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Author:Deborah Bladon

"What?" I steal one more glance at his cock before I decide that being called a two-bit floozy isn't worth the chance to get fucked by that. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Women like you always bolt when they see it." His voice is deep and low. It bites right through me. "The agency said you'd be fine with it when I requested a blonde."

"I brought you a sandwich." I throw the bag at him and it bounces off his muscular chest before it falls to the marble floor. "Your hooker isn't here yet. I'm not her."

"You brought me a sandwich?" He stares at the crumpled mess on the floor. "I thought you were someone else."

"Obviously," I shoot back as I turn on my heel to leave. "For the record, I wouldn't bolt seeing a cock like that normally."

"I wasn't talking about my dick," he growls.

I pivot back and stare at him. "What then?"

"The scar," he hisses as he tilts his head back. "Women always run when they see the scar."

"What scar?" I've stared at his cock long enough to realize that it's perfect and scar free.

"This scar." His hand jumps to his face before his index finger traces a line down a scar running the length of his cheek.

"Is that why you walk around with your cock flying every which way?" I turn the doorknob in my hand. "It's a good tactic."

"Alexa," he says my name just as I'm stepping over the threshold into the hallway. "Stay."

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Featuring Ben Foster

"I keep a room at a hotel in mid-town. We can go there."

The words are decisive and seductive. The subtle hum of his voice catering to the need that is inside of me. The same need that drove me away from Boston and back into the uneven clutches of Manhattan.

I glance at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes. It's been fifty-nine minutes since he sat next to me on this flight. Thirty-one minutes since he told me he's always been attracted to brunettes. Twenty-five minutes since I knew that having his cock inside of me would chase away all the deepest memories of the man I left behind.

"I have a driver meeting me." The assumption is there. He's moved effortlessly from asking if I'm interested to expecting it. He knows how utterly attractive he is. The eager glances of the flight attendant who tried to divert his attention from me spoke of the pull that is there within him, whether he's consciously sending out signals or not.

I nod. It's not unlike me. He's not the first man I've slept with within moments of meeting. It's always filled a temporary hunger. This time is different though. This time I'm doing it to numb the ache.

"I'm Ben, by the way." He extends his hand in a graceful, yet misplaced, greeting.

I reach for it, entrusting my own in his. "I'm Kayla."

"Pretty," he says.

I take the compliment along with the gentle touch. He won't be like this in bed. I can sense it already. There's a darkness behind his eyes that promises skill, pleasure and a bite of flashing pain. It's everything I need all wrapped into a six foot four inch, muscular, brown haired, brown eyed stranger.

"Is anyone expecting you?"

My eyes flit across his face pulling nothing from his stoic expression. He's asking if there's a complication waiting for me when the plane touches down at LaGuardia. There's nothing waiting for me here. No one knows that I've run from my life in Boston. I haven't told a soul that the man I loved left me beneath the shadow of an excuse about chasing his own happiness. He'd changed overnight. The once beautiful, confident soul that held me in his arms and promised me a lifetime has been replaced with a cold, distant selfish asshole.

"No," I whisper the word as if that will lessen the pain that is attached to it. "There's no one."

"I need to make a few calls once we land." His hand dives into an inner pocket of his Armani suit jacket to retrieve his smart phone. "I'll do that while you grab your luggage."

I pull my hands over the smooth denim of my worn jeans. I look ordinary next to him. I'll disappear into the crowds of the airport the moment we depart from the plane. He'll command the attention of many. He wants that. It's part of who he is.

"I don't have any checked bags," I begin before I realize the words sound comfortable and intimate in a way that I don't want them to. "I'll wait outside for you."

He flashes a grin. "You won't run away on me?"

I'm not Parker. Parker, my piece of shit boyfriend, ran away on me. He told me he loved me. He promised me forever and then he ran away.

"I promise I won't." I exhale. "I'll be right there waiting for you."