1. Nadia

It was easy to see I had a new regret. One of those night thoughts for the future—every night this week, then after extraordinary willpower to suppress it, it’ll pop up randomly a month from now, and then settle in as a not-infrequent visitor at night for the next decade. It’ll start the same way:

If I had only …

I have a very long list of those and mister- bare-chest-and-dimples at the bar is one of them. I have no doubt in my mind.

But he’s there and I’m here and that’s the way it is.

It’s Friday night, and he’s alone but I’m on a date with someone else.

A bad date.

One of the worst ever.

I just hope I’m not going to go home and have sex with him.

He might be a loser and boring as all hell, but I can’t really tell that I like someone unless I get up really close— I have to smell his skin. It sounds weird but it’s not. It’s the animal part of me, the pheromones and all those other chemical markers for health so that our babies would be strong and healthy, those are all on the skin, and you need to get up close to find them all out. So that’s why I’m a slut and put out on the first date way too often— it’s science.

I really don’t think I need the laboratory to find out if my date is not him , though. He barely talks, hasn’t touched his wine and hasn’t even smiled yet. I’m doing all the heavy lifting to keep a conversation going —but failing miserably. Would a sane person still be hoping they won’t sleep with a guy on this trainwreck of a date? No, clearly.

The only interesting thing here at all is the cute guy at the bar who is staring at us— staring at me — and laughing to himself occasionally. He must see what a car crash this is and just can’t look away—rubbernecking. I laughed to myself and look across the table at my date— he didn’t even notice, completely absorbed by his lasagna.

Viktor Sushkin was his name, he works with computers in some vague way that I can’t remember exactly. Something about IT sales, maybe? He demurred when I asked about his job which is usually where people babble but not Viktor. English is not his first language, Russian is, but he doesn’t seem too interested in practicing his English with me.

That was the biggest reason why I accepted his match and date. I felt a little bit sorry for him and thought it might be fun to help someone practice their English. I imagined lots of romantic possibilities with sign language, body language, smiles and flirts, a romantic game of charades is what I had pictured. But like I said, he isn’t even interested in talking. That lasagna is getting way more attention from him than I am. And I’ve had lasagna here before—it isn’t that great. I can’t believe I shaved my legs for this, what a waste.

His eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy, but a cool gray blue, that’s the other reason I accepted the date. His eyes were cold but quite beautiful, unfortunately they were not devouring me, instead completely trained on the lasagna. For those eyes I was willing to overlook the unruly eyebrows, the thin lips, the too-long sideburns, the hulking body, plump hands, and thinning hair. But they’ve barely noticed me.

I looked back over at the guy sitting at the bar. The first thing I noticed were his wonderful, bright blue-topaz eyes. I wanted to wear them on a ring on my fingers, or on a necklace—serial killer thoughts, I know, but they were quite lovely, especially fringed as they were by long lashes. They were exceptional eyes, and I would have looked over plenty of faults for them, but he seemed just about flawless. Full, kissable lips, square jaw with stubble, big roman nose (I’m a sucker for big noses), coal black hair long and thick enough for my fingers to get tangled, strong but somehow delicate hands. Thin eyebrows that looked better than mine—did he pluck? No. Amber skin. And best of all dimples when he smiled, which he did a lot of, even sitting alone. Why couldn’t I be on a date with him instead? He wore a dark suit, with a dark shirt and no tie. The shirt was unbuttoned showing off his chest— I wouldn’t even have to sleep with him to get up close to his skin, just fall against him somehow and take a deep breath. It was much more fun to imagine how to pull that off than to sit here with Viktor.

The sounds of enjoying lasagna a bit too much startle me back to my date, Viktor. I need to stop that daydreaming. A date with bare chested dimples might be just as awkward as the one I’m on. I imagined romantic charades with Viktor and got only-has-eyes-for-lasagna instead. I imagine romantic ways to fall into dimples’ bare chest and get, what? Gay maybe? If he plucks his eyebrows, gay.

I can’t help but think this is what I deserve for lying on my dating profile. I can’t ditch my date and go sit at the bar with bare-chest-and-dimples over there, even though that’s pretty much exactly what I want to do right now.

I’m too nice.

Fuck I hope I don’t sleep with this guy and imagine Mr. Bare-chest-and-dimples guy at the bar. I would kick myself for days.

I grabbed my purse and told Viktor I’d be right back, had to freshen up. He did look away from his plate for a moment to meet my eyes but still no words or smile.

There was no queue for the ladies room—it was surprisingly empty, giving me plenty of time to stare at myself in the mirror. I saw a liar who was getting what she deserves.

I just stole my dating profile from someone else. This is not me:

Nadia Cash- I’m easy going and I love to laugh, watch movies with friends, and long walks in the woods. Looking for someone to share this amazing world with.

Age: 25

Looking for: fun/ long term/ see what happens.

Likes: walks on the beach, coffee, sunshine.

Dislikes: mean people.

Trite bullshit, but that’s what you have to do on these, right? But a real one wouldn’t have attracted anyone better than Viktor in love with lasagna.

A real personal ad for me would look like this:

Nadia Cash

Secretly hates people but I pretend not to. Can find fault with anyone. Worried my loneliness is making me weird. Very smart, but I can hide this if necessary. Needy. Prefers daydreams to real life.

Age: 25

Looking for: Sex god with psychiatrist experience who can put up shelves and move furniture.

Likes: Pretty eyes, dimples, the smell of bare skin.

Dislikes: Fucktards.Lasagna-lovers.

I’m literally falling asleep out there if not for Mr. bare-chest-and-dimples guy at the bar. I’ve considered smashing my head on the table a few times to stay awake. Why can’t I just quit this date? Just go out there and leave cash for my half of the meal on the table, then leave, and sit in my car until he leaves then go back in and hope sexy dimples guy at the bar is still there and still alone? Someone else might pounce on him before all that happens, dammit. I’m too nice to just ditch Viktor lasagna and sit at the bar, dammit.

Character is destiny, right? If so, I’m destined to be nice and probably have terrible sex with my date instead of doing what I really want.

I give myself a slightly disgusted look as I walk from the mirror, knowing I won’t take the chance and swing the door open. Then I remember my purse on the sink and grab it while hurrying out the closing door. I’m not even looking ahead as I leave and I bump into something hard, my face turned sideways, my cheek collides with soft, warm amber skin and my lips and eyes catch the rough black fabric of a shirt half open exposing a bare chest. I don’t immediately bounce off the person, his arms catch me and steady me, and I know I won’t fall. I take a deep breath against this person’s bare skin and inhale his intoxicating scent.

It’s divine.

Heavenly.

I want to wrap myself inside it like a comforter on a cold Sunday morning.

It was pure leather— deep, dark, and brooding— the smell of male confidence with a touch of something sweet like vanilla.

Yum.

I make a whimpering sound as he pulls me away from his chest and I look up into dimpled-cheeks, stubbly chin, blue-topaz eyes and thin (plucked? They’re too perfect …) eyebrows. It’s Mr. Bare-chest-and-dimples.

“It’s you, Miss train-wreck-of-a-date-but-too-nice-to-abandon-it,” he said with a charming smile. I wonder how far that smile alone has taken him in life.

Everywhere.

Mr. bare-chest-and-dimples has a descriptive nickname for me too, I might swoon.

“I … my name is actually Nadia,”

“That’s easier than what I’ve been calling you in my head, thanks. I’m Nik,” he holds out his hand to me.

I take it warm, firm, and the electricity I expected, the lightning bolt doesn’t happen, which is good because I wouldn’t be able to function at all if that happened.

“Can I ask you something,” he asks me, those eyes trained on me.

“Okay,” I stammer.

“If your life was going to end tonight, what would you regret not doing?”

“What?”

“We only regret the things we don’t do, not the things we do. What do you want Nadia, what do you really want right this second? I can see it in your eyes, clear as day.”

“I …” my eyes do flutter down to those full, kissable lips of his. That’s probably what he sees. So do it …

“I want this,” without over-thinking I lift my lips to his, and he presses his into mine, my body freezes for a second then leans into him for the kiss, light, warm, wet, and possessive.

I surprised myself by kissing him, or at least letting him kiss me. The kiss itself … that takes me by surprise too.

My only thought is god this feels sublime . I never knew a kiss could be so intense that it could make you feel powerful.

This is no longer for science; I’ve already smelled his skin and it has driven me crazy and stupid. I don’t need to sleep with him to know the messages his smell is saying to me.

It’s screaming at me to jump his bones.

And I can’t say no to it right now.

I pull him into the empty women’s bathroom. It’s kind of disgusting, but he’s going with it, and I just want him so badly at this moment.

I’ve never done this, it’s crazy and kind of gross, but my hand is on his crotch immediately, and it finds something hard, warm, pliant, a good size cock that is probably as pretty as he is.

I drop to my knees and unzip him, pulling out the stiff, hot cock, and immediately take him in my mouth, hearing a moan escape his lips. Then his hand is on my head, moving my mouth in a rhythm over his cock. I felt so dirty, my knees on a dirty bathroom floor, a stranger’s cock in my mouth, and him fucking my face … so dirty but so good. Thank God I was raised catholic and sex was always dirty and bad because it makes it so much better.

“Come here,” he says pulling my arms up, my mouth slips from his cock, and his lips are on mine, hard, insistent, his tongue rolling against mine as he pushes me against the wall and hefts my leg up over his thigh and his hand searches between my thighs.

A finger slips aside my panties and finds me wet as he brushes my clit and plunges a finger inside me. “What a good girl,” he says.

I burn up with shame and lust at how hot those words make me. His finger digs deeper and makes the come here motion inside me and it feels so good, almost ticklish but pure pleasure. He looks deep in my eyes, to the very bottom of my soul as he smiles and says, “Do you want to come for me?”

Oh yes, I am fucking do. I never come easily, or at all with another person. But everything about this situation has my body like a live wire and as he slips another finger inside me I come a little and moan into his shoulder and he doesn’t stop, both fingers curling inside me, filling me, clenching my stomach until I come on his hand, a small, quick orgasm, like a tremor before the big earthquake.

“Good fucking girl,” he says as he holds me against the door while I dig into his pants for his cock, holding it against my entrance as his fingers slip out. My arms wrap around his back, the only thing that can hold me up is him.

He fucks up into me, pinning me in place against the door as I cling to his shoulders and whimper with each thrust. After a dozen —or a hundred, I lose count and all track of time— he kisses down my neck and pulls my hips closer to him, down on him, he’s as deep as possible and sliding me on his cock and the light pressure of his thumb on my clit is all I need to get close to the edge of the cliff.

I want to tell him it’s never been this good, it’s never been this easy for me, but all I can do is curl against him and get ready to fall off that cliff with his relentless rhythm inside me.

My eyes roll back in my head and my body erupts in shivers and goosebumps and heat waves as my fingers dig into his back, holding on for dear life until he comes too, I feel warmth inside me that brings on a few more shivers and he lets me down, my legs start working and my brain comes back online.

My heart is still racing, and my breaths are still quick and shallow as I realize what I just did. I fucked a stranger in the bathroom, let him come inside me without protection, and he was dripping out of me right now.

But damn that smile and dimples as he looked at me and zipped up shattered me again.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” I say as the guilt and shame washes over me.

“Why not, we both wanted it. Now I’m going to pay both our tabs and I’m driving you out of here.”

I can’t disagree or argue and don’t want to. He holds my hand, dragging me behind him as he pays his tab and mine with cash and we manage to walk out while Viktor never looks up from his food.

And then we’re outside. I did it.

He gives me another one of those smiles that makes my stomach flip and says, “That was easy. Your car or mine?

“Yours.”

As we walk towards his car, the door opens behind us and I hear an angry voice curse in Russian, “Blyat!”

Not going to lie, the thought of two guys fighting over little old me was a turn on. But I also realized in the moment that the idea of it was sexy but like so many fantasies that come true— the reality is disappointing, or in this case, of violence, very unsexy and terrible and I can’t stand blood and violence of any kind. I would be a wreck after witnessing a fistfight. “Okay guys, this isn’t necessary …” I start to say, figuring out how to calm Viktor. Maybe bribe him with a dessert?

“Blyat,” Viktor says again, not a nice sounding word, especially with the bile he said it with.

Oh shit, is that a gun. A GUN?! What the fuck Viktor? It’s pointed at me, his bile is all focused on me, not Nik. I freeze. Nik pulls my arm and steps in front of me and pulls out his own gun.

I see a flash erupt in the darkness of the parking lot then I hear the sound, like thunder, crack open the night.

I look up and Viktor’s head has a great big hole in it.

I can’t even scream.

Nik drags me over to the body and bends down to rifle through the pockets with one hand while he holds my arm firmly with his other hand.

I gag.

“Don’t look at him if it makes you vomit.”

“I—” I gag again, I doubt I could throw anything up other than bile but looking away doesn’t really help.

My knees feel weak.

“Don’t faint, you’ll fall on him and get all bloody.”

“I don’t faint, I—”