One Night Or Forever (The Carrington Siblings Book 1) Read online

  One Night Or Forever

  By

  Elle M Thomas

  One Night Or Forever Copyright ©2019 by the author writing as Elle M Thomas

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior permission of the author, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, events, incidents, places, businesses and characters are of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Trigger warning – This story includes references, recollections and descriptions of abusive situations that some might find distressing.

  First published 2017

  Cover design and editing by Bookfully Yours

  This is an Elle M Thomas mature, contemporary romance. Anyone who has read my work before will know what that means, but if you’re new to me then let me explain.

  This book includes adult situations including, but not limited to adult characters that swear, a lot. A leading man who talks dirty, really, really dirty. Sex, lots and lots of hot, steamy, sheet gripping and toe-curling sex. Due to the dark and explicit nature of this book, it is recommended for mature audiences only.

  If this is not what you want to read about then this might not be the book for you, but if it is then sit back, buckle up and enjoy the ride.

  Other titles by Elle M Thomas:

  Disaster-in-Waiting

  Revealing His Prize

  Love in Vegas Series (to be read in order)

  Lucky Seven (Book 1)

  Pushing His Luck (Book 2)

  Lucking Out (Book 3)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For my children, who make me proud every day.

  To my friends and family, for always supporting,

  loving and encouraging me, for

  always being available to calm my nerves, push me

  forward and answer my endless questions about

  covers, fonts, edits and plot.

  Chapter 1

  Olivia

  The sound of my alarm blaring comes all too soon and as I feel the throbbing of my head I groan loudly, however my groan is soon replaced with a shriek as an arm makes its way around my middle, and then it all comes flooding back to me.

  Last night. Oh God! What was I thinking? Well I wasn’t, at least not with my head, all of my powers of thought were coming from somewhere much lower down on my anatomy. This is my first one-night stand and as such I have no clue what the etiquette is here, if indeed there is any.

  I realise my alarm is still droning on around us. Us? I really need to remember that as a newly single woman I am shit at drinking and it makes me behave strangely. It makes me do this with hot guys who show me attention and if memory serves me right my bed partner is hot, very hot, seriously hot, volcanic hot. I need to stop thinking about this and do something, something other than him.

  “Turn it off,” he moans from behind me, prompting me to actually slide my finger across my phone to shut the alarm off.

  Whilst I usually go for a nine minute snooze I won’t need that this morning because apart from anything else I will not be falling back to sleep with a man in my bed, even if I want to because there are other things I need to do this morning starting with getting my arse out of bed, but again I am at a loss as to how I am supposed to do that.

  Shit! I suddenly acknowledge that if I get up before him then he is going to see me naked. I know he already has, but that was last night and I was under the heady influence of lust and vodka, but now I am not drunk, although I think lust may still be a factor.

  For a brief moment I wonder if he will be fat, forty and balding when I roll over because last night he was late twenties, maybe early thirties with a full head of dark hair that I ran my fingers through countless times and his eyes, oh God, those eyes. In complete contrast to his dark hair his eyes were blue, dark, an almost twinkling navy. The memory of them makes me shiver with the sliver of lust I acknowledged earlier multiplying tenfold.

  I am not exactly over-experienced with men, but I have seen enough to know that my bed partner is a fine specimen of a man with not an ounce of fat on him. I feel him pull me closer and although I want to soften against him I really need to get out of bed and go to work, even though I hate my job, kind of.

  The arm around me is muscular which makes me smile as I look down at it and remember that his whole body is that way, ripped as my friend Sarah would say. In fact, I think she may have said just that last night when we saw him; all hair gel, ripped muscles and tattoos is what she’d said, and I am now familiar with each of his muscles and tattoos.

  “Morning,” he says, causing me to jump as his lips speak against my shoulder. “Any chance of coffee?”

  “Course,” I reply and instinctively prepare to leave my bed before I remember my naked state and his physical presence.

  “Thanks,” he replies before I feel his hand lift and the mattress shift beneath me, an indication that he is getting up first.

  I blush, I can feel it, the burn of it on my cheeks as he comes into view; and seeing the naked glory of him I feel intimidated and jealous of his ease at being naked. I am staring at his naked rear view; his hair is mussed, very much a bed head, down to his broad and muscular shoulders that are flexing as he stretches, his narrower waist and then his hips and behind. Oh gosh, I had no idea any man could have such a beautiful arse.

  I am unsure if he is putting on some kind of show for me but if he is then I really am very appreciative of it. Without warning, he turns, I blush further in the certain knowledge that he has caught me looking at him which his cocky smirk seems to confirm. I can’t help myself now as I drink in his appearance from the front; his smooth chest and the tattoo that is a black, tribal design, all lines and curves covering one side of his chest. I know that at some point I traced the lines of it with my finger and then my tongue. Bloody hell, what happened to me last night? Next, it’s the brown discs of his nipples that I suddenly recall sucking on, licking and nipping at. My colour rises a little more as I scan the hard, sculpted muscles of his abdomen and the trail of dark hair heading south from his naval past that muscular ‘V’ leading to, oh my, his erection!

  I have no clue where to look or what to do so try to focus on something less sexual, if that’s possible in these circumstances, but as I divert my gaze to his biceps I see another tattoo, this one is also tribal and covers the whole of his upper arm and incorporates a dragon or something similar and the sight of that reminds me of how I held onto those arms as he rested above me to drive into me, the way he held me in the same arms…

  “Am I making my own coffee, or do you think you can take your eyes off me long enough to at least put a kettle on?” he asks, and I am even more embarrassed than previously. Not only because he has busted my ogling but because of the way he is speaking to me, abruptly.

  The warmth of last night seems to be going fast, as if once he is out of my bed I am nothing. I know that I am nothing since we met last night and we don’t know each other beyond the sex, the sex that was the best I think I have ever experienced. The way he touched me, talked to me, controlled the moments we shared. No doubt about it, he is the best I have had. I am beyond crimson now as I recall begging him to make me come.

  Yes, I am nothing and am unworthy of anything resembling respect to have sunk to such depths is what I tell
myself and yet the events of last night, if not this morning feel like they’re significant. Not my Adonis of a quick shag himself but the decision to bring him back here and to forget, or at least ignore my self-doubt and loathing.

  “I said,” he begins as if he is about to repeat his coffee requirements and another layer of annoyance is added.

  “Sorry, yes.” I give him a weak smile as I wait for him to go to the bathroom or somewhere else, anywhere else, but he’s still standing there, staring at me, waiting.

  “Could you pass my erm, my robe?” I physically cringe.

  “Why? It’s not like you have anything I haven’t seen already.” He lifts my robe from the back of a chair.

  I am sure that I breathe a sigh of relief that we both hear when he grips the satin fabric and prepares to throw it. Unfortunately for me he tosses my robe farther away, increasing my horror at the situation. Maybe he is going to increase my self-loathing rather than reducing it. When did he change from charming to dickhead? I immediately answer my own question, when you brought him home and shagged him, like a slapper.

  “Did you want a shower?” My voice is so high-pitched that it sounds unfamiliar to me, but I am just trying to get him far enough away that I can put some clothing on and then I will make his coffee.

  He shrugs and takes a long stride toward me. “You offering to join me?”

  I am floundering, unsure how to deal with his suggestion, flat tone or the thrill that is humming through my body at the thought of it.

  “We could finish the night off the way it started, or maybe I could have you on your knees again, begging to suck my dick. Do you remember how you begged for it?”

  I can see and hear a hard edge to him, the torment clear to me, both qualities I don’t like and yet my treacherous body is pulsating at the idea of what he’s suggesting, my core turning to molten liquid as he stares across at me, waiting for me to do or say something.

  His laugh startles me as does the action of him throwing my robe in my direction. I really, really need him gone, out of my bedroom, out of my flat and consigned to the large chapter of my life entitled, The Many Mistakes I’ve Made.

  “Forget the shower, but the coffee would be appreciated. I have a long and dull day ahead.” He smiles and a little warmth infiltrates his voice as he reaches for his own clothes that lie scattered around my room, well some of them do.

  Looking down at the gathered clothing in his hands he heads towards the lounge and kitchen to find his missing items. I have enough time to put my robe on and fasten it before rushing through to the kitchen where I find him dressing.

  The kettle seems to take an eternity to boil, but once I hand him a steaming mug we stare at each other for a while, him drinking his coffee and me hoping that I can avoid vomiting in front of him before I finally attempt to excuse myself.

  “I need to get ready for work,” I explain.

  An understanding nod is his response as the coffee cup is placed on the kitchen counter before he moves closer, allowing me a final smell of his divine aroma.

  “You have a nice place here. But as I said, a long and busy day awaits, so I’ll be off. Last night was fun,” he tells me then heads for the door leaving me wondering if this is the norm when you bring a stranger home with you.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I blurt out and realise how slutty that makes me sound and feel, slutty and ashamed, both things I have rarely felt in the last seven years, but sadly both feelings I am more than familiar with courtesy of my damaged formative years.

  “Nor I yours, so let’s not spoil it. One night or forever, it was still fun, bye.”

  Then he is gone, and I have no way of knowing how I feel about the last twelve hours of my life beyond sad, I think. Unfortunately, I have no time to deliberate further as I must get ready for work and am already late. Rushing towards the bathroom I feel that my most delicate and intimate folds are sore and tingling, but in a good way and again I wonder what the hell got into me beyond my overnight guest.

  Chapter 2

  Olivia

  The journey into work is a nightmare, more of a nightmare than usual; the train is packed, beyond packed, although I probably need to accept some responsibility for being on the late train, the one that gets me to work on time, just, but I usually avoid taking it because it means I can’t experience any further delays without being late and as I previously noted, it’s crowded.

  I am standing, along with many other commuters and I have managed to find myself wedged between an occupied seat and a slightly overweight man who is standing close, too close, closer than I believe he needs to be. I can feel his belly pressed against my back, his breath on my neck and worse still a fledgling erection that I am sure he is rubbing against my behind. I want to get off the train, be sick or cry, maybe all three, so I turn slightly to try and compose myself, to centre and refocus on something not involving the violation I currently feel. As I turn my head, I get a whiff of my dry humper’s breath causing my stomach to churn, so much so that the acidic taste in the back of my throat indicates that vomit isn’t far behind.

  “Would you like a seat? I’m getting off at the next station,” the man sitting in front of me says as he prepares to stand.

  “Thanks.” I sigh with a grateful smile and am unsure if I allow him to fully get to his feet before I am sliding into his space where I feel more settled, safer.

  I avoid looking at the man who was getting off on our close proximity, focusing instead on the other commuters around me. Some are reading or working on computers, others are talking on phones and a couple of women are putting on make-up. Me? I’m just wishing the minutes away until the train is pulling into my station.

  I disembark quickly and with my feet safely enclosed in trainers I begin a swift walk come jog until I reach the foyer of the office building where I work. Kicking my trainers off in a corner I dig through my rucksack for my heels that today are teal and perfectly match the button through blouse I’m wearing whilst my black pencil skirt that finishes just above my knees provides the ideal contrast.

  There’s an odd sensation washing over me, as if I am being watched, scrutinised, but as I look around the only person I see glancing in my direction is the security guy on duty, my favourite, Sid. He’s about fifty and very sweet, like a favourite uncle.

  “Morning, young lady, you’re cutting it fine,” he tells me with a smile and a wink.

  “I know, I know,” I reply, already dashing towards the lift doors that have just closed. “Finer still now,” I add with a smile for Sid.

  The next lift arrives and is empty. As I get in, I take the opportunity to give my appearance the once over. My near black hair has been very cooperative this morning and is up in a perfect messy bun. I don’t wear much make-up for work, well at all really, but due to the bags under my eyes I have used a foundation rather than my usual tinted moisturiser and highlighted my cheeks with a pink blusher that goes someway to mask just how pale I am, ridiculously so. In fact, I sometimes think I’m almost transparent, especially in the summer when I can burn from looking out of the window without sunscreen. My eyes look jaded and so they should with my lack of sleep, excess alcohol and equally excessive shagging. I have highlighted my lids with a golden coloured powder then added a touch of brown eyeliner and some dark brown mascara, the overall effect lifting the shadows and drawing attention to my actual eyes that are technically hazel, however they are more green than anything else and my look is completed with clear lip gloss.

  I roll my canvas jacket up and push it into my rucksack with my trainers and wonder what I must look like to other people in my business dress and trainers and then my business dress and shoes with a great bloody rucksack on my back. I regret that it wasn’t on my back this morning preventing the creepy guy on the train from being able to get quite so close.

  I take a deep breath as I step off the lift and head through the double glass doors of Peterson Michaels which is where I work. They’re a company of interior de
signers and whilst that is what I’m trained for I took the job here on reception because I needed the cash, but also because Mr Peterson assured me there would be opportunities for me to work in interior design. However, eighteen months later I am a permanent fixture on reception and design jobs total zero, although I have done a few jobs on the side, mainly for friends of friends, but it’s not the same as doing it as a real job.

  I throw my bag under the reception desk and then head to the coffee machine. At least the coffee is complimentary, and this will be my first cup as my companion this morning made me so uncomfortable that I could barely breathe never mind drink coffee.

  Returning to my desk I’m beginning to chicken out of the decision I made in the shower this morning where I go charging into Mr Peterson to demand that he keeps his word and allows me to build some design experience when the phone rings.

  “Hello, Peterson Michaels, how may I help you?” I take my seat.

  Sean, a real interior designer saunters in and waves at me with a big smile on his face. Sean is pretty gorgeous, tall, blonde and bronzed but a little too perfect for me, not quite rugged enough. Not that any of that stopped me dating him briefly, very briefly, about half a dozen dates over a couple of weeks when Brad and I were having some space, but when I didn’t shag him in that time he realised I wasn’t the girl for him and that was fine. We’re just friendly colleagues really.

  The woman ranting in my ear is pissing me off in my semi hungover state as she tells me that the design work done on the sunroom in her five-million-pound mansion is a disgrace. Apparently, when her design remit was described by her as give me sunshine she hadn’t meant literally. Unfortunately, she hadn’t told Cathy, the designer who used lots of yellows and oranges.