Falling for Jordan – One Night Stand



“No more teasing, big boy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a devilish grin brightening his handsome face. Copper hair, hazel-green eyes with a body made for sin, he’s the epitome of the perfect man I never knew I’ve been dreaming of all my life. A man whose touch and attention make me forget who I am, the doctor who works more hours a week than is good for her (especially her social life or lack of it), and at thirty-three, is speeding way past her expiration date.

Is she still beautiful? Is she still sexy? Have her boobs started sagging?

But even if those boobs may already be heading south, no one has ever made me feel as beautiful and as sexy as he does right now with a look, a smile, a touch of his big strong hands. And for tonight, he’s all I want.

Right here, right now.

No names. No numbers.

No one’s calling anyone in the morning or next week… or next month.

Just tonight and then we go our separate ways when it’s over.

“You’re ready to go again,” he murmurs, and it’s not a question. Hardly. I smile like a Cheshire Cat, my body telling him everything he needs to know as he leans back and rolls a condom over his dick. Can I say it’s a gorgeous dick? It can win awards if they ever had awards for dicks somewhere. And if there aren’t, then I’ll have to make up one of my own, just like I made up the rules as I went along tonight.

Too angry to go home and stew after I walked out of my parents’ anniversary party, I’d decided to check out the first bar I saw on my way to Austin Street where I knew I could find a cab at the drugstore around the corner. I could have called for an Über, but I needed to get my anger out of my system. Why sit in someone’s car and force myself to do small talk all the way back to Chelsea when I could just walk it out?

Who knew I’d end up picking some random stranger in Queens, of all places? When was the last time I ever hung out in Forest Hills for that matter? Years? I usually hung out in Manhattan with my friends. The only friends I have in Queens are usually related to me or someone I grew up with. A relative, a high school friend. In my circle, everyone knows everyone.

It’s why I left this town the first chance I could get, attending med school in Maryland before settling in Chelsea nine miles away so I could be closer to the hospital. It didn’t matter that my first place was a small box of a room where the only thing in it was a bed and a nightstand where I made my noodle ramen creations in a hotpot, to my mother’s horror. When you’re medical resident, it happens. You don’t have time for anything else and I sure as hell didn’t have any. I didn’t even have time to pick up guys, not that I wanted to. I even had someone for seven years until one day, I didn’t.

But this guy with his hazel-green eyes and one gorgeous dick is different. He’s temporary, nothing more. With him, I’ve broken all my rules of having no one-night stands, not when I’ve always been the good girl, the one who always got straight-A’s in school and always did the right thing. Almost got married even.

No, tonight I’m not that good girl.

Tonight, I’m the girl spending one night with a gorgeous stranger who’s amazing in every way. Well, maybe not when it comes to singing; he sucks. But his kisses are nothing I’ve ever felt before; it’s as if he’s exploring me with his tongue and memorizing everything about me, and when he looks at me with those soulful eyes, I swear I could get lost in them. I’ve also lost count of how many times I’ve orgasmed, as if I’m making up for lost time (because I am). With the sun’s rays slipping between the vertical blinds of his tenth-story apartment, it’s our third round of fucking and heaven knows I need sleep. I’m on call in a few hours.

But I want more. Just one more.

“Turn over on your belly. I want you on your hands and knees,” he murmurs in my ear and I do as he says, feeling his hands grip my hip bones as he pulls me toward him with such force that I cry out with delight, not caring who can hear me. Already, we’ve raised the ire of his neighbors for our loud noises (mostly mine) when he went down on me like a man having his last meal. He’s good, so good I simply had to let go of any inhibitions and ride out every orgasm that hit me as he showed me lingual skills I’d only read about in the erotic romance novels I’ve downloaded on my phone.

I gasp when his glorious cock slams inside me. I’m barely thinking straight from all the sensations hitting me, flooding my system with all the endorphins my body has probably been saving up just for this day. Gripping the sheets, I muffle my cries against the pillows. I love the feel of his fingers digging into my hips. I can’t get enough of the sounds we make, so primal, so beautiful. So perfect.

I need this. I want this. And after tonight—or until I get up (if I can still walk after this) and leave–no one needs to know.

Tomorrow, I go back to my life and its regularly-scheduled programming, following up on patients, reading their charts, checking their electrolyte numbers… and being the good girl that I am.

Until I’m not.

* * *

“Doctor Rowe?”

The knock on my door snaps me out of reverie and I look up to see Kathy Pleschette, my office manager standing at the door. “I know you’re done for the day but there’s someone outside to see you. He says you know each other. His name’s Jordan O’Halloran.”

I must have turned pale for Kathy closes the door behind her and approaches my desk. “Are you okay? Do you know him?”

Of course, I know him—if one considers a night of mind-numbing sex as part of getting to know someone and the fact that I sometimes find myself daydreaming about him, like I did five minutes ago. A full-on daydream at that. I close the file, hoping she doesn’t notice that my hands are trembling. “Of course I know him, Kathy. I do.”

“I can tell him to come back if you’re not sure.”

“I’m sure. I was actually expecting him. Just not here—or now, for that matter.” I place the patient file on top of the stack of other folders that Kathy takes from the desk. “This last case is pretty complicated. I wish Dr. James were still here so we could discuss things like we used to.”

It’s actually not complicated but I need to deflect the conversation while not giving Kathy any hint that I’m really panicking inside. Besides, Dr. James is Harlow James, the transplant surgeon who still shares the office with me and whom Kathy adores. Harlow only flies in every few months from Taos, New Mexico, stays for a month to consult with patients and then flies back. It’s a strange setup but it’s better than nothing. She almost abandoned her surgery practice altogether in lieu of being a mother to twins. And as much as it was an inconvenience then—among other things that happened involving her and her ex-husband—I can’t blame her. She went through five unsuccessful in-vitro attempts and a nasty divorce before finally having the twins without any help at all… just a man with perfect sperm count who loves her, and who also happens to be the most successful carpenter I know. And that’s saying it lightly; Dax Drexel is a master woodworker with a flagship store on Seventh Avenue.

Unfortunately, I don’t have such luck with men—haven’t had any since I called off my wedding to Kevin a year and a half ago. We’d known each other since we were kids. Our parents are close friends and mutual godparents or kumares. His mother was my godmother during my confirmation and my mother was his. We’d also been paired together at my aunt’s wedding to his uncle. The six-year-old flower girl and the eight-year-old ring bearer and from then on, it stuck. Everyone agreed: we were meant to be together, both of us smart and very successful… until it came to sex and we weren’t, not even by a long shot. I was more adventurous. He wasn’t. I wanted more fun in our relationship but all he wanted was to work at building his accounting practice. I got it. I had a practice to build, too, but I also set aside work the moment I got home. He didn’t… or couldn’t. In the end, I realized we just weren’t meant to be together and I wasn’t going to wait until I married him to file for divorce.

I switch off my laptop. “Alright, you can send Mr. O’Halloran in.”

Kathy hesitates, her brow furrowing as she studies me for a few moments. “I’ll send him right in.”

As she steps out of the office, I get up from my desk and shut the door behind her. I turn around to stare at my immaculate office and at the medical certificates on the wall though I’m not really seeing them. I’m too busy wracking my brain for an answer.

Why is he here and why now?

I had texted him a year ago, three months after that night, not too many that it would make it appear that I was stalking him and not too few that it would look like I didn’t care. But it didn’t matter; I never got a reply from him and it was humiliating. And even when I called to leave a message, it was one of those standard outgoing messages that come with every phone. He couldn’t even be original and it made me wonder if I even had the right number.

Just to be sure, I even visited him at his co-op (probably like any legitimate stalker would have) only to find someone else living there. A woman. I ran out of there humiliated, my emotions in turmoil. What if he was married and his wife had been out of town the night we met?

But he’s here now, so I might as well talk to him. I check my reflection in the mirror and pull the elastic from my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. My makeup is simple, just a light foundation and a dusting of powder so I don’t look too plain. Light eyeshadow and mascara and little liner to highlight my hazel eyes complete the look. These days, I don’t have time to play makeup like I used to. My schedule is crazy enough as it is.

I press my lips together, noting the lines that have begun to form along the corners. Damn laugh lines. I’m only thirty-four, for crying out loud. Despite my crazy schedule, I take care of myself the best I can with monthly massages and facials although I do my nails myself. Just to be sure, I check my cuticles.

Stop it, Addy. That’s not why he’s seeing you.

I take a deep breath and open the door just as Kathy lets a tall man with reddish-blond hair into the back office. The staff stops to stare at him as he walks toward my office. He’s more handsome than I remember him, with his hazel-green eyes and that devilish smile. Stubble lines his wide jaw.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” he says as I shut the door behind him.

“No, you’re not.”

“I was looking through my texts and found two of yours from last year. If I’d known you texted me then, I’d have responded but I never got them.”

“Yet you got them now,” I say. How pathetic is that answer? He just found my text messages a year after I sent them? How lame is that?

“You said it was important.”

“It was. Then.” I stare at him as I lean against the door.

“I was out of the country. Southeast Asia to be exact. Laos, Cambodia, the Philippines.” He looks tired and there are dark circles under his eyes though they don’t detract from his looks. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I was building schools for a nonprofit. It was something I planned on doing before I met you and I left two days after we met.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“I know, but then we weren’t exactly talking about our life plans that night, were we?”

I feel myself blushing. No, we certainly weren’t. We were too busy doing other things I can’t say out loud. And I did tell him that we wouldn’t see each other again. So, no calls, I told him confidently. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d done. Too bad the plan backfired a month later and I found myself wracking my brain trying to remember his last name and what floor he lived on until I gave up and went back to Polly’s.

“So, what did you need to tell me that was so important?” he asks, his deep voice breaking through my thoughts.

Suddenly I don’t know what to say to him or how to say it. It’s been a year since that night we spent in wild abandon, but it’s also been a year of harsh lessons afterward, like the realization that we all have to live with the consequences of our actions. “How’d you find me?”

“You told me your name that night. Your full name. I don’t think you realized it but I remembered. You also told me what you did for a living.”

I frown. “I did? I guess I did.”

He nods. “You told me you specialized in nephrology and so I looked you up. There aren’t many nephrologists named Addison Rowe so it wasn’t too hard to find you.”


“I texted you a few hours ago but didn’t get a reply so I thought I’d come by to leave a note. But the women at the front said they’d check to see if you were available,” he adds. “I know I’m a year late but what was so important that you couldn’t just tell me in a text message?”

I take a deep breath. It’s now or never, Addy. Tell him.