One Night Only Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Drake Poppy

  Cover designed by Meet Cute Creative

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  All About the Alphas

  One Night Only

  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

  Epilogue

  Pick Up Your Next Book!

  About the Author

  All About the Alphas

  Alphas come in many flavors, and this series covers them all, including billionaires, businessmen, working class men, veterans, policemen, firemen, heroes, and more. Regardless of whether they’re in the boardroom or a workshop, if they’re in a big city or a small town, these alpha romances feature all the broody, sexy energy readers love, with insta-heat and insta-love. Though the books in this series focus on alphas of all sorts, rest assured that each standalone story will feature sexy men who are good with their hands, cautious with their hearts, and ultimately unable to resist the women that fate deals them.

  One Night Only: An Alpha, Curvy Woman Enemies to Lovers romance

  I’m poised to land the biggest contract of my career, but hotshot architect Lucas Fields is my competitor for the bid, and though I only know him by reputation, I’ve heard he doesn’t fight fair. I spend my evening in the hotel bar, drowning my sorrows with a healthy dose of Chardonnay and dreading my morning meeting. But then I meet a sexy, sophisticated stranger who might just be the answer to getting my mind off tomorrow’s proposal. For one night only, of course. I don’t usually do one-night stands, but then, I’ve never come across a man like this.

  She doesn’t ask for my name, which is both a blessing and sexy as hell. Because I’m her competition, the one who doesn’t fight fair. One look at her, and I know I have to taste her. One conversation with her, and I know I need to make her mine. One night only isn’t going to work, no matter what she thinks. I’m counting on forever, and I always get what I want.

  Chapter One

  I stare at my Chardonnay, wishing for once in my life I could handle something stronger. I’ve never bought into the idea that alcohol can drown your sorrows, but right about now, I wouldn’t mind if it helped me forget some of the fury pounding through my veins.

  I am so ready for this presentation tomorrow. The PowerPoint was done weeks ago, my designs perfected. They are prepared both digitally and in beautiful, crisp blueprints.

  Less important, I suppose, but still crucial for my peace of mind, I visited my favorite salon in the city as soon as I checked into the hotel. Hair blown out. Check. Fingernails and toes painted in my favorite ruby red. Check. Everything—and I do mean everything—waxed. Check.

  I don’t know why I do this last bit. I guess because the beauty ritual helps make me feel more confident. No one will know I have a perfect Brazilian. Unless I happen to meet someone worth showing it to, which trust me, has never happened yet.

  None of it matters this time around. I’ve just discovered that the firm I’m competing against to design Simmons Corporation’s new suite of offices is Fields Unlimited. They’re the pre-eminent architectural firm in the Midwest, with offices all over North America. There’s even talk of them expanding globally.

  No one can compete with Lucas Fields. I don’t know him personally, only by reputation. He doesn’t lose, period. Ambitious. Ruthless. If he can’t win a contract by presenting the best bids and designs, he’ll simply intimidate the competition. Or buy the enemy company outright.

  How can I, a business of one, come out on top?

  And why the heck is a distinguished architect with hundreds of employees, yet no interior design department, bidding this project?

  I look around the Chicago hotel I’ve checked into multiple times before when I conduct business in the city. It was first recommended to me by my client, Mr. Walter Simmons, owner of the largest advertising firm in the tri-state area. It’s definitely upscale and classy. The bar I’m sitting at could have come right off the set of Casablanca.

  It’s not really my scene. I’d prefer to stay at the more modern, boutique hotel next door. But Walter loves to ask after my stay each time I’m in the city, and I’d hate to disappoint him. Not just because he’s a valuable client, but because of his bow ties, checked shirts, the peppermints in his pockets, and his forty-year marriage to his equally adorable wife.

  The idea that Walter, whom I’ve come to consider a friend, as well as a business mentor of sorts, will likely choose Fields over me tomorrow, stings. I need another drink.

  “Excuse me, another Chardonnay, please?” I hold my empty glass up for the bartender’s perusal. Maybe a second drink isn’t the wisest idea, with the presentation on the morning’s horizon, but a little too much wine is the least of my worries at this point.

  “Put it on my tab.” The voice is deep and raspy. It shivers over my skin and scrapes my spine.

  Maybe my Brazilian has a purpose after all.

  “I don’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t help but notice you look as though you want to murder that wine glass.”

  His tone is easy. Relaxing. He’s sitting two stools away and hasn’t made any attempt to get closer. I appreciate that.

  I can’t believe I didn’t notice this man when I was looking around the hotel. His cheekbones are dangerous, his jaw covered in stubble that’s as dark as his hair. To describe his eyes as brown is too pedestrian. They’re too intense. All I know is…

  I’m drowning in them, and it has nothing to do with the wine.

  I realize I’m staring. I also realize I haven’t said a damned thing to him by way of response.

  “Thanks for the drink,” I murmur.

  Those eyes gaze at me appreciatively, but not aggressively. I make a decision right then and there.

  Maybe wine isn’t the best way to drown my sorrows.

  Maybe there’s a better way.

  “Care to join me?” I indicate the seat next to me.

  He smiles, and the sight of his even white teeth flashing against his stubbly beard leaves me with the urge to rub against the soft leather of my bar stool.

  He stands, and my brain goes numb. Six feet plus of perfection stands before me. The cashmere sweater he’s wearing can’t hide impossibly broad shoulders and muscled arms. Those tailored, woolen trousers weren’t meant for thighs like his. They cling to his legs in all the right places.

  The bartender places my Chardonnay in front of me, but it’s completely forgotten. As he sits down next to me, I smell a hint of his cologne. I want to lean in and smell his neck.

  Then maybe lick it.

  “So who is it you want to murder?” he asks me.

  Hmm? Was I angry? Must have slipped my mind there for a moment. I smile sheepishly.

  “I’m in town for a big presentation. I’m an interior designer,” I say, with no small amount of pride. My work is my life. “If I can nail this contract, I’ll have my dream opportunity of designing an upscale office suite. With this on my portfolio, a lot more of the Chicago business community would seek me out. I’ve worked with the client before on residential projects, so I thought I was a shoe-in, until…”

  I realize I’m telling this devastatingly handsome man far more than he probably cared to know, but he doesn’t seem
uninterested. Quite the opposite, actually. Those dark eyes bore into mine. He’s giving me his full attention. When I trail off, he leans in a little closer and says, “Go on.”

  Ignoring the heat flushing under my skin, I burst out, “Until this asshole, hotshot architect put in a competing bid for the project. I can’t understand why he’d bother. His firm doesn’t even have an Interior Design department.” I cradle my head in my palm. “And now I find myself wishing I could stomach something stronger than Chardonnay.”

  I wrap my hand around my wine glass, and he winds his long, tapered fingers underneath mine, around the stem. The warmth of his touch sends sparks through my arm that lick at my nipple.

  “Whoever this guy is, he’d be a fool to underestimate you,” he says.

  Chapter Two

  I’m the asshole. But she doesn’t need to know that. She’ll find out soon enough.

  From the moment I saw her sitting at the bar, I knew I had to have her.

  And now I know why.

  Sure, she’s beautiful. Venus curves. Legs for days. Lips that can make a man beg her to take his cock in her mouth. But you can find pretty women in a lot of places.

  And I have.

  But this woman shares my passion. She’s right. I don’t have an Interior Design department. I wasn’t going to build a multi-million dollar North American conglomerate by designing interior spaces. And call me ambitious, but that’s what I wanted. Now that I’ve built my empire, I’m ready to branch out into the projects that I find personally fulfilling.

  So I’m not going to apologize for being her competition.

  Do I feel a little guilty for not coming clean about my identity? Sure. But as I watch her push a stray lock of hair off her bare shoulder, I forget about the guilt pretty quickly.

  “Try a sip of my martini. There’s nothing like it for diffusing murderous intent.”

  She winces, but I sense it’s not from any feeling of discomfort at sharing my glass. She’s probably not a fan of the drink itself. I try again.

  “You can’t resist a dirty olive.” I remove one slowly from its spear and offer it to her. She smiles, the corners of her scarlet mouth lifting in the first genuine display of happiness I’ve seen from her all night. She bends forward and uses those sinful lips to pluck the olive right out of my fingers. I feel the tip of her tongue swipe delicately at my skin.

  My cock goes hard. So hard there’s no way I can get up from this bar without embarrassing myself. And she knows it, too. Her smile widens. Her eyes dance mischievously.

  “You’re right,” she murmurs. “This olive does taste dirty.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask. I feel like I know this woman so intimately already, and yet I don’t even know this basic fact.

  “Ren Bianchi,” she says. “Ren is short for Renata. But if anyone but my Nonna calls me that, they lose appendages.”

  I notice she doesn’t ask me for my name, which is both a relief and sexy as hell.

  “Ren it is, then. Speaking of appendages, I’m pretty sure you know full well what you’re doing to mine.”

  She takes another olive and pops it in her mouth. She rolls it around on her tongue, emitting an exaggerated moan of appreciation. “Salty. Dirty. Perfect.” She smacks her red lips together, a gesture meant to make me laugh. But the sound evokes the image of that scarlet pout wrapped around my cock, making the same sucking noise.

  I find it difficult to summon a smile. My dick is about to put a split in my pants. “Ren, this is probably going to sound crazy, but—”

  She interrupts me, placing her hot, small palm on the top of my thigh. “Lucky for you, I’m in the mood for crazy.”

  I dig in my pocket, where I have the spare key the concierge provided. “Top floor,” I whisper. “Room 2011. Come whenever you’re ready.”

  Her blue eyes sparkle as she takes the keycard. “Come whenever, hmm?”

  “Whenever. However. I’ll be there for all of it.”

  That’s a promise I can definitely keep.

  Chapter Three

  At twenty-five years old, I’d like to say I’m a woman of the world. That I’ve done this sort of thing before, and I’m pretty confident about taking what I want. But that would be a lie. Since I graduated, I’ve been so busy building my business and working on my portfolio, there hasn’t been much time to show off my Brazilian.

  So it’s with a little trepidation that I knock on Room 2011’s door. I know I have a key, but it doesn’t feel right to just barge in. He opens the door, and whatever worries I feel instantly dissolve. He’s recently showered. His hair is still damp, not to mention a little wild and tufted. He’s changed into a pair of threadbare jeans and a surfing T-shirt that looks like it’s seen a million washes. His feet are bare, his grin almost boyish.

  He looks younger than he seemed at the bar. So intense, so sophisticated in that environment, I felt a little intimidated, even as I became aroused. Here, I can’t imagine he’s much older than thirty.

  And I’m no less aroused. The spice of a recent shower is as tantalizing as his cologne was. His old jeans mold to his thighs even better than his expensive woolen trousers. He opens the door wider. The scent of shampoo and soap clings to him as I pass by, into the room.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says simply, warmly. There isn’t a more perfect thing he could have said. He walks to a settee in the middle of the palatial sitting area, where a bottle of champagne and two glasses rest. What’s this guy do to afford one of the penthouse suites?

  I decide I’m not going to overthink it. That’s not what this night is for. This night is for champagne, rock hard muscles, and stress relief.

  He pours me a glass—Möet et Chandon, I note with approval—and as he hands it to me, his gaze travels over me appreciatively. This time, he’s not afraid to explore every inch of me. Each part of my body that his eyes touch tingles. He pours his own glass, chimes it against mine, and says, “To you.”

  We sip together. He sets his glass back down on the settee. “Do you know what first arrested my attention when I saw you?” he asks. He drags the pad of his thumb across my lower lip, wetting it with the champagne that still clings there. “Your mouth. Besides being gifted at conversation, it’s good at driving a guy mad.”

  I should probably test that theory. I capture his thumb with my lips and swirl my tongue delicately around its tip. Then I take it into my mouth more deeply, making sure not to break eye contact with him. He watches me with fascination, his dark eyes growing stormy with lust.

  He withdraws his thumb. Says, “I need to know how they taste.” And gives me the gentlest of kisses. Too gentle. And he’s still at least half a foot away from me. I want to be pressed against every inch of him.

  “There’s something else I need to know, too, Ren.” Finally, he leans in to speak in my ear, though he’s still not nearly close enough. “What gives you pleasure?”

  He’s serious. He wants to know the answer. But the truth is…

  He smiles ruefully.

  “It’s all right. I guess we’ll find out together,” he says.

  And then he takes his shirt off.

  That’s a good place to start.

  I reach out and brush my palm against the hard plane of his stomach. He is, after all, mine for the night. But it’s not enough. I work feverishly to unbutton his jeans. He helps me pull them off, along with his boxers. I thought erections that could bounce off a guy’s stomach were only a myth. Something that existed only in bad porn and women’s fantasies.

  Apparently, I was mistaken.

  “I don’t have a condom, Ren. Believe it or not, this isn’t something I do often. I’m clean, if you trust me. If you’re not on birth control, we can figure out other ways to please each other.”

  I do trust him, which is insane. I shouldn’t. I don’t even know his name.

  I like not knowing his name.

  “I’m on the pill.” There’s rarely a use for it, but I never went off it after my college b
oyfriend went by the wayside, in favor of my career. He resented the amount of time I spent pursuing my ambitions and passions, and told me I needed to choose. Needless to say, there was no contest.

  I’m not about to dwell on that, though. A night of uncomplicated glory is ahead of me. I’ll never have to worry if this guy resents my career. If he can fuck half as good as he kisses, I’ll be satisfied.

  He’s completely naked. Broad shoulders, chiseled chest and abs, massive arms and thighs. Not to mention the heart-stopping erection at the center of it all. But I’m still fully-clothed in my off-the shoulder, black cocktail dress and matching Jimmy Choos I scored at a high-end thrift shop. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

  As a matter of fact, if I had to judge by that erection, I’d say he’s pretty turned on. He kneels before me. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Like a Greek god paying homage to a mortal.

  “I’m going to taste you now, Ren. I’ve thought of nothing else since the second I saw you.”

  He slowly edges up my dress, a clingy number that will have no trouble staying put around my waist. Pauses. Gazes up at me in wonder.

  I take a moment to gloat before explaining. “I have a policy of not wearing underwear unless it’s necessary for the outfit. This dress didn’t require it.”

  “Christ, woman.”

  His voice vibrates against my pussy.

  He laves gently against me at first. A golden warmth spreads through me. Then he spreads my folds apart with his fingers, and his tongue grows more insistent, circling my clit with bold, expert strokes.