Michael Pietersen isn’t up for complications. He’s one of Sydney’s fastest-moving career-focused corporate realtors, and the only thing he has time for is one-night stands with zero fuss.
Bryson Schroeder’s back home from two years overseas with plans to leave his family’s hotel empire and begin his own business ventures. Out with his friends to celebrate his return, he sees a gorgeous blond man across the bar, and with barely a smile and a raised eyebrow, they leave together for a night of incredible chemistry.
But the rules are clear: no names, no details, no complications.
But one night becomes one more night, and eventually the arrangement suits them both for weeks . . . until their professional and personal worlds collide. With their hearts already on the line, Michael and Bry need to decide just how complicated they want to get.
I was happy not knowing his name. It didn’t add to the mystery or play out like a movie in my head. Simply put, the less I knew, the less complicated it was. Our arrangement was purely sex. And what awesome sex it was.
I didn’t need to know his name.
But there was a niggling part of me that wondered . . . like a pulled thread that could unravel the whole thing. Would knowing his name make it personal on some level? Or did it make no difference at all?
Goddammit.
Now I was thinking about it.
And the truth was, he knew where I lived. It wouldn’t be too hard for him to find out my name . . . What if he knew my name already?
Okay, so what if he did?
I wasn’t hiding anything. It wasn’t like he could use our arrangement against me.
But maybe he wasn’t so lucky. Maybe he wasn’t out at work or at home. His friends at the bar certainly knew he was into guys, and they clearly had no issue with it. But maybe he wasn’t in a position to be outed in some aspect of his life. Not everyone had the privilege of zero ramifications of their personal and professional lives colliding.
No. I wouldn’t ask him his name.
I’d just have to make up a name for him instead.
I could just go with the obvious like Mr Ed for his horse dick. Or I could call him Friday at Nine. Or maybe The Clash for his T-shirt, or Ticklish, or Sexy as Hell, or Cutest Laugh.
Or maybe I could call him Late.
Because nine o’clock on Friday night came and went with no sign of him.
Five past nine, still no sign. Ten past nine and I decided to put my robe on because I felt foolish for wanting to be naked when I opened the door.
Like he’d asked me to be.
Fifteen past and I considered going out but quickly shot that down because I couldn’t be arsed getting dressed. I poured myself a drink and resigned myself to not having three orgasms wrung out of me. I might just have to settle for some porn and a wank.
By twenty past nine, I’d had a second vodka and was trying not to be pissed off. Disappointed, yes. But anger was a futile emotion, or so I told myself. Why get angry and expend all that energy and emotional output when you could just not care? It was easier not to care.
I was glad I never knew his name.
But then at 9:26, my intercom buzzed.
I checked the security camera. It was him, and after very briefly entertaining the idea of pretending not to be home, I buzzed him through.
I waited by the door and pulled my robe around me tight. He knocked once and I opened the door. He was wearing tight jeans, a shirt with The Killers on it, and an apologetic smile. “You’re late,” I said flatly.
He looked me up and down before meeting my eyes. “And you’re not naked.”
“I was. At nine.”
He smiled but it was tight and forced. “Sorry. I got . . . caught up.”
Upon closer inspection, he looked tired and a little down. Which, for some strange reason, made me feel bad. I stood aside. “Come in.” I closed the door behind him and followed him toward the kitchen counter, to where the bottle of vodka sat with my drink and one empty glass. “Drink?”
He hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”
I poured him a healthy nip and handed it over. “For you.”
He managed a more genuine smile. “Thanks. And I am sorry I’m late. It’s um, it’s been a long week and I lost track of time.”
“It’s okay,” I said, sipping my vodka. “I’m not really mad.”
“I would have shot you a text or something,” he said, looking out the wall of glass to the harbour. “But I don’t have your number.”
Oh shit.
“Do you want my number?”
“Well, it would have saved you putting on your robe.”
I snorted. “Right.”
“And then you still would have answered the door naked.”
I laughed. “True.”
God, were we going to exchange numbers?
“You can have my number on one condition,” I said.
“And what’s that?”
“That we text only. Unless it’s an emergency or whatever.”
“An emergency like what?” He smiled behind his drink. “Like you not being naked when you answer the door?”
“I’m beginning to think the robe is an issue for you?”
He looked me up and down again. “I mean, it’s very nice. Versace, right?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.” But getting back to the number exchange . . . I picked up my phone. “What’s your number?”
He smiled as he ran it off to me, and I entered it in and shot him a quick text. Nice shirt.
His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket. He smiled when he read the message. He replied. You’re still wearing the robe.
I chuckled. “Just so you know, I’m saving your name in my phone as SAF.”
“Saf? What does that mean?”
“Sexy as fuck.”
He sipped his vodka, smiling. “And I’m saving yours as Still Wearing the Fucking Robe.”
Sounds interesting.
ReplyDeletesounds so good.
ReplyDeleteRelationships are so messy.
ReplyDeleteMichael and Bry sound like interesting characters! I’d love to read their story!
ReplyDeleteI am always interested in learning about new books that I might want to read.
ReplyDeleteThis book sounds very intriguing. Thanks!
ReplyDeletebest of luck with the book.
ReplyDelete