MB Saucy Side: One Night Stand (Ambrosia Version)

Seoul isn’t a city.

At least, it’s not a city in the way that Chicago is a city. Seoul stands with New York and London and Tokyo, a sprawling labyrinth of tiered levels, neon skyscrapers looming over tangled roads that arch over and dip under each other in a stream of ever-moving headlights. On your third day in Korea, you decide to visit a few of the quieter areas, palaces with courtyards the size of football fields and shrines where the trees are twined with red ribbons.

These serene moments last only until the tours end, and then you once again resubmerge in the subway system, wandering through spacious tunnels and underground bazars. Navigation was easier when you weren’t alone, but your companion has to work.

It’s fine. You have other plans.

A knot of anticipation tightens your stomach, and you decide to skip dinner in favor of hurrying onwards to your next destination.

* * * *

You easily identify the hotel by the limos parked before it. Despite not having stopped to eat, the fundraiser has already started by the time you arrive. You flash your credentials to the guard, proving that you’re here representing Unity’s North American branch. He provides you with a key to your suite, informing you that your bags have already arrived.

You take the elevator to the top floor. Two large suitcases rest at the foot of your king-sized bed; you open one and change into your outfit for tonight.

* * * *

The event is noisy and hot. After shaking a few hands, you excuse yourself to a corner, holding a glass of champaign in your hand to look occupied but not sipping, and instead simply enjoying the way that the bubbles tickle your nose. The window next to you provides a welcome reprieve from the body heat, and you rest your forehead against the cold glass.

You catch sight of the woman’s reflection in the glass before you hear her footsteps. Her dress shows off toned shoulders, and her shoulder-length black hair gleams almost blue under the light of the crystal chandeliers above. She makes her way towards you with long, decisive strides, the crowd instinctively parting to let her through. She holds two glasses of champaign. You turn and hold up your own flute in a silent toast, smiling wryly; she hands off one glass to a stranger without breaking eye contact with you.

“I intended to introduce myself by offering you a drink,” she says in throaty voice that shoots a frisson of pleasure up your spine. “But it seems someone else already has me beat.” Her last sentence has the cadence of a question, although her expression displays no curiosity.

You take a small sip of your drink without tasting it. “I fetched my own drink,” you say with a slight smile. “As for an introduction . . . let’s skip that part, shall we?”

After all, this is a new country, a new opportunity. Tonight, you can be someone else.

Her brows arch; you’ve surprised her. “No names, then?” she asks.

“No names,” you confirm. You offer her your hand, and she takes it in a handshake that lingers too long and yet not long enough. Her fingers are tapered like a pianist, yet calloused.

You catch sight of the ring on her finger and pout. “You’re married?”

She hesitates, her dark brown eyes locking with yours and her expression questioning. Then she slides the band from her finger and drops it into her purse.

“Not tonight,” she says.

* * * *

Her kiss tastes like champaign and mint toothpaste. The flavors shouldn’t work together, and yet you find yourself desperate for another intoxicating taste. Your hands grasp her shoulders, pulling her closer. She follows your lead, and your back hits the elevator wall with a thud, making you both laugh softly before your lips once again collide.

“Still no names?” she murmurs.

You shake your head. She lets out a soft moan as you rake your fingers through her hair, throwing her head back and granting you access to suck at the pulse point at the nape of her neck.

“Names are overrated,” you say against her clavicle.

“So be it.” Her hand slides beneath your thigh, hoisting your leg up just as the elevator doors open at your suite. She seizes your mouth in another fierce kiss, preventing you from introducing yourself even if you so desired.

The elevator doors begin to close—she thrusts out her arm just in time to prevent them from shutting. You pull each other into the suite, stumbling towards the bed due to your refusal to separate from each other while pieces of clothing are stripped and discarded onto the floor.

You frown in frustration at her dress’s halter, which refuses to fully unknot. There’s a starburst scar over her heart, which instinct and habit urges you to kiss, but she grabs your wrist and forces down your hand before your fingers can gently trace over the mark.

“Don’t act so familiar, stranger,” she says, voice hoarse.

“Don’t tell me what to do, stranger,” you quip back.

A combative gleam enters her eyes. “Let me venture a guess: you were the type of student that never listened to your instructor in school.”

“In my defense,” you say, “my instructor was distractingly attractive. She made it difficult to focus on lessons.”

“I doubt you made life easy for her, either.” Her breath tickles your ear, followed by a sharp yet sweet ache as her teeth nips your earlobe.

“True. She must’ve been relieved when I graduated,” you gasp as she pushes you down onto the bed.

“Incredibly relieved,” she replies. “Because she could finally do this.”

* * * *

Ambrosia lets out a contented hum as you tenderly press your lips against the scar above her breast. She sees the mark as a sign of failure, but you’ve always viewed it as proof that she survived. You're eternally grateful to that scar.

“Think we’ll find your wedding band in the morning?” you ask, settling back on your side of the bed.

She reaches an arm around your shoulders, and you curl into her side. “My purse was left on the elevator,” she admits.

“Your spouse will disapprove,” you chastise, suppressing a grin.

She opens one eye long enough to glare at you. “It was my spouse’s fault.”

“I’ll never get tired of hearing you call me that,” you say. “But still, this was fun. We should go on business trips together more often.”