Indigo Nights: A Sexy, Contemporary Romance Read online

  Published by Louise Bay 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Louise Bay. All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN - 978-1-910747-23-0

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  Other Books by Louise Bay

  Faithful

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  Hopeful

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  The Empire State Series

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  What the Lightning Sees

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  THE CALLING ME SERIES

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Louise Bay

  Let’s Connect

  Beth

  “Glass of champagne, miss?” a blonde flight attendant asked.

  Champagne.

  Once, it had been my drug of choice. There was nothing I didn’t like about it. Everything from the cold, heavy bottle, to the gold foil wrapping at the top that made it seem like a present, to that beautiful sound of the air escaping when the cork was released. A maiden’s sigh, it was called. I hated the sound of a pop; it was brash and hard and didn’t do champagne justice. It wasn’t seductive or subtle enough. No, I longed for that gentle hiss that promised inevitable pleasure.

  But not anymore.

  “No thank you,” I replied. Two years ago, it would have been hard to say no. Three, almost impossible. But I was used to turning down alcohol now, and every time I did a buzz of pride flitted about under my skin. But that didn’t stop me from remembering how good it felt from the moment it came out of the refrigerator until the end of my first glass. If I could have stopped there, that would have been great. Problem was, as soon as I had my first taste, I was greedy for the bottle, desperate to open a second. I had no control. Champagne was like a bad boyfriend (and I’d had plenty to enable me to testify). It reeled me in, promised the world and then left me vulnerable, alone, covered in regret and pain, and with a hangover the size of Africa.

  In the words of Taylor Swift, champagne and I were never, ever getting back together.

  “Has he definitely checked in?” the blonde flight attendant said to a shorter, brown-haired girl pouring chips into small bowls lined up on the bar.

  “Yes, he’s in 8A.” They both glanced in my direction. I was in 9A. It sounded like they were expecting a celebrity.

  The seats in first class on this carrier were arranged differently from most airlines. Instead of arranged in pairs, there were four long rows of seats all next to each other but at a diagonal, going end to end in the cabin. Each seat had high sides to form private space. That was why I liked flying with this carrier, especially when on my own. I wouldn’t have to make polite conversation with the complete stranger next to me. I liked to disappear into my own world of recipes and baking when I travelled. I pulled out my notebook and clipped my seatbelt shut.

  A male flight attendant I recognized—I flew the route from Chicago to London regularly—joined the pair and started to put ice into a tumbler. “Is he here yet?”

  “No,” the brunette said. “He’s usually one of the last to board. Can one of you take these chips? If he arrives and I’m walking, I’m likely to fall over.”

  “He’s the kind of man that would spank you to teach you a lesson,” the male flight attendant said.

  I didn’t catch the rest as they giggled conspiratorially. What did such a man look like?

  Whoever Mr. 8A was, he was important if he managed to get the crew in such a fluster. They were used to flying with the rich and famous—airport lounges and airplanes were fertile ground for celebrity spotting. I’d seen Eva Longoria the last time I flew to New York. So tiny, but so pretty.

  The blonde took the tray of snacks and began what would be one of many trips up and down the first-class rows.

  I started to read through the last things I’d written in my notebook, trying to drown out the clatter of the bar. I’d been working on a ginger and cranberry cake. I liked the spicy, sweet and sour mixed together, but there was something missing.

  Baking had become my salvation during my battle for sobriety. It had given me something to do, some structure to my day and a focus that had turned into a passion.

  I’d started with brownies because my brother loved them and it was a small way to tell him how much I appreciated his never-failing support. I used to slip them into his lunch for work. I moved on to lemon bars and then worked my way through every type of pie ever invented and some that never should have been. Before long, I was baking every day.

  As I got more confident, I started to vary the recipes I found, and even invented my own. I loved that even from the most basic of ingredients it was possible to create something that incited real pleasure in people. Through my baking, I got to make people happy, even for a few moments, and that fed my soul.

  Champagne and I were over—I was now in a serious relationship with my stove.

  Recently, I’d started to video myself baking and had created a channel on YouTube. I’d been surprised at how popular it had become in a short space of time—it had even attracted the attention of some TV executives in Chicago, which was the reason for my visit to my hometown. The idea that I might be able to give my baking meaning outside of my sobriety was exciting. It would mean that the last four years hadn’t been just about keeping sober, that it had been building the foundations of a career as well. After spending the last four years in a protective bubble, concentrating on keeping sober, I was ready for a slice of real life.

  “Good morning, Mr. James,” the brunette said. The blonde and the male flight attendant snapped their heads around. It must be Mr. 8A.

  I couldn’t resist taking a peek at what all the fuss was about. The brunette’s eyes were wide. I followed the direction of her gaze and found the back of a suit jacket. Whoever Mr. 8A was, he was tall, broad and wore expensive tailoring. I glanced up, awaiting a famous profile. His hair was almost black, just the ends shimmered brown, and was longer than most professional men tended to prefer. Perhaps he was a movie star that liked to dress in a suit. His profile and strong jaw came into view; he was clean shaven and wearing a serious look, as he pulled his eyebrows together sternly. I didn’t recognize him, and his wasn’t a face I’d forget.

  I shivered as my nipples grazed the lace of my bra. I hadn’t thought about sex for a long time—I’d shut down that side of myself while I focused on getting sober. That had been over three years ago.

  The advice from my sponsor had been not to date for a year, not three. But after a long time of being miserable and out of control, I
was happy and sober. Putting that at risk to date wasn’t worth it. My last relationship had ended badly. In fact it had started badly, and continued disastrously, leaving me weak and hopeless. Memories of who I’d turned into meant staying single hadn’t been a struggle, and anyway, it wasn’t as if I was beating men off with a stick.

  But something about Mr. 8A was deeply … sexual, almost to the point of disturbing, because it stirred something in me that was so unfamiliar.

  I scanned his face as he pulled out papers from his carry-on.

  “Let me know if I can help you put that in the overhead locker, sir.” The male flight attendant bustled past, no doubt hoping for a spanking. 8A nodded once briskly. He looked like a man who did everything very deliberately, with no mistakes.

  He slipped his jacket off, the expensive fabric yielding beneath his fingers. He handed it to the blonde, who just happened to be passing. He opened the overhead locker. I watched his muscles bunch beneath his tight shirt as he placed his bag inside. It was difficult to decide how old he was. His skin suggested early thirties, but his stern expression hinted he might be older.

  As I deliberated over his age, his body, his mouth, Mr. 8A turned his head in my direction and caught me staring. I smiled, trying to cover the fact that I was thinking about him naked and between my thighs, not to mention wondering if every part of him was as solid as it seemed.

  He offered no smile, no introduction. He just looked at me, or into me. I wasn’t quite sure.

  I laid my palm against my breastbone to calm the pulsing of my heart, but somehow I couldn’t look away. Then, as if in understanding, like he’d got the measure of me, he offered me a brief nod and turned away.

  I lost sight of him when he sat. I exhaled in relief, but at the same time, I wished the sides of my seat were slightly lower so I could watch him a little more.

  I hadn’t noticed a man in a long time. Not in a way where I wanted to touch him, and for him to touch me. Mr. 8A had prodded awake a part of me that had been asleep a long time. I’d been thinking about starting to date again for a few months now, but not because I missed being part of a couple. Not because I wanted to share my life with someone, but just because I thought I should. As much as anything, it was the next step in my recovery. I could see how it could become ten years between lovers if I didn’t do something. Even my brother was regularly suggesting I get out and meet people. His wife, Haven, was even more vocal about it. She’d even tried to set me up a few times. As she said, I didn’t have to fall in love but dinner and casual sex could be fun.

  I wasn’t sure if I could be casual about sex.

  Was it possible to separate the physical from the emotional? Did I need to sleep with a stranger—to break the cycle of singledom I was in?

  I wasn’t convinced. A relationship was a risk, and if I was going to take a risk, shouldn’t it be with a guy who might be my forever man? I was done with dating men who saw me as the girl they were with before they got serious, because drunk or not, I was always serious about them; I couldn’t help myself. Nearly four years might be a long time, but if I found the man that was meant for me, I’d happily wait another three. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

  A small, quiet voice from deep inside told me I was just frightened. Frightened of intimacy without the cloak of alcohol to protect me.

  Alcohol gave me confidence.

  Alcohol made me sexy.

  When it came down to it, the pull of sober sex was easy to resist.

  In the meantime, Mr. 8A was a mighty fine view, and I was happy to look but not touch.

  I checked my phone for the time. Five minutes to takeoff and the cabin doors weren’t even shut. We were late. I glanced behind me and out the window. Snow was falling thickly. I hoped we were still going to be able to take off.

  The three cabin-crewmembers assigned to first class were gathered at the bar, chatting, waiting for the signal to start clearing people’s glasses, and stealing furtive glances at Mr. 8A.

  I understood their excitement.

  There weren’t many men who wore a suit like he did.

  Or many men who were so handsome they elicited a short intake of breath on first glance.

  Or many men who looked like if they touched a woman, they’d possess her forever.

  I shifted in my seat. I had to try to distract myself. I leafed through the pages and tried to find where I’d left off.

  “Sir. Miss,” the blonde addressed me and Mr. 8A a few minutes later. “I’m afraid we’re delayed due to the weather. We’re asking people to make their way back to the lounge. We’re hoping we can be back on track within a couple of hours. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Used to travelling, it didn’t take me longer than a minute to be off the aircraft and headed to the lounge. I wanted to find a free table in a quiet corner to work through my recipes, so I needed to get there quickly. It was for occasions such as these that I wore flats when I travelled.

  After checking in to the lounge, I headed to my favorite place at the far right-hand side of the space, beyond the showers and the business center. There were only three tables of two in this section, and people who didn’t fly regularly didn’t realize they existed. It meant peace and quiet.

  I pulled out my notebook, tucked my legs up under my skirt and started to scribble. Just a few seconds later, I sensed someone approach my section. Damn, I’d wanted this corner to myself. Head down, I watched the empty chair at my table as it was pulled out and someone put their bag on it. Wanting to know who was planning to sit with me when there were two other tables free, I snapped my head up and came face-to-face with Mr. 8A.

  My heart started to thunder in the same way it had when I came across alcohol when I was first sober; it was warning me about temptation.

  “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” His voice was deep, gravelly. I’d not heard him speak on the plane.

  I glanced across at the free tables. “No, please. Go ahead.” I couldn’t refuse, but why the hell did he want to share my table?

  He pulled out his laptop and set it next to his phone along with a small black Moleskine.

  I pretended to be engrossed in my notes, but all I could think about was him. All I could do was concentrate on not staring. I caught his scent: earthy and dark, expensive and sexual. Everything about him was magnetic. Hands unsteady, I gripped tighter onto my notebook.

  A waitress approached, her eyes glued to my tablemate.

  “Can I get you two anything?”

  Did she think we were together, married? A grin started at the edges of my mouth. “I’ll have a virgin mojito, and do you have any cake?”

  Cake would stop my hands from shaking. Cake was now, as it had started then, a tonic for all that was wrong.

  “We may have some. I’ll have to check,” the waitress replied.

  “Thank you. Whatever you have.” I smiled at her.

  “And you, sir?” Mr. 8A’s focus hadn’t left his laptop. He glanced up, then back to his screen. “A soda water with a twist of freshly cut lime. Please.” He didn’t wait for a reaction before he recommenced typing.

  “Yes, sir. Anything to eat?”

  “No.” His voice was firm. “Thank you,” he said, almost as an afterthought. She scurried off with our order. Mr. 8A continued to divide his attention between his laptop, which got the majority of his time, and his phone and notebook.

  Knowing he was doing anything but taking notice of me, I took the opportunity to do some more of the staring I’d started earlier. I guessed him to be six foot two or three—almost a foot taller than me. His hands were large, but moved quickly and precisely over the keyboard. His expression hadn’t changed since the plane. He was definitely stern.

  He took a deep breath and glanced up at me, catching me staring again. He held my gaze, and again I couldn’t look away.

  His phone vibrated on the table.

  “Yes,” he answered, but continued to return my stare.

  His eyes wer
e blue but an unusual shade.

  Indigo.

  I almost said it out loud.

  Why couldn’t I look away?

  He held one finger up as if excusing himself and asking me to wait, then got up and wandered toward the showers to continue his call. Did he mean to ask me something when he returned? He’d gestured as if we’d been interrupted in the middle of something. He hadn’t spoken to me since asking if the seat was taken, but perhaps he’d been about to? I realized I wanted him to ask me a question. I wanted to hear his deep, gravelly voice. I wanted to tell him something about me. A secret.

  I craved intimacy with him.

  But that’s not who I was. I didn’t give in to temptation anymore. I needed to shut him down. I needed to concentrate on my cake.

  Dylan

  She was delicious. Unusual. She looked like a fifties movie star: Vivian Leigh or a young Elizabeth Taylor. My cock had begun to twitch when she’d looked at me on the plane. And I could tell she’d been checking me out while I was working. I was used to it, and I quite enjoyed that she was taking her time, lingering over every detail of my physical form.

  And when she hadn’t looked away when I caught her? I loved that. She’d done it on the plane, too. It was intriguing, challenging. And I was up for it.

  I needed a new fuck, and she’d do nicely.

  Her tits were real, which was a plus. I was a connoisseur and could tell the real from the fake at a hundred paces. I’d choose real every time, but wouldn’t rule a woman out for having a little help. And she’d ordered cake, which caught my attention. Most women I came across didn’t eat. That was cute.

  “That sounds fine, Raf. I’m in London for the week, so as long as I have it before I leave, it’s fine.”

  I ended the call with my business partner and strode back. Luckily my meeting for the next day had been moved back, so if we didn’t take off today it wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, given the company at my table, I’d say it might be just perfect.