One Night with a Billionaire

He made a soft noise in his throat.

“I’m on the pill, though, so no worries about kids. I take it you’re clean?”

A soft snore met her question.

Surprised, she looked over at Cade and saw him asleep, mouth slack. His angelic curls were sticking to his damp forehead, and she propped up on her elbows to regard him, amused. Well, it was late. Her gaze trailed down his gorgeous body, pausing at his cock, still half-erect and gleaming wet from their mutual arousal. She looked farther down . . .

He was still wearing socks. Kylie stifled her giggle.

She got up from the bed and turned off a few lights, then padded to the bathroom and cleaned herself up a bit. Then, yawning, she headed back to the bedroom and pulled her phone out of her purse. She set her alarm for seven in the morning and put her phone on vibrate. She was a light sleeper, so she’d feel the vibrations if she left it in bed next to her. With that, she put the phone on a pillow, laid back down, snuggled next to Cade, and promptly fell asleep.

SEVEN

Cade Archer was never going to drink again.

Ever, ever again.

He squinted at the broad daylight streaming in through the windows of the hotel suite, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Ugh. Why was the sun so damn bright? He yawned and then put a hand to his forehead as it protested even that small movement. Rolling over, he buried his face in the pillow.

And immediately smelled sex.

Oh . . . fuck.

He bolted upright in the bed, ignoring the throb of his head. Confused, drunk memories swam through his head, offering no answers. Had he had sex last night? The blankets were rumpled but he didn’t see another person in the bed with him. He was alone. “Hello?”

No response.

Maybe it was just his imagination. He put his head to the pillow and sniffed again. Nope, definitely smelled like sex.

God, just how drunk had he been last night? His brain was still fuzzy this morning, which told him pretty damn drunk. But Cade wasn’t the type to have a one-night stand. The last one he’d had was Daphne, and he hadn’t wanted to think of that as a one-night stand. He’d been hopeful that it was the start of something else, something brighter.

Until she’d OD’d, crushing all of his dreams again.

He scanned the room, trying to remember. Bits and pieces of alcohol-laden memory filtered through his mind. He vaguely recalled a rather arousing striptease, and a pair of large, gorgeous breasts, and flame-tipped hair . . .

Kylie!

Oh God, he’d drunk-fucked Kylie? You were supposed to drunk-fuck people you didn’t like, people you never wanted to see again. But he liked Kylie. Maybe he liked her too much. She was nice, and beautiful, and she laughed a lot, and she didn’t belong in his fucked-up life.

Ugh. He moved to the side of the bed and rubbed a hand over his aching brow. As he did, he noticed a tiny note written on hotel stationary, propped up against the phone. He picked it up and admired her neat cursive handwriting.

Cade,

Thanks for last night. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

XO,
Kylie

PS—I slept in the wet spot. You’re welcome.

That was it. No phone number, no call me. Nothing. It was absolutely a one-night stand. She wasn’t asking for more.

And damn it, that just sat all wrong with him. Cade wasn’t the kind of guy to drag a girl into his bed with empty promises and deliver nothing. He’d done that with Kylie, and she deserved better than that. She deserved someone to give her all the attention in the world, to treat her like a princess and make love to her for hours, not a drunk that stabbed at her with whiskey dick and then passed out.

He should call her and apologize.

He searched through the nightstand and his phone wasn’t there. Okay, it was in his jacket somewhere. Or still in his trousers. He got up and headed across the room to where his clothing was thrown, and noticed with grim amusement that his socks were still on his feet. He was naked . . . except for his socks. What must Kylie think of his smooth moves? He snorted and scooped up his pants. His phone was still in one pocket.

So was his wallet, where he kept an emergency condom.

His mouth went dry. Cade ran a hand over his chin and pulled out his wallet, half afraid of opening it. What if he hadn’t used a condom last night? Jesus, what if he’d gotten Kylie pregnant on a drunken hookup? She’d hate him forever. Wincing, he cracked open his wallet . . . and recoiled at the sight of the condom still sitting there in its bright purple packaging.

“Fuuuuuuck me.”

That did it. He needed to talk to Kylie. If nothing else, to apologize. To explain. To see if she was clean, to see if she was pregnant. To see if she hated him.