When Anna Daniels decides to travel across the ocean to London, she has only one thing in mind: to finally meet the man who haunts her dreams and seems to know her more than she knows herself.
They have one night to live out every fantasy. Fulfill every desire. And then...they have sworn to walk away.
But will she be able to keep up her end of the bargain after just one night with him? Or will she be left chasing the delirium of his memory?
The sound of my phone chirping once again has me running back to the bed.
“Meet me in the restaurant downstairs? One hour?”
My heart falls to my feet. All the blood rushes to my head. This is it. One hour. In one hour. I pace back and forth, shoving my hair behind my ears, looking in the mirror, walking back to the window, staring at the view, knowing he’s somewhere out there in the darkness. I giggle again as I message him back.
I laugh at the short and relatively calm message. Unlike me, a bag of nerves. All the talks we’ve had. All the intimate moments. All the sexual fantasies, desires, need. All those nights having to please myself after talking to him. All of it about to come true.
I need to get it together. If he knew I was out of control, for even a second, he’d stop it. Cancel everything. I know he would. I have to keep it together. One night is all I have, and I need it. I need to take it back with me. To have in those dark, lonely nights.
After I bath and towel myself dry, I slowly slather my freshly shaved legs with shea butter then cover my entire body in the silky cream that smells of red peonies and vanilla. Within moments, I catch myself again visualizing his hands caressing me, falling under his spell his eyes lazily drink me in. When my hands linger between my thighs, I suck in a breath and stand, my wet hair teasing my skin as it trails down my back.
I wrap the towel around myself and make my way back to the bed, collapsing across it. Pushing away all the thoughts beginning to cloud my judgement, I unzip my suitcase and pull out my red lace panties and garter with matching bra. I smile as I let the satin fabric of the bra brush against my skin. He likes red. He’s getting red. In the skimpiest of proportions.
Reaching for the dress I’d brought with me, I grin again, remembering how many stores I’d been to, trying to find the perfect one. The little black dress that will make him weak in the knees or get his cock rising as soon as he sees me in it. That’s what I was going for. Store after store, dress after dress until I found the one that even got me wet when I saw my reflection in the mirror.
It’s a simple black dress—yet it nearly reveals my ass. It’s risqué, without a doubt. And perfect. After sliding it on, I position my breasts until they’re practically spilling out of the low-cut crisscross front and smirk devilishly.
After finishing my hair, letting the loose curls fall naturally, I gloss my lips with another coat of fuck-me red, spritz my favorite perfume between my breasts and across my neck, and stare at my reflection. The voice of reason tries to escape the shadows again, but sheer desire kicks her back into the dungeon. I slide on my black stilettos with the red bottoms then grab my cell and keycard and make my way out the door.
Jenny Hayut lives in Virginia with her husband and two children, along with their shelter rescue, Georgia, an extremely spoiled beagle mix.
Her love of writing began in elementary school and continued through high school, where she enjoyed writing quirky articles for the school newspaper and poetry for the literary magazine.
In her free time while she’s not people watching and plotting to kill a character off, she’s outdoors. Following a trail in the woods, reading a book on the beach, or attempting to plant flowers in her so called garden. And baklava...yeah...brings her to her knees.