I invited him into my hotel room for a drink.

“Make yourself at home,” I told him with a smile, before slipping into the bathroom to

change. Truth is, I didn’t just want a drink. I wanted that piece of meat—and badly. I washed

up quickly, then slipped into a half-lace, half-silk nightwear with nothing underneath but a

lace panty. My nipples were already perky, poking through the thin fabric.

When I stepped back into the room, I saw him swallow hard.

Got him.

We got chatty. I was almost drunk, and on top of that, I was ovulating—and horny as hell.

Everything about him—his voice, his scent, the way his lips moved—only made it worse. I

wanted him. Right here, right now.

But I’d never made the first move before. How was I supposed to do that now?

Then it hit me.

“Let’s play strip poker,” I said with a playful smirk.

He chuckled. “If you lose, you’ve barely got anything on to take off.”

I giggled and disappeared into the wardrobe. I came back wearing a long coat over my

nightwear and added a pair of socks. “There. Now I’m ready.”

I brought out the cards, and the game began.

I lost the first round—off came one sock. He lost twice—shoes gone. I lost again—the other

sock. Another loss and off went my coat. His turn again, and he lost four times. His shirt and

trousers came off. Now he was down to just his boxers and socks.

He lost again—one sock gone.

Then I lost.

As I stood to take something off, I noticed the way he shifted in his chair, cleared his throat,

and looked at me. I paused, scanned his face, and let out a low laugh.

“Don’t worry,” I teased. “I’ve still got something underneath.”

I turned around and slowly slipped off my lace panty, making sure to pull it down slow,

sensual, deliberate. I threw it softly at him.

He caught it—and to my surprise, brought it to his nose and sniffed.

Then he growled.

That hunger in his eyes? That wasn’t a tease anymore. He was losing control.

We kept playing, and he lost again. Last sock—gone.

Final card. A tie.

“To break the tie,” I said, “let’s switch to truth or dare.”

I went first. “Truth.”

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asked, his voice low, eyes locked on mine.

I could lie and take my dress off instead—but he wasn’t going to get off that easy.

“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze. “I want to fuck you.”

His turn. “Dare,” he said, confidently.

“I dare you to sign over your company to me.”

He laughed, full of charm. “Smart move.”

We both knew he couldn’t do that.

He reached for his boxer, ready to strip.

But I stopped him. I walked closer, leaned into his ear, and whispered, “Let me help you with

that.”

I slid my hands down his back, palms tracing the firmness of his ass, trailing along his thighs

as I slowly pulled down the boxers. My breasts brushed against his front as I crouched, rising

up slowly once I reached his legs.

And oh my God...

Morning sunlight slipped through the thin hotel curtains, drawing pale gold lines across the bed and slowly warming the room. The city outside was already alive. Car horns echoed in the distance. Someone laughed below on the street. Somewhere far off, music played faintly from a passing car.

She opened her eyes slowly.

For a moment, she didn't move.

There was that strange, peaceful feeling that comes after an unforgettable night—the kind where reality feels delayed, where your mind hangs somewhere between memory and dream.

Then she smiled.

Last night replayed in fragments.

His laugh.

His eyes.

The way he had looked at her.

The teasing.

The tension.

Everything had felt reckless and spontaneous, like stepping into a storm and deciding not to run.

She turned toward the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Her smile faded a little.

"Bathroom maybe," she whispered.

She sat up and stretched, listening.

Nothing.

No running water.

No movement.

No sound.

She frowned slightly.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Now fully awake, she pulled the blanket around herself and looked around the room.

The chair near the window was empty.

His jacket was gone.

No shoes.

No sign that anyone else had been there except for one thing.

A folded note resting on the table beside a glass of water.

Her heart skipped.

She climbed out of bed and walked over.

The handwriting was clean and confident.

Last night was unforgettable.

We'll see each other again.

No name.

No number.

No explanation.

She stared at the paper.

"That's it?" she said out loud.

She read it again.

And again.

Then narrowed her eyes.

"Seriously?"

A small laugh escaped her.

She couldn't decide if she wanted to smile or throw the note across the room.

Who leaves mysterious movie-style messages in real life?

Normal people exchanged contacts.

Normal people said goodbye.

Normal people didn't disappear at sunrise like characters in romance novels.

She folded the paper and dropped herself back onto the bed.

"We'll see each other again," she repeated dramatically.

Then she rolled her eyes.

"Very smooth."

Still...

She found herself smiling again.

Because somehow she knew he meant it.

She had known many men.

Men who talked too much.

Men who tried too hard.

Men who promised impossible things.

But something about him had felt different.

Not perfect.

Just... real.

Which was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Because real things had a way of getting under your skin.

Two hours later she stood in front of the mirror adjusting her clothes.

Professional mode.

Hair fixed.

Minimal makeup.

Confident face.

Whatever happened last night stayed last night.

Today she had work.

Important work.

She grabbed her bag and looked once more at the folded note sitting on the desk.

After a few seconds she sighed, walked back, and slipped it into her purse.

"Not because I care," she said to herself.

Pause.

"Just because I might need evidence that dramatic men actually exist."

The office building was busy as usual.

Phones ringing.

Footsteps moving across polished floors.

Conversations happening everywhere.

As soon as she stepped inside, her friend and coworker nearly ran into her.

"Finally!"

"What?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

She looked confused.

"Morning?"

"Very funny. The meeting starts in less than thirty minutes."

Her eyes widened.

"Wait. Today?"

"Yes today!"

"I thought it was tomorrow!"

"Well unless you invented time travel overnight, it's definitely today."

Panic.

Absolute panic.

She had completely forgotten.

Normally she never forgot meetings.

Never.

But today her brain had apparently decided to remain in hotel mode.

"Why are you smiling?" her friend asked suspiciously.

"I'm not smiling."

"You are."

"No I'm not."

"You're smiling like someone who committed crimes yesterday."

"I did not commit crimes."

"Hmm." Her friend crossed her arms. "Interesting answer."

She grabbed a folder and quickly walked away.

"Meeting first," she shouted.

"Interrogation later."

By afternoon, everyone had gathered inside the conference room.

The atmosphere felt serious.

Important.

People shuffled papers.

Laptops opened.

Coffee cups sat untouched.

She sat quietly, reviewing notes.

This deal mattered.

Very much.

Her company had been working toward this opportunity for months.

Everything needed to go perfectly.

The department head stood at the front.

"Everyone," he said, smiling. "Our partners should arrive any minute now."

The doors opened.

She didn't look up immediately.

Still focused on her papers.

Footsteps entered.

Several people.

Greetings.

Handshakes.

Then a voice.

A familiar voice.

Very familiar.

Her entire body froze.

No.

Absolutely not.

Slowly—very slowly—she looked up.

And nearly forgot how breathing worked.

Him.

Standing there.

Wearing a dark suit.

Looking calm.

Looking expensive.

Looking directly at her.

For a second neither of them moved.

Then that small smile appeared.

That same smile.

The one she now suddenly wanted to erase from his face.

"Good afternoon," he said smoothly.

Their eyes stayed locked.

He looked amused.

She looked horrified.

"You," she whispered.

His smile widened.

"Small world."