One Night, Enemy's Baby

Richard: POV

"Come on, Rich, down one more!" Nathan Sinclair clapped me on the shoulder, sliding another glass of whiskey my way.

We were tucked into the VIP lounge of the swankiest private club downtown, just me and a few close buddies—Nathan, Marcus, and James.

Nathan said he wanted to help me clear my head, but honestly? Felt more like he was trying to get me completely wasted.

"Man, you've gotta let Claire go," Marcus said, shaking his head as I drained my fourth glass. "She made her choice."

"Choice?" I laughed, but it came out bitter as hell. "She ditched me for some French photographer. I had the damn ring and everything, was gonna propose."

"Richard," Nathan cut in, his voice low and heavy, "maybe this isn't the worst thing. Claire's gone. You can start fresh."

I didn't say a word, just took another swig. His words stung, but the alcohol dulled my senses, leaving me too numb to argue. The whiskey burned, but not as much as the image of Claire in another man's arms.

"I need some air," I muttered, standing up, my body swaying. The room felt suffocating, thick with cigar smoke and my friends' pitying looks.

"Don't wander too far," Nathan warned, though he didn't get up, just leaned back watching me stumble toward the door.

I pushed through the lounge exit, my head spinning from booze and heartbreak. The hallway was dimmer, quieter, but the bass from downstairs still vibrated through my skull. As I headed toward the restroom, raised voices stopped me cold.

"We can keep talking business at my hotel," a man's sleazy voice chuckled, his hand resting inappropriately on a woman's waist.

She tried to push him away, but her movements were sluggish, weak. "Quinn, I'm not interested in your money anymore. Get lost."

Her voice was slurred, disoriented—definitely not right. And this Quinn asshole clearly knew she wasn't in her right mind.

Even drunk off my ass and drowning in my own shit, I couldn't just stand there and watch this happen. Maybe I couldn't save my relationship, but I could damn well save her.

"Hey," I called out, my words slightly slurred but firm, "think the lady made herself pretty damn clear."

Quinn turned, sizing me up with predatory eyes. Forties, expensive suit, sleaze written all over his face.

"Mind your own business, kid. Beat it."

"Kid?" I smirked, swaying slightly but drawing on the one thing that still had power. "Ever heard of William Bloom? The William Bloom who owns half this city's real estate?"

Quinn's face went white instantly. Smart man.

"I—I didn't know you were…" he stammered.

"Now you do. Get the hell out before I make calls you really don't want me to make."

Quinn practically ran, not looking back.

I turned to the woman slumped against the wall. Under the dim hallway lights, I could barely make out her features—just her slender frame and disheveled dark hair.

"You okay?" I asked, moving closer despite my unsteady footing.

She looked up, eyes glassy and unfocused. "Why… why'd you help me?"

Something about her profile in the faint light made my chest tighten, but I shook it off. Probably just the booze making me see things.

"Where's your room? I'll get you back safe."

She pointed down the hall with a trembling hand. I helped her along, her arm draped over my shoulder, her body leaning into mine. She was warm, fragile, her breathing quick against my neck.

At her door, her hands shook as she fumbled with the keycard, dropping it twice. I took it gently, swiped it, and helped her inside. The room was dark except for city lights bleeding through the curtains.

I was about to leave when she suddenly grabbed my wrist.

"Don't go," her voice cracked with desperation. "I feel… weird, hot, so uncomfortable…"

In the dim light, her eyes weren't vacant anymore—they burned with something urgent. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, breathing ragged. Her hand slid up my arm, and I felt that jolt I shouldn't have felt.

"You need to rest," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "Drink some water, sleep it off."

"No," she whispered, stepping closer. "I need… someone with me. It's unbearable, please…"

She started tugging at her jacket with frantic, clumsy movements. The alcohol had slowed my reflexes, and though every instinct screamed to leave, something about her desperation made me hesitate.

"Wait, this isn't—" I started.

But she grabbed my wrist again, pulling me forward. I stumbled, off-balance, and she pushed me down onto the bed, straddling me with surprising strength.

"I won't hurt you," she murmured urgently. "I just… I need this. Help me, please."

Her hands reached for my shirt, trembling but determined.

"You sure about this?" I asked, my voice shaky. "Neither of us is thinking straight…"

"I'm sure," she cut me off, her eyes raw with need. "I need you. Now."

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Claire's betrayal eating at me, but her words hit like a punch. My hands instinctively steadied her.

"Tell me who you are," I whispered, grasping for something real. "At least let me know…"

"It doesn't matter," her voice was soft but resolute. "It's just us. Just now."

In that moment, with whiskey buzzing in my veins and my heart shattered, I gave up resisting. Her touch was real, and I needed that reality, even if it was wrong.

She straddled me, her thighs tight around my hips as she tugged my shirt off, nails grazing my chest. I groaned, the heat of her body sparking something raw.

My hands slid under her top, pushing it up, brushing over her hardened nipples. She gasped, arching into me, whispering, "Fuck, yes, don't stop."

Her hips rocked against me, the friction driving me wild. I gripped her waist, muttering through gritted teeth, "You're gonna kill me."

She smirked, leaning down to bite my neck, breathing, "Good. I want you wrecked."

She freed me with urgent hands, her touch firm and teasing. I hissed, "Shit, that's too much."

She didn't stop, shedding her clothes, her body bare above me in the faint light. "Need you now," she panted, positioning herself over me, sinking down slowly. We both groaned, my voice rough, "Fuck, you feel so good."

She rode me with desperate rhythm, hands braced on my chest, nails digging in. "Tell me how you want it," she gasped.

I growled, "Just like that, don't stop," gripping her hips as we moved together, the world narrowing to the heat between us until everything exploded.

As the space between us vanished, I let go of everything—Claire, my pain, the world outside—sinking into the moment.

The next morning, my head felt like it'd been split with a sledgehammer.

I forced my eyes open, squinting against the harsh daylight streaming through unfamiliar windows. The room spun slightly as fragments of last night crashed back—drinking, helping someone, and then…

The bed was empty. Just me and the smell of her perfume on the sheets.

I sat up slowly, my skull pounding, trying to piece together what happened. Then my gaze landed on the nightstand, and my stomach dropped.

Five neatly stacked hundred-dollar bills. Next to them, a business card.

My hands shook as I picked up the card. When I read the name, the blood drained from my face.