your dress. ”
Date.
Funny word for what this is.
Two weeks ago, in a moment of drunken despair over losing my boyfriend of three years, Macy talked me into trying this exclusive and discreet service that she was a member of. It was called One Night Only, and it catered to the rich and sexually depraved of New York’s finest. Macy had been a proud member for the past two years and swore by it.
But then again, Macy is. . . well, Macy. She is my dearest friend in the world, my roommate for the past six years, and perhaps the weirdest, most ostentatious, and most deviant socialite that New York has ever seen. She graduated from Columbia with me, earning a political science degree that she had no intention of ever using. While I went on to schlep my way through Columbia’s law school program over the next three years, Macy was on the hunt for the future Mr. Macy Carrington.
That’s right… she expects her husband to take her name and refer to himself that way. Her qualifications are clear. He has to be equally as rich as her, wouldn’t mind her taking the occasional lover, and would need to treat her like the queen she believes herself to be.
Until that time, she is happy spending her nights partying and getting her rocks off—her words, not mine—through One Night Only.
Back to that.
It’s a service that is highly secretive, but in major demand. It caters to those people that are looking for one-night stands with a partner who is matched to their specifications and guaranteed disease free. Macy pays an exorbitant amount of her inheritance each month for club benefits, which usually means she’s going on a different “date” at least four times a week.
That puts her square in the category of skankerific, but I still love her more than I love the air I breathe. Macy and I have been together through thick and thin, ups and downs, love and betrayal. She’s stood by me when no one else would, and I give her the love and acceptance she’s never had from her emotionally cold, but uber wealthy parents.
Macy has her quirks—her deviant behavior, for one—but there has never been a more loyal person to me in the world. Besides that, she’s let me live in her Manhattan penthouse apartment dirt cheap for the last six years because I was a poor and impoverished undergrad, and now I’m a poor and impoverished attorney. I graduated from law school a year ago with a crappy job that keeps me busy eighty hours a week and a $120,000 in law school loans that will take me until I am seventy to pay off.
Taking the lipstick from my makeup drawer, I coat my lips with the Hooker Red stain and brush some gloss over them. Even though I’m having major second thoughts about what I’m getting ready to do, there’s also a part of me—deep down—that is thrilled to be doing something so far out of my comfort zone…
Having a one-night stand.
I wouldn’t be in this position had my boyfriend, Pete—aka the Douche—not ripped my heart out six months ago. Over what was, I thought, a romantic dinner that would result in a marriage proposal, he ended up telling me that he wanted to break up. Something about wanting to travel the world as a wildlife photographer and not wanting to be pinned down. I thought that was weird… seeing as how I don’t even think he owned a camera.
So I said goodbye to the Douche, immersed myself in misery and work, and yes, in a night of complete drunkenness, agreed to Macy’s idea that I join One Night Only… at her expense, of course.
By the time I woke up the next morning, with a raging headache and puke in my throat, Macy had me signed up. A simple physical and blood test later, and I was a full-fledged member.
Now I have a date with Number 134—a tall, gorgeous hunk of a man that is supposedly going to put my battery-operated boyfriend to shame tonight. I made sure my application said I was only interested in vanilla sex, and I apparently was matched to someone with the same tastes.
Smacking my lips together, I turn to Macy once more for her final assessment. She gives me the critical eye, running her eyes over me slowly while she taps her finger to her chin. “You are definitely one-hundred percent, perfectly f**kable. ”
Rolling my eyes at her, I pick up my clutch purse and double check my contents. Credit card, iPhone, lip gloss, and Mace.
All a girl could ever wish for on a date.
Date.
Funny word.
Holy shit!
This is it.
No turning back.
I walk into Sullivan’s, a swanky bar on the Upper East Side, where Number 134 suggested we meet. Our communications so far have been limited to one encrypted, anonymous email from Number 134 (him) to Number 3498 (me) setting the date, time, and place. If our membership numbers have been assigned chronologically, then he’s clearly been in the system for a while. He said he’d arrange for the hotel so I didn’t have to worry about it.
As pre-arranged, I went up to the bar and took a seat, ordering a white wine from the bartender. I arrived almost half an hour early, hoping to get one drink under my belt to calm the nerves that were jangling around inside of me.
I want to do this. Despite my hesitations, I really, really want to do this. But it still doesn’t stop me from being nervous over meeting Number 134.
He told me to call him Mike, but that’s not really his name. Everything is about the anonymity, and I told him my name was Stella. I doubt we’d even use the fake names we gave each other. It’s not like we’d be having any deep conversation tonight, and I have no plans to reveal any more identifying information about myself.
As soon as the bartender sets my wine in front of me, I hear, “I’ll pay for that. ”
It’s on my lips to decline… to say that I’m waiting on someone, but when I turn to the voice, I’m assaulted by the decadence that is none other than Number 134 himself.
He’s even more beautiful than his picture, radiating pure magnetism and sex appeal. He’s tall, which is good, because I am, too. But I can tell he’ll tower over my five-nine frame by several inches.
Dark brown hair cropped in a fashionable, yet short style, along with an elegant, dark gray suit. I peg him as a banker or financier. His eyes are golden-brown, more golden than anything. He’s smiling at me in a completely relaxed, but I’m here to f**k you senseless, kind of way, and it manages to show the two dimples he sports on either side of his full lips.
If what’s in his pants is as magnificent as what’s on the outside, I’m going to go to sleep a very happy girl tonight. He’s utterly perfect. Exactly what I need.
Number 134… I mean Mike… hands over his credit card to the bartender, telling him that he’ll have a Jameson neat. I’m surprised, because I didn’t think we’d be staying here long. Idle chitchat, schmoozing, or wooing is not required tonight. Us sleeping together is pretty much a done deal.
Turning to me, Mike sticks out his hand. “Mike… Number 134 at your service, Stella. ”
Giving a light laugh, I place my pal
m against his to shake, but he lifts my hand to his lips to brush a light kiss there. In any other circumstances, it would have been a completely cheesy move, but somehow… Mike owns it, as evidenced by the chills that break out on my arm.
He releases his hold on me, and I rest my arms on the bar. Mike takes the seat next to me, propping one arm on the bar and another on the back of my barstool. Again, under ordinary circumstances, this move would have seemed a little too proprietary for two people that had just met. But given the fact we would be getting vertical—or maybe it would be horizontal, who knows—it seems like a natural move.
“So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I quip.
Mike chuckles and it’s rich and warm, causing me to immediately lose some of my nervousness. “Well,” he says conspiratorially as he leans in toward me, “I heard there was going to be a stunningly ravishing woman at this bar tonight, and I simply had to come out and try to win her. ”
I laugh and take a sip of wine. “I heard about this woman. They say she’s kind of a sure bet, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about. ”
Grinning at me, Mike reaches a finger out to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. It’s an intimate move and one that I find myself very much enjoying. He looks at me, his lips pursed in amusement. “I have to say. I’m beyond pleased with our match. Your picture had me entranced, but it really didn’t do you justice. ”
“You did hear the part where I said I was a sure bet, right? No need to spout compliments. I’m sleeping with you tonight,” I tell him with a return grin.
“Yet, I felt compelled to give it to you all the same. I’m the kind of man that sort of just speaks his mind. ”
“I like that. In fact,” I say, my voice just a tad lower as I lean in toward him, “what exactly is on your mind for tonight?”
It’s so weird how odd this conversation is, yet how natural it feels at the same time. It’s almost liberating… knowing exactly how the night is going to end and doing away with all pretense. I’ve never been a sexually overt person, but tonight—dolled up in my sluttiest dress, with a tiny scrap of lace covering my goods below—knowing that Mike will have his hands all over me soon… Well, it sort of brings out my inner sex kitten.
Mike’s eye’s flare wide over my question, and his smile takes on a more carnal look. He takes the hand that is resting on my barstool and brings it behind my neck, cupping me firmly. Pulling me closer, he leans in, running his lips lightly along my jaw until they are hovering near my ear.
“You want to know what’s on my mind?” he growls, and I nod helplessly.
He places a light kiss below my ear and says, “I’m trying to decide if I want to f**k you in the elevator or wait until we get in the room. Then I’m trying to figure out if I should f**k you missionary or from behind… probably both, and only after I’ve gone down on you. Then it’s always open for debate whether I take you out on the balcony. It’s been a fantasy of mine, you see, and I made sure to reserve a room with a gorgeous view over Central Park tonight. ”
My mouth goes dry, and my tongue slips out to swipe at my lips. Mike pulls back and his eyes are burning with lust, causing my skin to tighten and my legs to involuntarily press tightly together. Turning to the bartender, I hold up my hand, signaling that we’re ready for our check, even though Mike hasn’t even received his drink yet.
I’m in the Twilight Zone.
That must be the reason.
Otherwise, there is no plausible or sane explanation for the wanton behavior that I’m exhibiting right this very moment.
Me… an upstanding member of this community and member of the New York State Bar. A reputable young woman who now stands in an elevator with Mike’s lips roaming my neck and his finger sunk deep inside of me.
He wasted no time as he pushed the button to our floor and the doors closed. He stalked toward me, cupping my head to bring my mouth to his, and his other hand going directly between my legs.
It was a thrilling turn on, causing waves of pleasure to pulse through me, while his tongue dominated mine in the most searing, sexually explosive kiss I had ever been given. His expert hand softly fondled me for a moment, and then he was inside of me, curling his finger in a way that had my knees buckling. He immediately saved the day by pushing one of his legs in between mine to hold me steady.