Twice Between The Sheets (2 Nights A Week)

Chapter 2: A Game of Wits

The sunlight pierced through the sleek blinds of Rafael's glass-walled office, each ray an unwelcome stab to his throbbing temples. He leaned back in his leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the headache to subside. A glass of water and a bottle of aspirin sat untouched on his desk, mocking his resolve.
"Never again," Rafael muttered for the hundredth time, his voice hoarse. He wasn't sure if he was referring to last night's endless stream of wine or the parade of bad decisions that always followed.
Every time he tasted wine, the same thing happened. He lost control. Swore off drinking. Then, a week later, forgot his promises and repeated the cycle. It was the same with women—an endless carousel of glamorous faces and dazzling smiles. Rafael had vowed more than once to limit himself to no more than three women at a time, but restraint was a luxury he rarely afforded himself.
How could he? His world was a kaleidoscope of temptation. As the CEO of Velvet Vogue, the most coveted fashion magazine in the United States, Rafael was surrounded by breathtaking models and celebrities every day. Saying no to temptation wasn't just difficult—it was an act of rebellion against his very existence.
His parents, ever the traditionalists, had grown increasingly alarmed by their son's rakish behavior. Therapy, they suggested. Perhaps even rehab. "We're worried you might be... pervert addicted," his mother Mrs. Sonia Montgomery had said, her voice tinged with both concern and mortification.
Rafael had laughed so hard he'd nearly spilled his bourbon. "Pervert addicted? Seriously, Mom? It's called being a healthy, red-blooded man."
And why shouldn't he enjoy life? He wasn't married, wasn't tied down by anyone. His philosophy was simple: date widely, but be honest. He told every woman upfront that their "relationship" would be nothing more than a friendship with—well—benefits. No expectations, no strings attached. To him, it was a trial-by-error system of compatibility. How else would he know if someone was truly right for him?
"Exploration," Rafael had once told a nosy gossip columnist, his grin unapologetic. "It's like a science experiment. Both parties should leave satisfied."

And they always did. Rafael took immense pride in his ability to please. So much so that the tabloids had nicknamed him "The Heartbreaker," crowning him Cassanova of the Year in a widely read gossip column.

But even the king of indulgence had limits. Today, he couldn't focus. His thoughts were murky, his stomach a roiling sea of regret. Rafael reached for the aspirin at last, washing down two tablets with a sip of water. He swung his chair around toward the panoramic window behind him, hoping the view of the city might clear his head.

Instead, his gaze fell on the square below, where a crowd had gathered for a press event. A cluster of models posed for TV reporters and photographers; their bodies angled with practiced precision.
His eyes skimmed over the group before zeroing in on a single figure.

That dress. That unmistakable shade of red.
Rafael sat up straighter, his headache momentarily forgotten. He squinted, the memory of last night flooding back in fragments. The cake. The laughter. The woman who had brushed him off with a scathing glare and the kind of elegance that only made her more intriguing.

Arabella Blake.

His lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. Vivian had said something about her at the club, hadn't she? Rafael racked his brain, but the details were blurry. No matter. He didn't need Vivian's commentary to know that Arabella was trouble. The kind of trouble he couldn't resist.

Rafael leaned back in his chair, a spark of mischief lighting up his otherwise tired features. His assistant knocked lightly at the door, but he waved them off, his mind elsewhere.

Arabella Blake, the spoiled heiress with a smirk as sharp as her stilettos. "Let the games begin," Rafael murmured to himself, his grin widening.

***