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She looked broken-hearted.
I had it in the bag.
She’s sexy. Short with lovely hips and long brown hair that flows down her back. The red
fitted dress does extraordinary things for her curves, and the strappy black pumps look amazing on her. They looked even better wrapped around my neck a few minutes ago.
She loved it. She begged me to finish her off, insisting it was exactly what she needed.
That’s what they all say.
“Noah, I just need one night. Fuck me hard,” they all plead.
“Noah, make me forget him. You’re so hot with a big dick. Bigger than his dick,” they all compliment.
Same old story.
But, hey, who’s complaining? Definitely not my ‘big dick.’
Women want to be placed on a pedestal, shown how the single life won’t be so bad. Sex with another man gives them the satisfaction that, emotionally and physically, they have detached themselves from the one who broke their heart.
The woman beside me—Rose, I think—continues to sit in silence. Fuck, you can’t remember her name even after you screamed it.
Lost in a daze, she traces the bottom of her glass, letting out a soft sigh every couple of minutes.
Usually, I don’t entertain them afterward. We always agree that it’s a one-time thing—they’re rebounding, and I’m letting off steam from my stressful job. Okay, another lie I spin to make myself seem important. My job is breezy. But she asked me for a favor, a quick drink at the bar. And rarely do I do favors for pe
ople unless it’s my mom or my best friends.
“I know you probably want to get rid of me now,” she suggests, half-jokingly. “Can I ask you something?”
I try my damn hardest not to look at my watch because, in reality, I don’t have anywhere I need to be. With a forced smile, I nod encouragingly, hoping to end this encounter within the next few minutes. Unless, of course, she’s up for round three.
Dammit. I’m getting hard again just thinking about it.
She takes a sip from her glass, and one sip soon becomes an entire mouthful until the glass sits empty on the coaster. She motions the bartender to replace her drink, turning to ask me the burning question, “Do you believe in karma, Noah?”
An odd question, especially coming from a woman you’ve just been inside of. I’m no saint. If there’s such a thing as karma, it would’ve hunted me down by now, chopped me into fine liver, and fed me to the wolves.
“I haven’t given it much thought. I guess so. Maybe. Why do you ask?”
She swivels the stool to face me, her eyes drunk and sleepy. The mascara that accentuates her long lashes has smudged under her eyes.
Jesus, was she fucking crying, and I had no idea?
“I’ll be honest…” she admits, keeping her voice low, “… I really needed what happened
between us tonight.”
They always do.
She picks up the toothpick that sits inside the glass, removing the olive between her fingers, and swirls the martini quickly. “It’s just… I can’t help but feel guilty.”
Of course, she does.
I have the speech memorized. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. See, first comes lust, then comes fucking, then straight after say hello to your good old friend, guilt.
“Rose, I’m not going to push you to open up to me,” I tell her.
