One Night With My Best Friend's Uncle

Elaine Pierce tried to push away the heavy duvet. A sharp pain shot through her skull. It felt like a tiny pickaxe chipping away at her brain from the inside. She groaned, a weak sound swallowed by the plush pillows, and fell back onto the mattress. Her entire body ached with a dull, unfamiliar soreness.

Her hand fumbled across the cool silk sheets, searching for the familiar rectangle of her phone on the nightstand. Instead, her fingertips brushed against something warm. And hard.

She recoiled as if zapped by electricity, snatching her hand back. It was skin. A firm, muscular chest.

Forcing her heavy eyelids open, she squinted through the dim light of the hotel suite. The man lying beside her shifted, rolling slightly onto his back. His face, previously hidden, was now partially visible.

Elaine's blood ran cold. Her heart didn't just gallop; it stopped. For one, long, terrifying second, the world went silent and her lungs forgot how to draw air.

She knew that jawline. That straight, aristocratic nose. The sharp cut of his cheekbones. It was Alaric Caldwell.

The Alaric Caldwell. The notoriously ruthless, brutally efficient CEO of Caldwell Enterprises. And terrifyingly, the uncle of her best friend, Courtney Caldwell.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips as the sheer gravity of the ethical taboo crashed over her. Hot, fragmented memories seared through the fog in her head: the scrape of her own nails down his broad back, a man's low groan of pleasure. She had just had a wild, uninhibited one-night stand with her best friend's uncle.

An instinct, primal and overwhelming, screamed at her to run. Spotting her purse discarded on the rug nearby, she reached down, her fumbling hands pulling out her wallet. A few crumpled twenties and a ten. Not nearly enough to cover a night with a man who wore a Patek Philippe to bed, but she desperately slapped the pathetic wad of cash onto the nightstand anyway. It was a humiliating "payment" for the billionaire, and her only flimsy shield to salvage her dignity.

Now, she just needed to get out. Slowly, inch by painful inch, she began to move her body toward the edge of the bed. A sharp, piercing ache flared in her lower back and hips, so intense it almost made her cry out. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a faint distraction from the agony.

He was huge. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a narrow waist. Even in sleep, his presence filled the space, radiating a quiet power that felt both intimidating and strangely familiar. The steady, deep sound of his breathing seemed to magnify in the silence, each exhale a countdown to her own impending doom.

Her knee knocked against something on the nightstand. A glass of water. It teetered for a moment before tumbling onto the thick carpet with a dull, muffled thud.

The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

Elaine froze, squeezing her eyes shut. She went completely still, a rabbit playing dead in the face of a wolf. She counted the seconds, each one an eternity, waiting for him to stir, to open his eyes, to see her.

Nothing.

His breathing remained deep and even.

A long, shaky breath she didn't realize she was holding shuddered out of her. She didn't wait for a second chance. In one fluid, desperate motion, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold marble floor, the chill shooting up her spine and jolting her into action.

Her dress, a silk slip she'd worn to the bar, was in a heap on the floor. It was torn at the seam, utterly ruined. Humiliation burned her cheeks. She snatched it up, along with her scattered underwear. Her thigh muscles screamed in protest as she bent down, forcing her to brace a hand against the wall to keep from falling.

She pulled the clothes on haphazardly, her fingers clumsy and shaking. The zipper on the dress snagged halfway up her back. She gave it a frustrated tug, then abandoned it. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting out.

She crept to the door, her bare feet silent on the plush rug. Her foot caught on something on the floor-his leather belt. She stumbled, her bare knees crashing hard into the sharp edge of a glass coffee table.

Tears of pain and frustration sprang to her eyes, but she choked back the sob. The weight of what she had done, the potential consequences, pressed down on her, suffocating her. If her father found out...

Her hand closed around the cold, heavy brass of the doorknob. She turned it with agonizing slowness. The latch made a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent suite.

She glanced back at the bed. He hadn't moved.

Pushing the door open just wide enough to slip through, she was hit by a blast of cool, air-conditioned air from the hallway. She squeezed through the gap and pulled the door shut behind her, not daring to let it slam.

The soft snick of the lock engaging was the sweetest sound she had ever heard.

She sagged against the wall in the empty corridor, her chest heaving as she dragged in huge, gulping breaths. The panic she had been holding at bay washed over her in a tidal wave.

Her hand went to her neck, tracing the collar of her dress. Her fingers brushed against a tender, raised mark on her skin. A bite. A love bite.

Shame, hot and sharp, flooded her, making her feel dizzy. A wave of shame, anger, and a stinging sensation washed over her, leaving her dizzy. Good heavens-she had actually slept with Courtney's uncle, the stern and formidable head of the Caldwell family. Hadn't Courtney described him as strait-laced and ascetic? So how did he end up having a one-night stand with her-and going at it so many times? How could she ever look Courtney in the eye again? The mere thought of facing her best friend made Elaine want to bite her tongue off.

In the distance, an elevator chimed, announcing its arrival. The sound sent a fresh jolt of terror through her. She couldn't be seen like this. Not by anyone.

Pushing herself off the wall, she straightened her ruined dress, pulled up the collar to hide the mark on her neck, and ran.

What she didn't see was that, as she fled in a disheveled state, the man lying on the bed behind her slowly opened his eyes.