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Occasionally.
As a reward for consuming rabbit food, I pour myself a glass of pink bubbly to enjoy during my bath and settle in for a soak with a happy sigh.
The hot water feels heavenly on my aching, dough-rolling-taxed shoulders, and the champagne is sweet and fizzy on my tongue.
Yes, the world is still full of sensual delights that have nothing to do with breath-stealing kisses, ripping a man’s shirt off in the heat of passion, or having him turn you over his knee for a spanking.
Mmm. Spankings. Swats. Hair pulling.
I hum under my breath to the tune of the Sound of Music since these are, indeed, a few of my favorite things.
Then I do my best not to linger on spankings because I really do love a fun, flirty spanking and it’s been so very long since I enjoyed one.
Months, I think.
Many months.
Maybe close to a year?
“No. Stop. Don’t,” I mutter aloud.
I will not think of Theodore or how much fun it was to play sex games with him or how often I’ve run into him since we broke up without him even noticing that I’m in his general vicinity. I wear brightly colored dresses with huge fluffy skirts and, more often than not, a considerable amount of cleavage on display. Nice cleavage too, if I do say so myself.
But I am apparently invisible to the last man who gave me orgasms.
“Which is fine, because you can give yourself orgasms,” I say, as my red toes peek out of my bubble bath. “Better, faster ones.”
But the words don’t tempt me to slide my fingers under the bubbles and between my legs the way I would have earlier in my adventure in celibacy. These days, my best bet is to not think about sex too much, even when I’m alone. It’s just too frustrating. The last prospect broke up with me via parrot before we could get to orgasm territory, and I don’t see an end to that frustration anywhere in sight.
Yes…a parrot.
The bird squawked, “It’s me not you. Me not you. Let’s break up,” on cue. Did he train it to say that or did the parrot learn it since he said it so much?
Either way, dodged a bullet with that one. Besides, I’m looking forward to flying solo to this party tonight. It’s so much easier to dominate at Rubik’s Cube, giant Jenga, and other assorted classic games without a guy around judging my nerdish tendencies.
Maybe someday I’ll meet a man who enjoys being nerdy together.
Ha. Maybe I’ll ride a unicorn to the party too.
Forty minutes later, I’m breezing out of the subway into the cool night air in front of The Library, one of Brooklyn’s hottest live music venues. It features a stage and dance floor surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, including a historical romance section with a take-a-book-leave-a-book policy—be still my bookish heart.
But tonight, the floor isn’t filled with thrashing punks or swaying hipsters in jeans too tight for real dancing. Instead, gamers surround tables spread with Scrabble, Clue, or Monopoly, a giant Jenga game dominates the stage, and—most tantalizing of all—the Rubik’s Cube twist off tournament begins at nine. It looks like most people are competing in teams of two or three, but I’d rather go solo than risk being paired with a novice who will bring down my time.
I’m not just nerdy, I’m competitive about it.
I sign up for the second heat, wiggle my fingers for good luck at the line of cubes on the edge of the stage, and head for the bar to grab a coffee.
With one glass of champagne under my belt, I can’t afford to further dull my senses, not if I’m going to win bragging rights—and the Master of The Cubeiverse T-shirt I’ve had my eye on since word of the party popped into my social media feed.
I’m leaning into the bar, shamelessly offering a glimpse of cleavage in hope of luring the busy bartender my way, when I hear it.
The voice.
A rich, deep, sexy-as-hell British voice asking for a Scotch on the rocks.
It’s a voice made to melt panties and weaken resolve. That alone is nearly enough to make me rethink my vow to remain married to my pie shop and leave dating to women with more tolerance for assholes and their feathered friends.
I shift to my right, sneaking a peek at the owner of the voice, and I am…lost.
Utterly lost, helpless to resist the magnetic pull of a thirtysomething, dark-haired man with Henry Cavill broad shoulders, the profile of a Roman warrior, a beard I want to feel against my face, and the plushest lips I’ve ever seen on a man, perfectly full and absolutely kissable. And on this massive, sexy beast in a three-piece suit—clearly custom made to accommodate his staggering broad-shoulder-to-trim-waist ratio—that mouth is perfect.
He’s perfect.
And just like that, I decide that he will be mine.
