leaned back and undid the top button of my filmy blouse, taking my time going down the row of buttons, loving the way his eyes were glued to my fingers. I let the blouse slip from my shoulders, luxuriating in the tickle of the fabric against my bare skin. Every sensation was heightened. I’d worn my sexiest bra tonight—sheer, push-up, black. I must’ve been planning ahead, without fully realizing it, or admitting it to myself. My breasts swelled out of it now like an invitation. He reached out and yanked the bra lower, so my nipples showed, and made this primitive grunting sound at the sight of them. I thought I would faint.
He pulled me toward him. His mouth found my breasts, and he grazed them with his teeth, first one, then the other. I was panting with pleasure. Then he grabbed my waist and flipped me, so he was on top. He hovered there, the front of his jeans tented with his hard-on, as I writhed. To be wanted like this, by this gorgeous guy—I was swooning. My eyes closed, and my head swam.
“Look at me,” he commanded, as he grabbed my arms and pinned them to the bed.
I opened my eyes. He let go and took a step back, yanking his pants down and his shirt over his head. Then he ripped my jeans and panties off and stared down at me. Instead of plunging into me then and there like I expected—like I wanted, needed—he got down on his knees. He leaned forward and blew softly on the sensitive spot between my legs, and I shuddered with desire. He moved higher up, kissing my abdomen, then my navel, his lips caressing, his tongue licking and teasing as he moved slowly back down. My legs went rigid, and drunken, rapturous tears leaked from my eyes. Then he slipped two fingers inside me, and I moaned in bliss.
“Mmm, so wet,” he said, as his fingers moved slowly in and out.
By the time I finally felt his tongue down there, I was panting and bathed in sweat. My hands grasped the duvet, and I screamed at him not to stop. He took his time, and I cried out, shuddering, as the orgasm washed over me in intense waves. Then he stood up and grabbed me by the ankles, yanking my legs toward his shoulders, and plunging into me hard, stroking in and out with perfect control. I cried out with every thrust, holding on to his arms, mesmerized. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sex like this. Maybe I never had. Just when it was about to become too much, when I was about to beg him to stop, he started groaning. He bucked and twisted, gripping my thighs, and collapsed against me.
I was so happy I laughed. His skin was warm and slick with sweat. I breathed in the musky scent of sex, closed my eyes, and sighed. The perfect one-night stand, to distract me from my marriage troubles.
“That was great. Thank you,” I said.
“I love you,” he whispered, as he kissed my neck.
My eyes flew open.
12
I woke in semidarkness to feel the room spinning and vomit rising in my throat. Aidan had flung his arm across my chest as he slept, pinning me to the bed. I threw it off and ran to the bathroom, where I spent the next five minutes on my knees on the cold tile floor, heaving into the toilet. When I was finished, I went to the sink and rinsed my mouth. I’d woken up hungover more than once in recent days, after drinking myself senseless to forget Jason’s betrayal. But this was the mother of all hangovers. My skin was clammy, my legs were shaking, and my whole body ached. There was a throbbing behind my left eye so bad it felt like someone had plunged an icepick in there. I gulped down some Advil, drank an entire glass of water, then stood completely still, waiting to see if they would stay down. When it seemed likely I wasn’t going to hurl again, I took a deep breath, and only then did I realize how much I reeked. Of sex.
The gravity of the situation hit home. I’d picked up the local bartender and brought him to my house, to my bed, for a one-night stand, and everybody in the bar saw me do it. I barely knew this man, and he was still here, fast asleep and snoring. I wished to God this hadn’t happened. But it had, and now I had to face him—in my bedroom. At least I wasn’t worried that he was dangerous. But the shame of it made me feel like jumping out of my skin. Ugh, I wanted him gone, out. I wanted to take a shower, talk to my daughter on the phone, drink a cup of tea, pretend everything was normal and that I hadn’t just violated every rule of decent behavior that my Italian Catholic mother raised me with. I wanted to get rid of this guy—now.
Wait. Did he say he loved me last night?
The thought was crazy. I must’ve hallucinated it in a drunken stupor.
Okay, deep breath. I’d wake Aidan up and ask him to leave. Simple. No problem. Working in that bar, I imagined he was the king of the casual hookup, going home with a different woman every night. He wouldn’t expect breakfast and sweet nothings. Not even a kiss goodbye. Just a pat on the butt, a thank-you, maybe a cup of coffee in a to-go mug if he was on his way somewhere.
I could handle that.
Wait. He drove here in my car. How would he leave?
I would call him an Uber.
None of my credit cards worked.
Fuck.
I needed to take a shower before I could solve this problem. Right now, my body felt like it was held together with Scotch tape and rubber bands, and my fuzzy tongue could barely form words. The hot water would revive me. There was a pink glow around the bathroom blinds. The sun was rising, and if I wanted to get Aidan out of here without being seen, I needed to do it in the next half hour. After that, the gardeners and caretakers and housekeepers would start showing up. Any stray neighbor who’d happened to venture out here past Labor Day would be heading into town for their morning Starbucks and a copy of the Times. And Mrs. Eberhardt, the neighborhood busybody, would be sure to look out her window at the least opportune moment. Francine Eberhardt was a retired school teacher who lived in the one old-time beach shack on the bluff that hadn’t been pulled down and replaced with a palace yet. When my house was under construction, Francine called often to complain about the noise, or how many vehicles were parked on the street, or the fact that the construction workers were smoking in public. I did my best to handle her complaints with good grace, but we didn’t have an easy relationship. The thought of Francine knowing my darkest secret made me distinctly uncomfortable.
I flipped the lights on, then winced and turned them off again. The master bath was massive, with acres of shining white tile, gleaming glass, brushed nickel—altogether too much glitter for my tender eyes at the moment. I turned the shower to full force, made it as hot as I could bear, then stepped through the glass door into the deluge. There was an enormous rain showerhead and jets spraying from both sides. I let the water pound me, but it couldn’t wash away what I’d done last night, or how much my life had changed in the space of a week. My marriage had imploded. My husband took our money and ran. And I morphed into some drunken cougar who picked up men in bars and brought them home for sex. Panic overwhelmed me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I started to cry, the harsh sound of my sobs filling the steamy stall. Then, with a sudden rush of cold air, Aidan stepped into the shower, naked, and pulled me into his arms.
“Hey, hey. Don’t cry. What’s the matter, baby? I’m here. Everything’s okay,” he whispered, pushing my sodden hair back from my face, looking down at me tenderly. His body was sleek and hard under the rush of water. In that moment, even though I wanted him gone, I wanted him to stay even more. At least somebody was here, to hold me, to listen to my troubles.
“What is it? You can tell me anything,” he said.
I was crying so hard that I could barely force the words out.
“My … husband … left me.”
God,
