Two. Put them back on and deal with the squishy mess for the rest of the meal.
Or three. Take Chris back to my freezing home right now, fuck him out of sheer spite, probably not get off and end up disappointed but let Gabriel stew in his jealousy.
Or…
I guess there’s a fourth option. One I shouldn’t even consider.
I scrap this entire screwed-up date and go straight to the man who did this to me. The one who started this. The one who’s been on my mind since the moment he pinned me against that shower wall and made my body hum with pleasure. The one who said, very clearly, that it was just sex.
The bathroom door opens, and two giggling girls enter.
“Oh my god. He’s so hot.”
“I know. But he’s a plumber. Blue collar men just don’t do it for me. I want a guy with a desk in a high-rise in New York City who barks orders and tells everyone else what to do.”
I want to open the door and tell them just how wrong they are. That a man who uses his hands for his work means he knows how to use them in the bedroom.
I hold my breath instead, hoping they don’t notice there’s a woman in one of the occupied stalls having a quarter-life-crisis with damp panties in her hand and thighs that can’t be dried with just toilet paper.
My phone pings again. I know who it is before I even look. But when I see what he’s sent me this time, I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth to smother the sound.
It’s a picture of himself. My red thong from the night we hooked up in the shower two weeks ago is stretched tightly around his bare cock. It’s so tightly wound it looks like it’s cutting off the circulation. His hand is there too, gripping the base of his shaft, fingers pressing into the thick length like he’s mid-stroke.
A fresh wave of heat slams into me.
He’s hard and covered in... me.
My stomach twists. My thighs clench. My pussy squeezes. Mynipples harden.
And then another message—
Gabriel: Alessia…you’re reading my messages but not responding.
Gabriel: That tells me your date isn’t capturing your attention.
Gabriel: Do I need to come pick you up and take you home?
There’s that word he keeps using...Home.
I swallow hard, my pulse is roaring in my ears, and I can no longer hear the girls outside the door.
He doesn’t mean it. It’s just temporary. He said it was just sex.
And yet…I’ve never had a man this feral for me. Never met a guy who was so desperate for my time and attention. Not even my husband when we were first married. Not even before he stopped loving me and we still made love.
Do I like it?
Does it feel good to be wanted this badly? Worshipped this much—even if it’s only because he’s jealous that I’m sitting across from another man?
I don’t think about it anymore. I don’t consider my four options or the damp panties in my hand or the guy who’s only one month out from his divorce and thinks I’m going to sleep with him tonight when I forgot his name.
I was never going to do it anyway.
The bathroom door shuts, telling me I’m alone.
Panties—off. Stuffed into my purse to add to Gabriel’s collection.
Excuse—made. A polite, regretful smile, a murmured, “I think I’m coming down with something. We should reschedule.”
