There were exactly three rules Aurora lane never broke:
1. Never sleep with a stranger.
2. Never drink vodka when emotional.
3. Never get railed in the backseat of a car like a Pornhub audition.
By 3:08 a.m., she had shattered every single one of them. Spectacularly.
The night had started like any other disaster: messy breakup, too many shots, and her best friend hyping her up like she was Beyoncé with a vendetta. She wasn't. She was just tipsy, pissed off, and in desperate need of revenge sex.
That's when she saw him.
Leaning against the bar like sin incarnate. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, ink crawling up his forearm, drink in hand like the glass was lucky to be touched by him. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't even trying. And still — he was the sexiest man she'd ever seen.
Their eyes met.
Heat. Hunger. No words.
The next thing she knew, she was pinned against the side of a sleek black car, heels off, panties gone, and her nails digging into leather seats while he devoured her like he hadn't eaten in days.
"Jesus" she moaned, head falling back.
"Not even close," he growled, lips at her throat, fingers already dragging her skirt up again. "Try something darker."
His voice was deep, rough, soaked in danger and expensive cologne. She didn't ask questions. Didn't care about his name. All she cared about was how his hands felt — rough, greedy, desperate — and the way his mouth made her forget everything but the next pulse of pleasure.
He bit her shoulder. She scratched his neck.
It was wild. No finesse. No awkwardness. Just raw, filthy perfection.
She came with a strangled curse, his name still unknown, her dignity already halfway to hell.
And then, like Cinderella at midnight — minus the class and with a lot more inner thigh soreness — she grabbed her purse, shoved her heels back on, and got the hell out of his car without looking back.
Not a name. Not a number. Just a trail of regret and one missing thong.
At 9:47 a.m., Aurora sat in her cubicle, nursing the worst hangover of her life and a coffee that tasted like sadness and broken dreams.
Her inbox was a shitstorm of deadlines. Her boss was probably one email away from a nervous breakdown. And her vagina? Still madly in love with a man she'd never see again.
She sighed. Slouched. Opened Slack and messaged Mia:
> Aurora: I made a mistake. A very large, well-endowed, backseat-of-a-Maybach type mistake.
Mia: Do I even want details?
Aurora: No. I want amnesia.
She was mid-sip when it happened.
The office room hushed. The kind of sudden silence that made your skin crawl. She looked up and nearly dropped her coffee.
Backseat Guy.
Now in a tailored black suit, Rolex flashing, same dangerous smirk. And those eyes—those storm-grey, soul-ruining eyes—locked onto hers like a heat-seeking missile.
Her lungs forgot how to breathe.
"Oh, hell no," she whispered, frozen.
He grinned, walking toward her desk like this was fate and he was karma with a six-pack.