Page 19 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

I wake to rain lashing against the windowpane. And the other side of the bed cold.

As I stretch out, enjoying the ache in my abs, my ears strain to hear sounds other than the miserable weather. Ryan might be making coffee or taking a shower. Checking her phone while curled on the couch?

But these are all wishful, optimistic thoughts. Thoughts contradicted by the gnawing ache in my chest. She’s long gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging myself upright and raking my hand through my hair. I feel kind of robbed. If I’d considered for one minute that she might ...

Feck it. No use crying over spilled ... champagne. And strawberries, I think as I pull on the linens half hanging off the bed and stained with both. A bit of chocolate too.

I ordered room service during a break in the fun, so hungry that my stomach had started eating itself. I also ordered a bottle of champagne, given that’s what Ryan had been drinking, and I felt like celebrating. We both laughed when it arrived accompanied by a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

My mouth lifts on one side, as though hooked, as I remember how she took the piss—busted my balls over this.

“Oh, honey, how sweet. You ordered the Valentine’s package?” Her expression—so much for never wanting to be held for an hour. Or fucked for an hour.

I paused in the action of shoveling one in my gob—I would’ve eaten a photo of the Last Supper if that was all that had been delivered—and decided strawberries, a steak sandwich, and frites could wait. Because someone needed that gloating look kissed off her face.

My smile falters as the memory fades, and with a sigh, I drag my sad and sorry arse out of bed.

There isn’t one sign of her here, in the suite.

No stray earring. No scribbled note with her phone number.

Just the lingering scent of her perfume and the aftermath of our marathon fuck fest. Stained sheets, half hanging off the bed.

A bed well used and linens she rolled herself in, like a burrito, as she slept.

Plates of half-eaten food and an empty bottle of champagne.

Throw cushions and towels strewn around the place.

We fucked in the shower, then out of the shower, thanks to the temptation of slipping towels.

There’s a handprint on the still-gray window and a heart-shaped arse print on a wall mirror, which also reveals the hickey on my neck, my fucked-up hair, and a bite mark on the inside of my bicep as I reach up to straighten it.

What my reflection doesn’t show is my aching abs. And a heart full of regret. Not that last night happened but that she’s not here.

The perfect ending to a one-night stand, some would say, naming no names . Fin and Oliver. So why do I feel so hollow?

I didn’t get to tell her the truth. Silver lining or a fuckup?

The latter, I think, because that also means I didn’t get the chance to explain the rest. The rightness of being in her company. The connection I felt.

Did she feel it too?

I guess not, or else I wouldn’t be standing naked and alone, staring out through the rain.