Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

PETER

W hen Thursday night rolled around, I was a ball of nerves. The last time I could remember feeling that way was the night Maisy was born. Nervous, excited, worried. I was afraid I'd make a mess of the date, that I'd do something to embarrass myself. Worse, I was afraid I'd do something to inadvertently ruin my marriage. I knew what the rules were, but that didn't stop me from worrying they'd change or I'd somehow break one.

When Ainsley told me the new rule the night before, I wanted so badly to tell her I wanted to call the whole thing off instead. I bounced back and forth between being excited about the possibility of what we were doing, terrified that this would ruin our marriage, ruin our family, and disgusted with the fact that I couldn't let myself enjoy it. What kind of man asks questions when his wife says she wants him to sleep with other people? I couldn't bring myself to tell the nagging voice, the one warning how close I was to losing her, to shut up.

When I was a kid, my parents made me take piano lessons. I painstakingly memorized the notes, memorized where my fingers were supposed to lay on the keys. I remembered the way my piano teacher smelled—like a musty attic and the peppermints she kept in her pockets all rolled into one—and the way she'd rap my knuckles with her ruler whenever my hands lost their posture.

That was how I felt at that moment. Like my life had fallen out of posture and I was waiting for Mrs. Feffermen to smack my knuckles and get me back into shape.

I walked from the bedroom, dressed in dark gray slacks with a light blue button-down shirt and a black bomber jacket. I was nervous as hell when I appeared in the living room—Ainsley apparently oblivious to me for a few seconds as she shredded the baked chicken for her legendary white chicken chili. She moved the metal claws through the meat with precision. Anger. Was I imagining that?

I cleared my throat, and she glanced over her shoulder, then released the claws, grabbing a towel to dry her hands as she looked me over. "You look nice, babe," she said. Her tone was casual. Unbothered. As if I were headed to the grocery store rather than on a date.

I swallowed and stepped forward. "Does the jacket look…" I adjusted it, pulling on the neck. "Is it too much?"

She walked toward me, checking that her hands were clean before she laid the towel down on the counter and reached for the collar, adjusting it. "Are you comfortable?" My wife preferred deep shades of red lipstick, colors that matched her hair. She applied them every morning, and by the evening, they'd all but faded from her lips. I could see traces of her lipstick then, near the edges of her smile and in the cracks of her bottom lip. I was struck by the sudden urge to lean down, take her lip between my teeth, and bite down. I couldn't explain it, the sudden urge to hurt her, but it was there. I wanted to cause her pain. Was that my way of coping?

"I'm comfortable," I said, forcing the thought away. "I haven't worn this jacket enough. It's still stiff."

She ran her hands slowly down my sides, almost sensually, but there was nothing sensual in her eyes. She was slow, methodical, as if I were one of the children trying on an outfit in the dressing room at the mall. She carefully looked over my body in the clothes meant to impress another woman, her lips pressed together. "Well, what if you wore a sweater instead? If you aren't comfortable, it's going to show."

"I don't want to look like a bum."

She scoffed. "You aren't going to look like a bum. You look handsome in sweaters. You always have. You can wear the cashmere one your parents got you last Christmas."

"I'd forgotten about that one," I said. "I mean, I think this looks okay though, right?"

Her eyes bounced up to mine, and I couldn't tell if there was any frustration in them. When we first moved in together, Ainsley used to complain that I was the only man she knew who required several clothing changes before we could leave the house. I liked to try things on, see how they felt against my skin, see how they looked. Did that make me so different from every other man? I didn't know, but it was how I worked.

"You look great," she repeated. "Don't be nervous. Do you have everything you need?"

I nodded, patting my back pocket, where my wallet rested. There was a condom tucked inside, hidden away like I'd done in my teenage years. Was it presumptuous to pack one? I wanted to be prepared, just in case. The thought shot through me like lightning: I might be having sex tonight. I might be having sex with someone who isn't my wife.

Why did I feel so excited and terrified all at once? It was enough to make me sick. What if I didn't know what I was doing? I'd only cared about impressing Ainsley for so long, what if I hadn't been kept up to date on what was in anymore? What if there was some new move I didn't know about? What if sex had changed somehow? What if my sex had changed? What if I'd gotten lazy? What if I wasn't as good as she pretended I was?

I shuddered, forcing the thought away as she interrupted it by kissing my cheek gently, then rubbing her thumb over where the kiss had landed. "Go on, now. Have fun. What time are you supposed to be there? Are you picking her up?"

I shook my head, clearing my throat. "We're meeting at seven."

We glanced at the clock in unison. It was just after six, so I had plenty of time, but I needed to leave. I needed to get out of her presence, away from her warm, familiar, musky jasmine scent that enveloped the house, and into the groove of things. Groove of things? I cringed—even my thoughts were old and uncool. I was a dad, and it was painfully obvious. I needed to get out of my own head.

"Okay, I'll be back later," I said. She didn't ask me to write down the name of the girl or the restaurant. She didn't ask any more questions. Instead, she nodded, turning back to the chicken on the counter and setting to work.

"We'll see you then."

I walked away, out of the room and through the door. She never asked me about the note she'd written and sealed, but I suspected she didn't need to. My wife knew me too well. She knew every thought before I had it, every move before I made it. Strangely, I found comfort in that, knowing that I didn't have to be anyone I wasn't with her. Knowing that my being someone different would surprise her, maybe even disappoint her.

There was uncertainty in the night, the date—spending an evening with someone who didn't know me at all. It was part of the reason I hadn't decided to take Gina up on her offer. It felt wrong somehow. Not that I'd expected her to fall madly in love with me, but I supposed I had too much respect for her to ask her out on a date where: a) I would probably be pretty rusty and awkward, and b) I planned to have sex—if my date was up for it—and never call her again.

So, for my first date, I'd chosen Mallory, a blonde massage therapist in her mid-twenties who loved to watch Hallmark Christmas movies year round and hike with her Shih Tzu, Bebe. Most of her pictures on the app were of her in bikinis, and the rest were either outdoors in tiny shorts or indoors in low-cut pajamas. Maybe it made me shallow to have picked her, but I needed someone who screamed casual for my first attempt at dating in years, and that was Mallory to the T.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I was seated in the oversized booth in the far corner. I ordered a gin and tonic for myself and waited. If I were with Ainsley, I'd have ordered her a red wine, a pinot or a cabernet perhaps. I considered guessing for Mallory—I'd bet she was a cosmo girl, but I wasn't sure what the protocol was anymore, and I didn't want to come across as a date rapist. So, instead, I sipped my drink, using my black straw to stir around the slices of lime.

When Mallory arrived, led to the table by a ma?tre d', I stood up, though it was awkward in the booth, and scooted toward the edge, reaching out my hand as she went in for a hug. She was wearing a small, pink dress, with minimal makeup except for giant, fake eyelashes and painted brows. Her blonde hair was cut into a sleek bob, unlike the wild, long hair in her pictures, and she'd straightened the curls I was so fond of.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice deeper than I imagined. She was insanely beautiful, there was no doubt, but everything about her was different than I'd expected. She was calmer, like a dimmer version of the life-of-the-party girl I'd met on the app.

"You too," I said, returning to my seat. "Sorry I didn't order you a drink yet. I wasn't sure what you prefer."

"No worries," she said, waving her hand at me. The waiter reappeared, and she ordered a whiskey neat, making me grateful I hadn't tried to guess her drink, because, given a thousand guesses, that would've never been one of them. She played with a strand of her hair, checking her phone once before sliding it into her purse and watching for the waiter. When he appeared, he placed her drink in front of her and took our orders. For the first time, she didn't surprise me, ordering a small salad while I ordered a burger and fries. A salad was not a meal, something Ainsley and I agreed on, but I didn't bother saying it to her. Who cared if she only ate salads? I'd never see her again after tonight. I had Ainsley to go home to… Ainsley who ate real meals and didn't mind a bit of meat on her bones.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to stop thinking of my wife. I was never going to get anywhere on this date if I couldn't stop thinking of her. And, as Mallory leaned into the table, her breasts pressing against the edge and nearly bulging out of the top of her dress, I realized how badly I did want to get somewhere with her. It was almost incessant. I needed to. To prove something—to myself, to my wife. I wanted to feel wanted again. I wanted someone to look at me the way Mallory was looking at me now. I wanted that look to last all night. Why had I allowed myself to forget how good that felt?

"So, tell me about yourself," she said, breaking the silence I hadn't realized we'd been sitting in. "What do you do for a living?"

"I work at an ar—" I stopped myself because the truth had almost slipped out, and she could never know the truth about me. "Art gallery," I filled in the blank. "As an office manager."

"Wow," she said with a dry laugh. "I never would've guessed that."

"Why do you say that?"

"You just don't seem like the artsy type."

I stared at her, probably for too long. She'd already typed me, as I had her. "And what type do you think I am?"

"I don't know," she said then laughed. She reached forward, pulling my straw toward her boldly and taking a sip of my drink, her pink lips enveloping the straw where mine had rested only moments ago. "I took you for something super smart and out of my league—like a doctor or a lawyer." She cringed. "Thank God you're not a dentist."

"Bad experience?" I laughed.

"Mouths freak me out."

I couldn't help it. My brows shot up, surprised and mildly put off by her comment. My mind was further in the gutter than a twelve-year-old boy. Not all mouths, I hope. She laughed as I thought it, as if she could read my mind, and I stared at her, my cheeks flaming with embarrassed heat.

"Sorry, that probably sounds bad," she said. Her laugh was warm and boisterous. It was nice, like a version of herself from the app sneaking through. She put a hand over her lips, her fingers touching the end of her nose. "I mean, I like what mouths can do, I'm just not a fan of seeing them be cleaned. My grandfather was a dentist before he retired. The stories he's told me…" She shivered, looking above our table at the air vent, though it wasn't on, and wrapped her arms around herself. "Sorry, probably not the sexiest first-date talk, is it?"

There was very little she could talk about that wouldn't be sexy, but teeth and oral hygiene did happen to top that list. I smirked.

"It's fine. Are you cold?" I shrugged off the bomber jacket, handing it to her instinctually. It was what I would've done if Ainsley were there. I put a fist over my lips, then lowered it and took another drink, realizing it was the first time I'd thought of Ainsley in at least five minutes, and the thought of her hadn't sent a pang of guilt through me this time.

She took the jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders, and grinned up at me from behind thick lashes. It was as if I'd passed a test. She scooted further over on the bench toward the window and patted the seat beside her. "I'd be warmer if you were beside me."

I cleared my throat, watching her wanting eyes. She had the look of a woman who was not often told no. I'd never liked sitting side by side with someone while eating a meal. It wasn't comfortable or practical, but I refused to deny her request. Instead, I stood, watching the waiter approaching our booth. I slid next to her on the bench as he placed our plates in front of us.

"Is there anything else I can get for you guys?" If he found it odd to see two fully grown adults sitting on one side of the oversized bench, he hid it well. I felt the urge to lay my hands on the table in plain sight.

"I think we're good," Mallory said, and I felt her thigh pressing against mine.

"Okay, I'll be back to check on you soon." He tapped the table. "Enjoy." With that, he disappeared, and I began to unroll my silverware. Mallory's skin was pressed to my clothing at every joint—our elbows, our knees, our ankles—and she stared at her salad, then at me, a sly smile on her face.

"Better?" I asked, holding my fork in my hand as I watched her. Every move she made was sensual, and I was sure she realized it, her fingers wrapped around the roll of silverware as she slid her hands down the length of the napkin before unrolling it.

"Much," she replied, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.

My body pulsed with electricity, so full of excitement there was no longer room for hunger. I leaned back, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and lifting my drink to my lips. Her face glowed as she downed the rest of the whiskey in her glass and put a palm on my thigh.

I trembled at her touch, my throat dry, thoughts jumbled. "So, what do you do?" I asked, though I knew. I just needed something to fill the space. Replace the quiet with noise.

"I'm a massage therapist," she reminded me, her hand squeezing my thigh.

"That's right. Sorry, I forgot."

"It's okay. Easy to do." She didn't break eye contact, the food and drinks momentarily forgotten.

"Do you…" I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. "Do you like it?"

"Sometimes," she said, drawing the word out. She was even closer to me now, though I wasn't sure how that was possible. "Do you want to get out of here?"

My stomach flopped, a heavy pull coming from somewhere deep inside of me. "Out of here?"

"I'm not all that hungry anymore." Her eyes flicked down the length of my body and back up. "Not for food anyway."

I swallowed and nodded, standing up before she could say another word. We needed to pay, but there was no check, no sign of the waiter, and no time to waste. I pulled out my wallet with shaking, impatient hands and tossed down three twenty-dollar bills, hoping it was enough, and took her hand as she led me out of the restaurant.

"I took an Uber. Did you drive?" she asked, nodding toward the street lined with parked cars.

"I'm in the parking garage," I told her, leading her in that direction. I couldn't stop my eyes from trailing down her body, wondering what was underneath the skintight dress and my oversized jacket. Not that her pictures had left much to the imagination.

"Can we go to your place?" she asked, making my blood run cold. "I have roommates."

"I, uh, I don't know," I said, trying to think on my feet. "I have kids." A version of the truth. When lying, you were supposed to go with a version of the truth, right? "They're home with a sitter, and I'd rather not bring someone—bring you—home, just in case they wake up."

"Kids, plural?"

"Three," I said with a laugh.

"Widower or divorced?" She seemed hesitant. Had I blown my chances?

Which was worse? "Divorced. Last year. I have joint custody."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I wasn't sure if she was talking about the kids or the divorce, so I nodded. "So, my place then?" she asked, recovering from her disappointment. She rolled her eyes and waved a hand nonchalantly. "Fine. Whatever. I've never brought a hot dad home. You'll be something new for my roommates to gossip about."

With that, she picked up the pace, heading toward the parking garage with me behind her. She led me to the elevator when I told her I'd parked on Floor 3, and we waited. When the doors opened, and then shut with us inside, she turned to me, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

All at once, we lunged at each other. There was no other way to describe the way we moved together, our bodies smacking into one another. My lips found hers, the strong, acidic taste of whiskey on her tongue as it plunged into my mouth.

I didn't feel like I'd lost my footing as I'd been expecting to. Instead, my hand moved to her breast with ease. Our kiss grew more passionate, her expelling moans of pleasure as I spun us around, pressing her back to the metal wall of the elevator. The dinging noise of our arrival had us pulling apart, our lips red and swollen, stupid grins on both our faces.

We hurried toward my car, me leading the way this time, and climbed inside. Once there, we sat for a second, catching our breath from the kiss and the run and the excitement of the moment. I'd missed this feeling. God, I'd missed it. The uncertainty and the longing and the feeling like my chest was going to explode at any moment. The excitement in her eyes, the burning desire I knew we both felt. Where had it gone with Ainsley? Why had it fizzled out? Clearly, lacking passion was not my problem.

I started the car. "Where to?" Mallory leaned over, resting against my side as comfortably as she could over the center console. Her hand trailed between my legs, running up and down the seams of my pants as she gave me instructions, her floral-scented perfume so strong I was sure it would never come out of the fabric of my car or clothes. I could hardly think, and it was an absolute miracle that we made it out of downtown and to her neighborhood.

At one point, we nearly crashed as she took my hand and stuck it, without warning, inside her dress, my fingers cupping her bare breast. That was where it stayed, too, with no objection from me. My heart thudded so rapidly I was sure she could hear it; my palm sweating against her nipple for the entire rest of the ride. Her hips ground circles against the seat, her hand squeezing my inner thighs, working their way up to the bulge in my pants over and over again.

When we arrived, she instructed me to park across from a set of two-story townhomes, removed her hand from my lap, and adjusted the top of her dress as my hand left her breast.

She smiled at me, leaning over to kiss my lips before opening the door and stepping out. I stepped out of my side of the car, following her up the long walk to the red front door of the brick townhome.

"Shh," she cautioned. "I don't want to disturb my roommates." With that, she twisted the key in the lock and led us into the dark and silent living room. The home had the overwhelming scent of tacos and animal urine—not the most romantic combination. My stomach rolled from the stench, and I forced myself to breathe through my mouth.

She took my hand in the dark, making no effort to turn on a light, and led me down a hallway, past a set of closed doors, and up a tall, narrow staircase. I could hear the humming of a faint TV coming from one of the bedrooms and I wondered if her roommates were used to her sneaking random men into their home. At one point, she stumbled and laughed quietly, as if she were drunk, though I knew she hadn't had nearly enough to drink to be intoxicated in the slightest. We reached a door and she turned the handle, flipping on a lamp.

The room was average size and had a full-size bed against the far wall, with clothes draped across the end of it. There was a vanity to my left covered with makeup and perfume, bottles toppled over and powder everywhere. A small TV stand sat across from her bed, a stack of plates and empty cans of soda resting on its top. A laptop sat open, screen black, on the floor. Next to it, a navy blue dog bed sat, covered in long, white hair. I briefly wondered where the dog from her photos was.

It looked like a teenager's room, though much worse than my own teenager's. Ainsley would've had a fit if the kids' rooms were that messy.

I didn't need to think about that.

I didn't need to worry about a future with a woman who had no qualms about a lack of cleanliness. I didn't need to think about anything except the woman in front of me, unzipping her dress in slow motion. She let it fall away, revealing a tiny, matching set of lacy lingerie. She kicked the dress into the corner, pulling the clothes off the bed as I reached for the buttons of my shirt.

When she turned back to me, her eyes burned with the same desire I felt deep in my stomach. She reached for me, helping me with the last few buttons as her mouth found mine again.

Grabbing hold of my arms, she shoved me onto the bed and removed the last bit of fabric from her body. She stood in front of me for a few seconds, allowing me to take in the sight of her. Then, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to mine as she climbed onto the bed. I kissed her chest, her lips, her cheeks, her ears, unable to decide where to keep my mouth. Ending the struggle, she sat up, scooting one knee down the bed, then the other, working her way slowly toward my pelvis. She was an expert, practiced in the art of seduction. Every move she made somehow turned me on more.

I watched her unhook my belt, never breaking eye contact with me, her expression sultry and passionate. When she pulled my pants toward my ankles, she looked me over, a devilish grin on those pouty, pink lips, and I watched as her blonde head lowered, taking me into her mouth. The hair fell in front of her face, and I watched as it bobbed up and down, keeping a slow and steady pace.

I rested my head on the pillow, letting out haggard breaths as I watched her head—blonde, straight hair so starkly different from the red curls I was used to seeing there—as it moved up and down, coaxing strangled sounds from my throat. I was unable to control myself with her, and she seemed to be enjoying it.

In that moment, a moment of pure and seemingly unending ecstasy, I was so glad we did this. I was so grateful my wife had the idea. I was so glad I chose Mallory. I was so fucking glad I was there—

I couldn't think anymore. I needed to feel everything. I needed to be present.

I glanced down at the incredible view and thought about how lucky I was.

And then, as I felt the lightning tearing through my body, white-hot with pure pleasure as her eyes met mine again, I didn't think at all.

I just fucking felt.