I don’t have everything under control.
Some days I’m winning at life. Others I’m winging it, but either way I have two tiny people relying on me. I have no choice but to put on my big girl pants and get the fuck on with it, no matter how flat I feel.
I don’tneeda man, but truthfully, some days I want one. High speed vibrating silicone can only do so much for a woman. It doesn’t hug. It doesn’t say, “Hey, you’re tired. I’ll get up with the girls this morning.” And it doesn’t keep me warm at night.
I don’tneedanyone, but sometimes when I’m in bed alone at night, when the girls are asleep, and the house is eerily quiet, sometimes I think I might like someone of my own.
But that would ruin everything I’ve ever worked for.
“Married Sav” doesn’t have a blog.
“Married Sav” doesn’t have anything.
I guess the vibrating silicone will have to do. Maybe I could get a blow-up doll… a male one, of course. Until then, I’ll keep placing a pillow lengthways on the other side of the bed and pretend I’m not alone at night. And avoid spending any unnecessary time with men that are super-hot and unexpectedly kind.
Is it possible I mistook Ronan?
That he’s confident, rather than arrogant?
Look what he’s achieved. Two Olympic gold medals and the honour of representing his country in a sport he loves. Hell, maybe I’d be shouting about it too.
‘Hey, look, it’s your sexy swimming instructor.’ Ashley nods towards the bar, her auburn hair brushing the tips of her pale creamy shoulders.
‘He’s not sexy. He’s irritating,’ I lie. He’s both, though, given the three glasses of Sancerre I’ve drunk, the scales are significantly tilted towards the sexy side.
What’s irritating is his sexual innuendos. Specifically, that I can’t act on them, that I can’t shut him up by slanting my mouth over his and shocking the shit out of him. That I can’t turn them back on him and push his buttons the way he pushes mine.
He must be here on the pull. I’ve lost count of the number of women he’s been photographed with this year. A professional tennis player, a model, and lately, even the beautiful blonde weather girl on the evening news. The days I’m home in time for the six o’clock news, I switch it off beforehersmug face pops up on the screen. Knowing she’s been with him twists my stomach with distaste.
Seems like everyone’s had a piece of him.
Everyone but me.
My skin prickles with the weight of being watched. The heaviness of someone’s attention searing into my skin. I don’t need to look around to see who it is. I feel it in my core. There’s a growing attraction between the manwhore and me, and it’s escalating every time we’re near each other. But I can’t act on it. I can’t. Even if he wasn’t a manwhore, I’ve devoted my life to celibacy.
My stomach twists. Realisation strikes like a blow to the brain.
It wasn’t distaste I felt seeing him with the weather girl.
It was jealousy.
Fuck.
My neck yanks round of its own accord. Ronan lifts a drink to his lips and the way he slowly presses them against the glass is nothing short of sexual. His eyes remain on mine over the rim. His usual teasing expression is absent. Yep, this guy across the room looks like he means business. I swallow down the saliva pooling in my mouth, ignore my fluttering heart, and force a glare in his direction.
How dare he turn me on?
How dare he turn up in the very place I’d picked to obliterate all thoughts of him?
The dark-haired guy at his side says something in his ear. Ronan scowls and propels himself off the bar he’s leaning against and strides through the crowd in my direction.
A furious hammering in my chest drowns out the sound of the music. The crowd parts to let him pass, the way the Red Sea parted for Moses, and suddenly, the man I’ve been fantasising about all week is standing in front of me for the second time today.
At least this time he’s got clothes on.
Though his fitted white shirt only showcases the sharp lines of his powerful shoulders, the crisp white cotton contrasting those bright cobalt eyes.
Everyone else fades away.
