Why should I be the one wasting time crying over his betrayal?
I looked at Florin. At his beautiful face, his sincere eyes, the way he was looking at me like I was art he wanted to study and worship, and made my decision.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll go out with you tonight.”
His smile could have lit the entire city.
“You have made me the happiest man in Paris,” he said softly. “I will pick you up at eight?”
I gave him my address, and he kissed my hand, like something out of a movie, before excusing himself to speak with the gallery owner.
I stood there, my hand still tingling where his lips had touched, and wondered if I really just did get asked out by this mysterious, handsome french artist standing in front of me, or was it all just a fairy tale dream.
CHAPTER 8
Mark
Things were so different than I’d imagined.
I stood in our kitchen, stirring truffle sauce in a pan, trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong.
Simone had been a massive letdown. But I’d told myself it was just one bad match. Paris was full of beautiful, interesting women. Surely I’d find someone who was actually compatible with me.
So I downloaded the dating apps, created a profile, and started swiping.
And discovered that dating in your late thirties as a married man in an open relationship was a special kind of hell.
The first woman I’d matched with had beautiful photos and an interesting bio. We started chatting and it went fine for a few minutes till she asked how much money I was willing to spend on her. “If you want to date me, you need to be prepared to invest appropriately.” were her exact words.
The second woman had been upfront in her messages about what she wanted. An open marriage, but on her terms. She wanted me to have sex with her while her husband watched. That was just... not my thing. At all.
The third woman had seemed like a real possibility. Smart, funny messages. She asked me what I was interested in, and as soon as I started talking about this incredible true crime documentary I’d been watching, her next message was- “yawn”.
Yawn? When did I become so boring? Or maybe Amelia and I were so compatible that I didn’t even realise that sex without connection would be such a turn off for me. We both liked the same things, and sexually fit so perfectly together that it didn’t even occur to me that that may not be the case with everyone.
Amelia and I had an incredibly rare chemistry. And you couldn’t replicate that chemistry on a dating app.
I turned down the heat on the sauce and checked the garlic bread in the oven. Golden brown, almost ready.
Tonight, I was going to make it up to Amelia. Her favorite pasta with truffle sauce, garlic bread, a nice bottle of wine chilling in the fridge. We’d have a quiet dinner together, just the two of us, and I’d remind her why we worked so well together.
I opened the fridge to check the wine—perfectly chilled—and turned around to grab some parsley from the cutting board.
That’s when I saw her.
Amelia was descending the stairs from our bedroom, and my brain short-circuited.
She was wearing a short black dress that hugged every curve of her body. The fabric clung to her hips, her waist, her full breasts in a way that made my mouth go dry. Her fishnet pantyhose made her luscious legs even more seductive, and her sky-high heels made her look like a sex goddess.
Her hair was down, falling in wild waves around her shoulders. And her lips—God, her lips were painted a deep wine red that made me want to kiss it right off.
She looked absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.
I felt myself getting hard just looking at her, my mind immediately jumping to images of lifting her onto the counter, sliding that dress up her thighs, and making wild love to her right here in the kitchen.
Had I promised to take her somewhere tonight? Had I forgotten about plans we’d made?
“Where are you going in that beautiful dress, love?” I asked as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
