One Wrong Night with the Ice God

SHEILA POV:

A burning sensation pulled me from a hazy, feverish dream. My head throbbed.

I smelled a strange cologne, a mix of alcohol and musk that didn't belong to my ex-boyfriend, Nolan.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. A massive crystal chandelier stabbed my eyes with harsh light. This wasn't my room.

I looked down and a choked gasp escaped me - I was completely naked.

My clothes, the dress I'd worn last night, lay crumpled on the floor next to a stranger's suit.

My head snapped to the other side of the bed. A man's steady breathing filled the silence. His back was to me, broad and solid, his muscles sculpted like a star athlete's.

A sliver of sunlight cut through the curtains, catching the gold in his hair. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who was he?

Fragments of last night flooded my mind. My stepsister Rita, handing me a glass of champagne. I saw my beloved Nolan on the dance floor... I wanted to catch up to him... and then what?

In the fog of memory, I seemed to recall grabbing Nolan's arm, crying in his arms, him leading me back to a room... I had mistaken this man for Nolan.

My hand trembled as I reached out, needing to touch that figure.

Just as my fingertips were about to make contact, the man rolled over, facing me.

I stopped breathing. The face was beautiful, like a Renaissance sculpture - but completely, utterly strange. Deep-set eyes, a straight nose, a firm, sculpted mouth.

Definitely not Nolan. My mind went blank. The man I had mistaken, the man I had... he was a total stranger.

Shame and fear crashed over me like a tidal wave. An uncontrollable scream tore from my throat.

The man's brow furrowed at the sound. He slowly opened his eyes.

They were a startling ice-blue, as cold and remote as a polar glacier, now clouded with the haze of sleep.

He looked at me, the confusion fading fast, replaced by a flicker of annoyance and something that looked like mockery.

"What's with the screaming?" His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with the laziness of a hangover. "You weren't this shy last night when you were climbing me like a wildcat."

His words hit me like a slap. Heat flooded my face.

I snatched the comforter, pulling it tight against my chest, my body shaking with a mixture of rage and humiliation.

He propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal a chest and abdomen etched with lean muscle. Faint, angry scratches marred the skin.

The marks seared my eyes. My handiwork, no doubt.

"I... how did I get here?" I asked, my voice a pathetic tremble.

He raised an eyebrow, a sarcastic curve to his lips. "You're asking me? Who was it in the elevator, throwing herself into my arms and crying 'don't go'?"

"I... I didn't!" I blurted out, even though my memory was a chaotic blur.

A short, dismissive laugh escaped him. "Oh? Should I help you remember? You even tried to take my clothes off."

His words choked me. I was speechless, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

The humiliation peaked. I swung my arm, mustering all my strength to slap his handsome, hateful face.

"You bastard!" My shout came with the swing.

His eyes turned cold, but he didn't flinch, as if he was waiting for the impact.

My hand froze in mid-air. I suddenly realized I didn't even know this bastard's name, and my life as I knew it was already ruined by him.