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“So,” he says, reaching a large, heavy, masculine hand to my leg. I note it’s the only thing about him that isn’t model material, and I’m not complaining. His palm’s rough and calloused, his fingers strong, the nail tips blunt. There’s a silvery scar along the top of his hand, a gentle smattering of dark hair. When he moves his hand, I see a trace of ink on his forearm, but it’s covered by his long-sleeved shirt.
The warm feel of his confident hand on my naked skin feels incredible. I sigh and move closer to him and make the decision right then, right there, that whatever he wants to do to me, I’ll let him. I’ve never had casual sex, but tonight’s the first time I’ve ever wanted it. Maybe even needed it, the freedom not to think, to not have to plot my every move and every step so they’re perfectly aligned. To give myself permission for one night, just one night, to forgo perfectionism and live a little.
He traces his fingers so lightly on my thigh, I shiver. His touch is so electric, the wild part of my mind that doesn’t dwell on reality imagines sparks fly from his fingers. His voice, a low rumble that somehow both commands and seduces, slides into my veins like a potion. “How do I make it up to you?”
I smile to myself, and it feels a bit wicked. Not only am I dressed in crimson, I’m wearing bright red lipstick (also not my mother’s favorite.) I feel a bit like a sorceress.
I decide to go for broke. I’m diving in, head first.
“Sexual favors would work,” I quip, allowing the faintest hint of an accent to tinge my words before I can stop myself. It’s part of the appeal, I tell myself. Seductive and mysterious. I was born and raised right here in Boston, but he doesn’t need to know that. I want to distance myself from who I really am.
Tomorrow, I’ll leave. That’s the beauty of a casual one-night stand. He has no expectations I’ll stay, so I have no fear of hurting… him or me.
Wait. Sexual favors, I said. Does that sound slutty? Of course it sounds slutty. I wanted to sound flirtatious, but the line between slutty and flirtatious can sometimes blur.
I want to slam my fist in my mouth to shut myself up. Too late.
“Sexual favors?”
“Mmm, if you want to get back in my good graces.”
Who am I?
But the next moment, his resounding chuckle tells me I answered correctly.
CHAPTER TWO
Mario
My mama says I came out of the womb flirting with the doctor who delivered me. “You winked at her, Mario,” she insists. “Winked at her.”
They say Italian men learn the art of flirtation at a very young age, so what can I say? I was born with it. It’s who I am, who I’ve always been, and I can’t help it. Women are so beautiful. So delicate and soft and intriguing.
I love women of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life. Tall ones and petite ones, thin ones and curvy ones, young ones and older ones, women who flirt and women who keep things close to the vest. The feminine race was God’s gift to men, and if other men are too dumb to see it, that’s their fault.
I look at the woman beside me and smile to myself. She stood at the edge of the cliff as if she’d been waiting for me. I can tell already she isn’t the type of woman that needs to be rescued. No… not her. She’s too independent, too wily. I saw the way she took in details with a quick snap of her glance, how she weighs her words before she delivers them. She isn’t a woman to be rescued but a woman to be caught.
And hell, am I the guy for the chase. Mamma mia.
“Cold?” I ask her. She shakes her head no, but doesn’t reply. It’s a chilly spring evening, and I’m a bit surprised she says she isn’t cold, but maybe she doesn’t want to admit weakness. That wouldn’t surprise me. There’s an air of quiet confidence about her, a silent statement of her independence. I love that.
A good guy would ask for her name, but exchanging names implies something I’m not gonna offer: commitment on any level, and a personal invitation to know each other.
A shrink might say I have trust issues, a fear of commitment. I prefer to think I like the mystique of anonymity. I like keeping to myself when it comes to being with a woman. You start sharing names, then the next thing you know, they want you to celebrate the two-month anniversary or whatever the fuck, or they want to get a puppy with you, and before you know it, they’re tagging you on social media and bam. You’re tied down with a kid and rings that might as well be goddamn handcuffs.
