Maven and Adrianna were born on opposite sides of a century-old feud-two scions of rival dynasties steeped in pride, power, and revenge. He's fire. She's ice. Their worlds were never meant to merge, yet fate orchestrates their collision with unrelen...
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One night stand isn't as glamorous as it seems on television or in most love stories at that.
I hate how they romanticized one night stand like it's their holy grail. There is nothing romantic in one night stand. I'd like to call it as a momentary lapse of reason.
And what's worse than one night stand is the hangover that comes along with it.
Pain. Throbbing, dizzying, devastating pain. It pounded through my temples like hordes of demons were riding their flaming beasts through my head.
I repeat, one night stand isn't glamorous
Case in point what I've been doing right now –Rising, still nude, crawling my way out of this bed while trying to find my under things somewhere in this carpeted floor.
I don't normally do this. I swear, the only mistake I probably did in my twenty two years of existence—is this
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating that part because that delicious burn between my thighs would like to say otherwise.
I found my bra hanging by black lamp stand, the same lamp that got knocked down when we were going down dirty on each other.
Staring glumly at the bed, I contemplated my next move, I froze when I heard a groan coming from the bed and then followed by a subtle shift of the comforter.
I looked up and found that the stranger moved and now the comforter was lying dangerously low in his hips. It took everything in me not to reach over and trace each line on his body, just like I did that night which brought me back to the ordeal of what really happened.
. . . .
⸻
The night air hit like a slap when we stepped out of Xylos. Manila's humidity wrapped around me, sticky and heady, but I barely noticed. My hand was still in his. Firm grip. Warm. No sweat. Confident.
He led me through the valet area like he owned it, ignoring the flashing eyes of bystanders. We must've looked like something straight out of a music video—him in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open just enough to tempt. Me in a little red dress I'd forgotten I even packed, legs too long and too bare for my own good.
"Which one's yours?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence between our racing pulses.
He clicked a fob. A sleek, black Maserati Ghibli chirped to life two slots down. Of course. Not just handsome—rich. Naturally.
He caught my raised brow and smirked. "It's not mine."
"Oh?"
"It's my brother's."
That made me pause. "And he's... cool with you borrowing a car like that?"
