Bad Night Stand E-Book

Elise Faber

• Herausgeber: Elise Faber
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The man had seemed so innocent in the bar—okay, not innocent, per se. He’d been hot, hard, and possessed a butt that I wanted to bite like the last chocolate chip cookie in my stash.
He’d also skipped out of town faster than a villain in a B movie, leaving me woefully unsatisfied. I’d chalked the whole incident up to a bad night stand and moved on with my life.
That was before the news of a failed IUD. Before the plus sign. Before Jordan showed back up determined to make that night up to me.
I didn’t want a baby or a payday or a sexy, stubborn man in my life. I wanted to go back in time and pretend none of it had happened.
Unfortunately, my life had become all about that plus sign . . . and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Leseprobe

Bad Night Stand

Billionaire’s Club Book 1

Elise Faber

BAD NIGHT STAND

BY ELISE FABER

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

BAD NIGHT STAND

Copyright © 2018 Elise Faber

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-13-5

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-03-6

Cover Art by Jena Brignola

Billionaire’s Club

Bad Night Stand

Bad Breakup

Bad Husband

Bad Hookup

Bad Divorce

Bad Fiancé

Bad Boyfriend

Bad Blind Date

Bad Wedding

Bad Engagement

Bad Bridesmaid

Contents

Billionaire’s Club

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Epilogue

Billionaire’s Club

Also by Elise Faber

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To those with a past. We don’t have to let it define us.

One

Abby

“If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable.”

I swirled the sip of rum and Coke in my mouth in an effort to not spit it all over the bar.

Then I swallowed carefully and rotated my head so I could see my friend Seraphina on the next stool over. She was currently holding court over a group of men.

Beautiful, tall, thin, and with a pair of boobs that could knock someone out—quite literally, they had once rendered a man unconscious. Okay, well, the sight of her impressive cleavage had caused the man to do a double take and promptly run into a large and extremely hard brick pillar in this very bar, but the point was still there. Seraphina was goddess gorgeous, and she was my very best friend.

“Get it?” the man who’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Seraphina asked. “Im-peck-able.”

“She gets it,” I muttered. “It’s just so horribly im-peck-able that only an idiot like you would dare use it.”

Seraphina’s lips turned up at my caustic complaint.

“Hush, you,” she murmured before raising her voice to address the man. “Puns. I do have a certain . . . fondness for them.” Her reply started him talking, drowning on about different languages and double meanings. It might have almost been admirable, the sheer quantity of words orally puking all over our ears, if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.

Whew.

I took another sip of my drink. A bigger one because . . . bitter much?

“I’m sorry,” Seraphina whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why this always happens.”

“You’re Barbie,” I said, bumping her arm with my shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

My friend had that elusive je ne sais quoi. Unspoken charisma that drew men to her like flies to honey.

And if I was being honest, sometimes that made it hard to be her friend.

I didn’t mind being in the background; I preferred it, actually. Given too much attention, I froze and inevitably made a fool out of myself.

But drawing a crowd of slavering men every time we went out made it difficult just to have a drink with my best friend, never mind a full meal.

“I’m sorry,” she said again when Bad-Pun was displaced and another man slid forward in an attempt to claim Seraphina’s attention. “I honestly thought the jacket would help.”

I grimaced. “The jacket is what’s doing it, I think.”

A bomber made of black leather, it hit just beneath her breasts and managed to emphasize both the bounciness of that particular portion of her anatomy and the slimness of her waist.

“Next time, drinks at my place and takeout.”

I saluted her with my glass. “Agree completely.”

“Should we go?” she asked, tilting her head toward the door.

“No.” I nodded at the Y-chromosomes dotting the space around her like flowers in a planter bed. “Prince Charming may be here.”

One blond brow rose. “I doubt it.”

“You’re the one looking for a happily ever after.” I nudged her arm with my own again, knowing my friend was a romantic and, despite her beauty, also very lonely. It was hard for her to find someone who saw her as more than the sum of her parts.

And Seraphina was desperate to be more for someone.

“I’m not so sure happily ever after exists,” she said.

“Oh, it definitely exists.” I held her stare, willing her to believe.

Because happily ever after had to exist.

For some people.

Of the goddess variety.

Because if Seraphina couldn’t find it, then what chance in hell did I have?

Not that I was looking, thank you very much.

I was just fine with my laptop and my cozy socks and my books.

“Now get on finding that HEA,” I said, using the code word from our favorite genre of books—romance, of course. Because what the heck was life without fictional eight-packs and alpha males who actually cared about the women they slept with?

Seraphina bit her lip and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’ll be here to quip nastily about all the bad pickup lines your prince tosses your way.”

She laughed, leaned her head against mine. “You’re the best.”

I smiled, leaned back. “I know.”

Seraphina turned back to her admirers and I pulled out my phone, half reading the latest release from one of our favorite authors, and half listening to my friend charm the socks off everyone around her.

“You’re a good friend.”

The male voice sent a shiver from my head to my toes. It was honey, warm and languid as it slid down my spine and sent my blood pumping.

Which was very, very dangerous.

I sighed. This was always the worst tactic, the most underhanded masculine effort to get my friend’s attention.

Going through the slightly-rumpled, cute-but-definitely-not-gorgeous, exceptionally-clumsy best friend.

It sent my inner sidekick radar on full alert.

Mostly because I’d been hurt this way before.

So “mmm-hmm” was the only thing I said in response.

“Jordan.” A hand appeared directly in front of my face, unfairly positioned between my booze, my book, and my eyes and mouth.

I huffed and finally looked up.

Then promptly felt my lips fall open. Because—holy fucking shit—this guy was gorgeous. Way out of my league, of course. But blond and blue-eyed and hard and tall and ripped. He brought every single Thor fantasy to life—the short-haired, shorn, lightning-bolts-on-the-side-of-his-head version.

Which, face it, was obviously the better variety.

He wore a pair of slacks and a gray button-down that was so sinfully tight around his biceps I half expected it to burst open. I studied those seams for signs of wear. I mean, a girl had to watch out for the rest of humanity, right?

Unfortunately for me, the shirt stayed in place and the signature lightning bolts weren’t present in Jordan’s hair, but his pants were so tight that his hammer—

I shifted on my stool, thighs unconsciously pressing together as blood pooled there.

Which was the exact moment that I remembered he wasn’t there for me.

Damn.

He radiated that same allure as my best friend. Wasn’t life just perfect sometimes? A gorgeous redhead was perched on the stool behind him, leaning forward in an almost obscene pose in order to compete with Seraphina’s cleavage.

She couldn’t, of course.

But it wasn’t just one woman vying for his attention. No, they were dotted around the room, coquettishly blinking at him, crossing and uncrossing legs, adjusting outfits. Even the bartender—female, brunette, beautiful—had chosen to polish glasses two inches from his right elbow.

He was movie star handsome and he . . . was perfect for Seraphina.

“Abigail,” I eventually made myself reply, putting my hand out to shake his.

It wasn’t disappointment curling around my stomach. It couldn’t be, not when Jordan was so stratospherically far out of my league.

He grinned—nice smile, of course—and shook my hand. I suppressed the zing of pleasure that coursed through me at the contact. Instead, I pulled back and hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Her name is Seraphina. She likes cosmos and hates cheesy pickup lines, despite her kindness in accepting them.” I decided to throw him a solid because, really, they were absolutely perfect for each other. “Talk to her about how much you love CSI.”

I tucked my phone into my purse, grabbed my drink, and drained it.

“I hate CSI,” he said, brows pulling down.

“If you want a chance with her, you might want to discover a newfound love for it.”

My legs took a long time to reach the ground—short people problems—but luckily they’d made contact with the wooden surface before Jordan spoke again; otherwise, they might have kept on slithering until I was ass-down on the sticky floor.

“I don’t want a chance with her,” he said. “I want a chance with you.”

My eyes flew up, and I couldn’t help my breath from catching. I wanted that, too. A horizontal, writhing chance. Or hell, vertical. Semi-reclined. I’d take any of it.

My body was very aware of exactly how hot he was.

But then I remembered reality.

“I’m the best friend,” I said and lifted my chin, forcing my words to be matter-of-fact. I’d been through this before. “You might be fuckable to the nth degree and perfect for Seraphina, but I refuse to set her up with a liar.”

In a movement too quick for my brain to process, my stool was shoved to the side and I was pinned against the bar, heavy hips pressing into me, a hard chest two inches from my mouth.

Seraphina whipped around at the movement and I could just see her over Jordan’s shoulder, her blue eyes concerned.

“Hi, Seraphina, I’m Jordan,” he said, calm as can be, gaze locked onto my face then my eyes when mine invariably couldn’t stay away. “I’m going to borrow your friend for a minute.”

“Abs?” she asked, and I knew she’d go to bat for me right then and there if I needed her to.

“Weasel or no?” I managed to gasp out. For some reason, I couldn’t catch my breath.

Not that it had anything to do with Jordan.

No, it had everything to do with him.

“Weasel?” he asked.

I shook my head, focused on my best friend. Weasel was our code name for the men trying to weasel, quite literally, their way into my pants and then into hers.

I was just about ready to say fuck it—or me, rather—even if Jordan was a Weasel. He smelled amazing. His body was hard and hot against mine.

And it had been way too long since I’d had sex.

“No chemistry on my part—” Seraphina began.

“Your friend isn’t who I’m attracted to,” Jordan growled out. “You are, and it’s fucking pissing me off that you don’t believe that.”

Two

Jordan

The woman was certifiable. How could a man even look at her friend when he could have her?

Silky brown hair, curves for days, lips that screamed to be kissed.

She was Jordan’s every teenage fantasy come to life . . . and somehow she thought that he wanted her friend.

Insanity.

The friend, Sarah-something, nodded at him and he took advantage, tugging Abigail closer as he led them to the dance floor.

He didn’t dance as a habit and certainly not after twelve long-ass hours in the office, which had been preceded by several weeks of the same. His workload was crazy at the moment. It had to be because he didn’t trust anyone else with the specific details of the buyout.

Oh, he might let them do the work, even knew the company couldn’t survive if he micromanaged every detail.

He just waited until they went home to double-check every single contract and calculation.

Jordan hadn’t spent the last decade building his technology development firm only to be careless with the details in the home stretch.

And this was definitely the home stretch.

The beach, the surf, and a quiet house where he could get back to invention rather than management was his dream.

He was almost there.

Which meant he could stop and smell the flowers, right?

Or at least a woman who smelled like one.

Abigail fit into his arms perfectly, the top of her head coming just beneath his chin, her face pressing against his chest. He’d have to bend a bit to take those lips, but Jordan had the feeling it would be worth it. Plus, she smelled fucking incredible. Like a tropical island—floral with just the hint of the sea. His fantasy come to life.

She stepped on his foot.

Deliberately.

He smiled, loosening his grip as he glanced down at her. “Problem?”

Her eyes flared in annoyance, and Jordan had to give himself a mental slap to not kiss her right then and there. Those eyes were something special. Streaks of caramel and dark chocolate, gray and green and blue.

He’d never seen a pair of irises so unique.

And they were partially covered by narrowed lids as Abigail glared up at him.

“Why are you doing this?” she snapped.

Jordan grinned. “Why am I holding a beautiful woman in my arms?”

She stomped his foot again. “I’m not beautiful.”

He snorted.

“I’m serious!”

“So am I,” he whispered, bending so that his lips just brushed the top of her ear.

Her cheeks went pink, her lips parted, and her body wavered, leaning against his before pulling away. She was fighting him, but not because she didn’t want him. There was something else underneath, an edge of panic that reminded him of a spooked horse.

“Shh,” he said. “Let’s just dance.”

“But—”

He planted his feet, grasped her shoulders, and pulled her a full foot away from him. Enough to clear his head, enough to give her some distance if she truly did want to get away.

Crouching a bit to meet those gorgeous hazel eyes when hers wouldn’t rise to find his, Jordan said, “Just a dance, flower girl, but only if you want it.”

He knew he could be pushy sometimes, knew he was a fucking pain in the ass in the business realm, but he wasn’t one of those guys who pressured a woman into being with him just because he wanted her. So what if she was gorgeous and her body was off the charts? Having a woman frightened of him wasn’t a turn on.

Yeah, not really his style.

Plenty of guys in his universe used their power to get laid, but that had always disgusted him. What was the point in a woman being with him if she didn’t want him as much as he wanted her?

Or because she wanted him for his ownership of a multi-billion dollar corporation or his fleet of private jets? Or, worse, because she was scared of the repercussions of not being with him?

And so he made sure Abigail knew that she could go.

But he also wanted to make certain that she knew she was the one he found irresistible—not her friend.

“You can go back over there to your drink and your book, side-kicking it with your friend, who may be model beautiful, but is also nothing compared to you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious. Your body is the one a man dreams of—curved and lush, not bony lines and hard angles. A man likes to cuddle with something soft, not a coat hanger.”

Abigail glared at him then pointed to her friend and the group around of men surrounding her. “They like it. And Seraphina isn’t bony, she’s got huge—”

His mouth curved. “I’m more of an ass man myself.”

“That I have plenty of,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Dance?” He held out a hand. “I should have asked before I went all caveman on you.”

“Not a Weasel.” She smiled genuinely for the first time. “Definitely not a Weasel.”

Jordan raised his brows, hand out, waiting. “Not sure what that means, but are you going to give a guy a break here?”

She sighed. “I guess I can.” Then she started to turn toward a man sitting by himself at a high top table near them. “Do you want—?”

He snagged her arm, pulled her close. “You’re impossible.”

“Better you know that now, rather than later.” Her lips tipped. “You asked me to give a guy a break.”

“I was the guy needing a break,” he said with a mock glare. Amusement swept through him, especially when she looked up at him with mischief in her gaze.

“Noted,” she murmured, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.

“It’s hard work tolerating someone who looks like me, I know,” he quipped, wanting to see what she’d say.

“Someone who looks like Thor?” She took a step away and pretended to puke. “Yup. I don’t know how I’ll stand it.”

“Come here, trouble,” he said, reeling her in.

And then she was in his arms and it was everything.

The music faded, bar noise became a faint buzz, and it was just the two of them in the universe.

His mind felt quiet for the first time in forever.

Quiet until she gave him sass.

Jordan hated sass. Or normally he did. But coming from between Abigail’s lips and it had a completely different effect. He liked that she gave him shit. No clue why. Well, none except that fire was infinitely more attractive than soggy dishtowels.

“I keep half expecting you to make a quip about Thor’s hammer.” One of Abigail’s brows lifted, a smile curved the edges of those lush lips. “I hear it’s mighty.”

“I heard it breaks in the last movie,” he joked and when that gorgeous mouth dropped open, he had to laugh. “I didn’t say mine was broken.”

“I’m not interested in yours,” she grumbled. “I’m interested in Hemsworth’s.”

The music changed, a faster song that would make it difficult for them to talk and dance. Jordan snagged her hand before she could slip away. “Another drink?”

She shook her head.

“Food then? This place has good appetizers. The crab cakes are fresh and the artichoke dip is perfectly seasoned.” Come on, O’Keith. Jordan mentally shook his head, knowing that he sounded like an idiotic Yelp review.

When was the last time he’d stumbled over words with a woman?

Hell, when was the last time he’d actually talked to a woman who wasn’t a coworker? Or his sister?

Or both, since he actually worked with his sister.

He mentally calculated the hours he’d spent in the office—the months—and felt horror course through him. How deprived had his life become if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten laid?

Abigail’s white teeth bit down on her bottom lip and his cock went rock hard.

That right there was the sign it had been way too long.

He was getting random, uncontrolled boners like a teenage boy.

Yes, it had been harder and harder for him to find the time and energy for sex over the last few years. Especially when every woman who was interested in him was the same.

Plastic. Botox. Extensions. Makeup at the Kardashian level.

Sometimes a man just wanted a real woman.

And Abigail in his arms was that in every sense. Her body actually moved beneath his hands, yielded in a way that made him want to strip her naked and stroke her from head to toe. She didn’t wear perfume that masked her scent, clothes that were designed to tempt him.

She was herself.

Which was a thousand times more attractive than a woman who tried too hard.

“Not too hungry?” he asked when she opened her mouth. He could see the refusal on her lips. “We could—”

“No,” she said, taking a step back. “No dinner.”

His heart clenched with something very much like disappointment. Damn. He was really starting to like this woman.

He dropped his hand from hers. “Okay.”

“I want dessert.” She closed the distance between them, breasts pressed against his chest. Her mouth was an inch from his skin, her breath hot and damp on his throat.

“At my place,” she added, tongue flicking out to graze his skin.

“Oh,” he said, gripping her waist to keep her close. Oh.

Articulate? No. But, fuck yeah. He could do dessert.

And seconds too.

Three

Abby

My place was a block away, a third-floor walk-up that was perched atop a drug store.

It wasn’t much, but it had two bedrooms, a recently remodeled kitchen, and only one shared wall. After my last place, it was practically nirvana.

I’d had the neighbors from hell. On both sides.

In fact, it was as though they’d signed up for a contest to see who could be the most annoying, disrespectful, and downright rude.

Late night parties had been only the start.

Things had progressed to growing their own pot plants and nearly setting the whole building on fire with their heat lamps. Then fighting over said ownership of the plants in the middle of the night. Then throwing the plants out of the window when they couldn’t agree.

Onto my car.

And that had just been the neighbor on my left.

The ones on my right were in the Mafia. Or smuggling illegal ivory. Or hiding a hatcheted up dead guy in the freezer.

So moving had been a priority.

It turned out the move was extremely convenient tonight. Especially considering the hot, hard man pressed so closely behind me I could barely walk.

His arm was snaked around my rib cage, brushing the underside of my breasts, teasing me with every breath I took.

“Just up these stairs,” I said, raising my chin in the direction of my apartment.

We walked up the private staircase and paused outside my door. I punched in the code above the handle and said to his questioning look, “I can never find my keys.” I turned the knob. “This is easier.”

“I like easy.”

Like what I was about to be. And with that lovely thought, I started to have doubts.

Jordan turned to close the door, locking the dead bolt with an ominous click. This was the moment we’d either find out we didn’t mesh in bed or he’d really been after Seraphina and had only settled for a late-night fuck from her pudgy friend as consolation. This was the time he’d—

“Maybe we should have a glass of wine?”

Ask if I wanted wine?

I wrinkled my nose. “Can’t stand the stuff.”

“Really? How about char—”

I put my hand up to stop the how-about-this-wine-that-is-the-most-spectacular-wine-on-the-planet spiel.

People always wanted to tell me I hadn’t found the right variety. That I hadn’t expanded my horizons enough.

Couldn’t a woman just not like wine?

“I’ve tried them all.” My other palm came up when his mouth opened again. “All. Of. Them.”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “All?”

I nodded. “As bad as that is. I know we’re basically in wine central, but I just don’t like it.”

“You’re allowed to not like wine.”

I snorted. “Not according to some people in this area. You’d think it was a capital offense.”

Jordan came close, slipped one hand around my waist, and rested the other on the back of my neck. “It practically is.”

“Oh God.” I sighed and dropped my head back. “You’re one of them too.”

Lips on my neck, soft, hot words on my skin. “One of who?”

“One of those crazy winos who waxes poetic about hints of sandalwood and notes of rose.”

I gasped when his tongue traced up my throat and paused behind my ear where he stopped and inhaled deeply. “Talk about notes of rose. The scent of your hair is driving me insane. What do you put in it?”

“In . . . it?” I asked, struggling to hold on to the conversation when the man’s tongue was running over that sweet spot just below my ear. I barely held back a moan, which was embarrassing enough when he seemed totally unaffected. “Nothing. Just shampoo and conditioner.”

“Mmm.” He slid his fingers through my hair, up to the tie holding the unruly locks in place. “And I do like wine, but not as much as I like you in this moment.”

Gently, he pulled the elastic free and tossed it to the floor.

I barely had a second to worry about it being lost in the black hole that all hair ties seemed to disappear into before his hands found my scalp and began massaging.

If it hadn’t felt so good, been so perfectly erotic—my nerve endings on edge, my skin heated, his hard form pressing so tightly to my spine, his erection like granite against my ass—I might have been a little wigged out.

The dude wasn’t taking my clothes off. Instead, he was playing with my hair.

But it felt good.

I relaxed against him, jostling his hands loose. Which was fine because those hands had moved from my hair to my body. And that was really, really nice too.

“There you are,” he murmured. “In the future, just tell me if you want to stop.” He tilted my chin back, our faces mismatched as I looked up and he leaned over me to meet my eyes.

Even upside down, he was beautiful.

“You say stop and I’ll stop. Yes?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

My eyes closed and my head rested against his chest as his palms slipped under my shirt. Goose bumps broke out on my skin and I realized what he’d done.

Calmed me.

Sensed I was nervous and had taken the time to settle the anxiety instead of pushing.

My lips curved.

“Good?” he asked.

“Good,” I said, turning in his arms. Blue eyes bored into mine. “You’re so pretty,” I crooned, reaching up to stroke his cheeks. Stubble bristled my palms as I cupped his face and brought his lips down to mine.

He groaned, hands on my hips, tugging me close, and my confidence lifted. I felt like the woman in the bar again. The one who’d been secure enough to proposition a god.

I touched my tongue to his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth, transforming what I’d thought was already a hot kiss into an inferno and turning my control of the situation into a flash in the pan.

Jordan took over, hands and mouth working my body like an instrument.

Calloused fingertips slid up my ribs, reached around to unhook my bra, and whipped it and my shirt over my head.

“I—”

He paused, eyes molten, breath fast. “Problem?”

“Only that you’re still wearing your shirt.”

Buttons popped, cotton tore, and then there was only skin.

Tan, hot skin and hard muscles. That mythical eight-pack? I’d seen the unicorn, apparently, because here was one in the flesh.

“I work out”—he dipped his head, took one of my nipples in his mouth, and I moaned—“a lot.”

“Mmm,” I said, not caring about the words, only wanting him close, to keep his mouth on me. “Are you a personal trainer?”

“Something like that.” He paused and an emotion crossed his face, one that disappeared quickly as he switched breasts. Teeth made me jump, the sting soothed by his tongue as one hand came up to tease my other nipple.

My knees buckled.

“I got you,” he said, sweeping me up in his arms and dropping me onto the couch.

The leather was cool against my bare skin, but he was shirtless against me. I had plenty to keep me warm.

My hands came up to his shoulders then into the fine hairs at the base of his skull. I loved that spot, loved how it brought him closer, loved how it made him kiss me harder.

His tongue swept along my bottom lip and slipped inside to tangle with mine, his palms gripped my waist tightly. I was on fire, writhing to get closer.

“Easy,” he crooned. “I’ve got you. I’ve—”

I released his hair and slipped my hands between us, yanking at the button on his slacks, wrenching the zipper down, brushing the massive erection—excuse me, hammer—in the process.

Jordan’s head plunked onto my chest and he groaned. “Christ, Abby, slow down.” He pulled my hands free of his pants, but my work was done. The slacks were out of my way. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this and I want to—”

“Shh,” I said. “I want to touch.”

My fingers slipped into his boxer briefs and he hissed out a breath.

“Too hard?” I asked, my mouth finding one of his nipples and returning his earlier favor.