dark.
And a lot tempting.
“Girl, if you don’t like him,” Marnie said into my ear.
“I do,” I responded. “He looks like exactly what I need. Very different from Andrew.” Which was important. I didn’t want to fuck a guy who would have me thinking about my husband. I wanted someone different. A guy who didn’t wear a suit and tie every day. A guy who looked like he had a bit of a bad boy in him.
That was the man who wore a devilish grin as he approached me carrying two frosty drinks. He wore black jeans and a white shirt that was unbuttoned to the mid part of his chest. He had no chest hair that I could see, but perhaps closer to his navel…
“One drink for you,” he said, handing one to me. “And one for your friend.”
“Why thank you,” Marnie said, accepting the drink.
“Yes, thank you,” I echoed. And it was nice of him to buy a drink for Marnie. It was a small thing, but the last time I’d been out with Marnie and Andrew, Andrew had asked Marnie for cash before heading to the bar to buy her drink. I’d been embarrassed that he couldn’t fork out the cash to buy a drink for my friend.
Andrew could be very frugal—and not just where Marnie was concerned. He said it was because we were saving for a family. I understood the argument but missed the romantic gestures of our early days. He no longer did spontaneous romantic things like send me flowers on occasion or surprise me with my favorite perfume.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“Sophie,” I replied. “Yours?”
“Pietro. But you can call me Peter.”
“Pietro? What is that?”
“Italian,” he responded.
“Aww. I guess that means you’re Italian.” Brilliant deduction, Sophie. I sipped the margarita, though I clearly didn’t need it.
He nodded. “And you are stunning. I’m sorry if I can’t stop staring at you. I’ve simply never met a woman more beautiful.”
I’d been married for eight years, and out of the game, as Marnie had said. But I still knew a line when I heard one. And yet, my vagina throbbed at the compliment nonetheless. It was the way he was looking at me that had me believing everything he said. His eyes had an intensity that was both unnerving and thrilling. I had the feeling that he could look inside my mind and see everything I was thinking.
Everything I wanted.
“To be exact, I am part African, part Italian.”
“And part hot,” I blurted out, then laughed at my uncharacteristic boldness.
He reached for my hand. I let him hold it. “You’re not shy, are you?”
“What I am is a little drunk.” I swayed slightly, proving my point. “Say something to me in Italian. Anything.”
“Tu guardi bella.”
“That sounds nice,” I said, impressed. “What does it mean?”
“It means you look beautiful.”
Peter’s eyes were steadfast on mine. The heat in his gaze literally warmed my skin.
“Are you married?” he asked.
My eyes narrowed as I looked up at Peter. “Why would you ask that?”
He ran the pad of his thumb over the base of my bare ring finger. “You used to wear a ring there. Am I right?”
I laughed nervously. “Are you psychic?”
“No. I’m interested.”
Peter got to the point in a way I liked—a lot. I sipped some of my drink. “Thank you for the drink.”
“You said that already.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
Peter leaned his lips close to my ear, so close they almost touched my skin. “Did he hurt you—your husband?”
Was he particularly astute, or did every betrayed woman out on the town act the way I was, to the point where it was a cliché?
“Did he?” Peter repeated.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want a commitment with this man. Only a night of delicious sex. “Yes, he hurt me,” I said, answering honestly. “But I’m out tonight because I want to forget all about that.”
“I can help you forget.”
From any other man, I would consider this conversation extremely forward. But perhaps Peter had known just by
And a lot tempting.
“Girl, if you don’t like him,” Marnie said into my ear.
“I do,” I responded. “He looks like exactly what I need. Very different from Andrew.” Which was important. I didn’t want to fuck a guy who would have me thinking about my husband. I wanted someone different. A guy who didn’t wear a suit and tie every day. A guy who looked like he had a bit of a bad boy in him.
That was the man who wore a devilish grin as he approached me carrying two frosty drinks. He wore black jeans and a white shirt that was unbuttoned to the mid part of his chest. He had no chest hair that I could see, but perhaps closer to his navel…
“One drink for you,” he said, handing one to me. “And one for your friend.”
“Why thank you,” Marnie said, accepting the drink.
“Yes, thank you,” I echoed. And it was nice of him to buy a drink for Marnie. It was a small thing, but the last time I’d been out with Marnie and Andrew, Andrew had asked Marnie for cash before heading to the bar to buy her drink. I’d been embarrassed that he couldn’t fork out the cash to buy a drink for my friend.
Andrew could be very frugal—and not just where Marnie was concerned. He said it was because we were saving for a family. I understood the argument but missed the romantic gestures of our early days. He no longer did spontaneous romantic things like send me flowers on occasion or surprise me with my favorite perfume.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“Sophie,” I replied. “Yours?”
“Pietro. But you can call me Peter.”
“Pietro? What is that?”
“Italian,” he responded.
“Aww. I guess that means you’re Italian.” Brilliant deduction, Sophie. I sipped the margarita, though I clearly didn’t need it.
He nodded. “And you are stunning. I’m sorry if I can’t stop staring at you. I’ve simply never met a woman more beautiful.”
I’d been married for eight years, and out of the game, as Marnie had said. But I still knew a line when I heard one. And yet, my vagina throbbed at the compliment nonetheless. It was the way he was looking at me that had me believing everything he said. His eyes had an intensity that was both unnerving and thrilling. I had the feeling that he could look inside my mind and see everything I was thinking.
Everything I wanted.
“To be exact, I am part African, part Italian.”
“And part hot,” I blurted out, then laughed at my uncharacteristic boldness.
He reached for my hand. I let him hold it. “You’re not shy, are you?”
“What I am is a little drunk.” I swayed slightly, proving my point. “Say something to me in Italian. Anything.”
“Tu guardi bella.”
“That sounds nice,” I said, impressed. “What does it mean?”
“It means you look beautiful.”
Peter’s eyes were steadfast on mine. The heat in his gaze literally warmed my skin.
“Are you married?” he asked.
My eyes narrowed as I looked up at Peter. “Why would you ask that?”
He ran the pad of his thumb over the base of my bare ring finger. “You used to wear a ring there. Am I right?”
I laughed nervously. “Are you psychic?”
“No. I’m interested.”
Peter got to the point in a way I liked—a lot. I sipped some of my drink. “Thank you for the drink.”
“You said that already.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
Peter leaned his lips close to my ear, so close they almost touched my skin. “Did he hurt you—your husband?”
Was he particularly astute, or did every betrayed woman out on the town act the way I was, to the point where it was a cliché?
“Did he?” Peter repeated.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want a commitment with this man. Only a night of delicious sex. “Yes, he hurt me,” I said, answering honestly. “But I’m out tonight because I want to forget all about that.”
“I can help you forget.”
From any other man, I would consider this conversation extremely forward. But perhaps Peter had known just by
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