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“Sir?” someone says from near my elbow. The hostess hands me my order, neatly packaged up, before I register what’s happening. “Do you ladies need anything?” she says to the other two, walking away when Lauren shakes her head.
“Did you need something?” Lauren is asking me as I stare at the bag of food in my hand. “We were kind of in the middle of a private conversation.” She indicates the pile of wet napkins on the table. “I already called the office and Tina is fine on her own for the rest of the day. I can finish up my day working remotely.”
For the sake of my reputation, I brace myself for the words I’m about to say. I hate them before I’ve uttered them, but if I don’t say it I’m going to take this tearful woman home with me and try to solve all her problems with the one thing I have—my wallet. “Nice to know you’ve covered your asses for this afternoon’s little day-drinking field trip. Do you also have excuses ready for tomorrow’s hangover? And what about a ride home?” I can’t help the last question. I’m being an asshole, but I need to know they’re going to get home safe.
Sunshine sniffs loudly, straightening in her chair. “Listen, Mr. High and Mighty. Per company policy, we are allowed to use our PTO for whatever reason we need, as long as we clear it with HR. Which Lauren did. I am taking a personal day and that’s all you need to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a margarita to drink and twenty-four hours to forget. But first, I’m going to the ladies room.”
With that declaration, she slides off the high stool and walks away without a backwards glance. That sway, those hips. I’m halfway across the restaurant before I realize I’ve followed her. Hanging a left at the hostess stand, I step out into the bright sunshine to wait for my Uber.
Fuck.
Ten
Sophie
Full glass of wine, expensive(ish) dark chocolate, a sexy playlist ready to go on my laptop and…crickets. The cursor blinks, mocking me, but no words appear on the screen.
I even scrolled through all my favorite male models Instagram and TikTok accounts for “inspiration” and I’ve got nothing. Lauren complained that I left her hanging at the end of chapter six. Well, my characters left me high and dry at the end of chapter six as well.
I’m so tired of myself, of my own life. All I want to do is escape into the world I created and forget about my own shitty one for tonight. I don’t want to think about Jake and his new fiancée, or how I’m going to tell Emma. How do you tell a fifteen-year-old that her dad is starting a brand-new life without her in it? I’m still ignoring my phone, terrified of what I’m going to find if I look. That’s a problem for Tomorrow Sophie. Current Sophie’s only concern is finishing this chapter.
“Do you want to come up?”
Jessie, my imaginary photographer, and Cody, the damaged rockstar who just took her on a date, are just standing there. Staring at each other. Does Jessie go inside? Do they have the wild monkey sex I love to read about, but haven’t been able to write a word of? I don’t know, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture what happens next.
Some aspiring romance novelist I am. I can’t even get them to kiss for fuck’s sake.
Frustrated, I nibble on a piece of chocolate. Lauren dropped me off hours ago, full of food and margaritas, and empty of tears, before scooping Emma up and taking her out. Sadly, Lauren has always been more of a parent to Emma than Jake, especially in the last few years. I waved them off before falling into a tequila-induced nap. I woke up an hour ago, fuzzy-mouthed and ready to distract myself.
With Emma gone and the apartment to myself, when am I going to have a better chance to work on this sex scene? Even if I feel anything but sexy at the moment.
I push back from the coffee table. Maybe a change of scenery will spark something. I head to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. A long, hot bath should knock something loose. While the tub fills, I sort through the mess on the floor, tossing Emma’s clothes on her bed and putting mine away. I don’t know what’s harder, my own lack of personal space or Emma’s natural teenage messiness.
The hot pink gift bag, containing both the best and most embarrassing gifts I’ve ever received, taunts me from the closet where I left it last week. I pull the books out and slip them onto my bookshelf. Lucy and Annette’s books go alongside the rest of my collection, the craft book on the lower shelf. Next to another copy of the same book.
Knowing what elements should be in my book isn’t the problem. My problem is that it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to sexy that I can’t even imagine it for my poor couple.
For a split-second last night I’d felt that spark. The dress helped, so did the way Sutton’s eyes roamed over my body, those dark eyes burning my skin in those few moments he let his guard down. I know I didn’t imagine the way his hand hovered above my ass all night, as if he was barely restraining himself from touching it.
Two years. I wasn't exaggerating. Jake hadn’t done much more than peck me on the cheek for the last fifteen months of our marriage. At first, I’d assumed I was the problem, that he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. My sense of style is a little more Doris Day than Marilyn Monroe, but I work out several days a week and take care of my body, which is more than he did. Then, I’d thought that it was him—as Emma got older and we got busier, he’d gained weight and struggled to keep up the last few times we did have sex. If it wasn’t quick, he wasn’t going to make it to the end, so sex had become a race to finish. Which had only been satisfying for one of us.
When I found out about his affair, I’d been relieved that I had a clear reason to get a divorce.
Combine that with the stress of moving into the shoebox apartment that was all I could afford, and I just didn’t feel sexy.
I pull the lipstick vibrator out of the bag, turning it over in my hand. Now that I’m not on display to my coworkers and my fucking boss, I take my time examining it, noting that it’s waterproof. I wouldn’t admit it to Lauren at the time, but the design is clever. I’ve never owned a vibrator before. Jake and I were college sweethearts who got married our junior year when I found out I was pregnant with Emma. Vanilla sex is practically tattooed on our foreheads.
Not that I wouldn’t have been open to trying something new, if he’d asked.
I pull the gold ring out next, sliding it onto my finger. I have to admit, it’s pretty genius. I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to wear it in public—Lauren tried to convince me to wear it last night, but I flat-out refused. Still, the idea of wearing it, knowing what it does, starts a low burning in my core.
What if I did wear it to work?
Writing forgotten, I lean back on the bathroom counter, tapping the button to turn on the ring. I picture myself sitting at my desk, typing up a memo, or answering the phone. It would be in that golden hour every afternoon, when everyone is back from lunch, and I have a blessed moment with no one asking me for help. I could easily slip the ring to the underside of my hand and slide it along one leg.
Slipping a hand under my skirt, it would be easy to glide the vibrating ring up my inner thigh, whispering it across my neglected clit.
A real gasp escapes me as I touch the ring to the sensitive skin of my thigh, the fabric of my leggings keeping the sensations muted. I’m aching for more.
