Chapter 6

MELODY

I should've checkedthat phone number and found out who that man was. Nothing annoys me more than unreasonable people demanding stuff from me.

The thought percolates in my brain as I strut into the bedroom, eager to shed my dress and press my frame against Thomas' muscles.

Soft music plays in the background, and the floor–length curtains are partly pulled to the side as the street and old trees fill my view.

The sheets are made of the finest quality cotton, pressed, and wrinkle-free.

I like Thomas more and more.

He exits the bathroom, smelling like musk and mint, no longer wearing his expensive tie.

His dress shirt is open across his chest, and a dusting of dark hair covers his pecs. Just howI envisioned.

He gives me a smile as I close the distance between us, and for the second time this evening, I wish I wore a different outfit, something less pretentious.

But like him, I wanted to make a good impression.

A simpler dress with a back zipper for quick access would've been a better option.

"Everything all right?" he asks.

I tilt my head in response, a questioning look on my face..

"Your phone conversation," he elaborates.

"Oh, that… It was a wrong number."

My silly answer makes his eyebrows go up.

"How come?"

"They thought I was someone else," I say, gesturing dismissively. "I need to freshen up," I add to end our conversation, and he shows me to the bathroom.

It's a his-and-her bathroom, which only fuels my suspicion the smooth man in front of me is well-versed in hookups.

From a practical point of view, I can't be happier for this moment of solitude.

Other than that, I have mixed feelings about this evening.

The one thing I'm sure of is that I want to have sex.

Even robotic, a bit dry, fake sex.

I don't expect much, so anything will do, but I'm sure Mr. Banker in the other room is experienced when it comes to finding a woman's sensitive spots.

Other than that,nothing is clear to me.

Am I in danger with the other man?

Somehow, fearwasn't what I feltwith him.There was an element of fear, but it wasn't apocalyptic or paralyzing.

It was mostly a fear of the unknown.

I'm irritated with him because he's territorial, and I'm not used to this type of man.

I also find the situation darkly amusing, which concerns me because I'm usually more cautious than that.

For sure,I don't want to be the reason this man creates havoc in Thomas' otherwise quiet neighborhood.

And then, I don't want to owe an explanation to the man in the other room.

How can I explain the young, crazy, tattooed man who served time for trying to kill his father?

If that is true.

He is a new friend I made at my shrink's––sorry, psychotherapist's––office?

And he is acting out because…?

Yeah.

Why is he acting out?

My heart stops for a moment.

Oh, my.

I've gotten myself an insane stalker.

I know how these people react.

I've seen it on the news and read it in the tabloids. They imagine things and are obsessed with certain people.

Granted, they're not holding those people in their arms before expressing their obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but still.

This man has become my stalker.

A demon with green eyes and tattoos on his neck.

Iflick mygaze to the large, lit mirror and catch myself smiling.

"What's so funny?" I murmur to myself, guilt flashing through mygaze as I pull it away from the mirror.

I have no business discussing my life with a stranger, yet a grin still lines my lips.

How strange is that?

Sucking in a long breath, I toss my bag on the vanity and try to get a hold of myself.

I turn my phone off like a petulant child, lips pressed together, nostrils flaring, and fingers stiff with tension.

"There," I murmur, cheap satisfaction flooding me as I shove my cell phone into my bag and spin back to the mirror.

I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and run a critical eye over my face and dress.

Most of my lipstick is gone, so I shift back to my purse, scoop out my favorite lipstick–a deep, rich red––and put on some color before changing my mind, grabbing a tissue, and removing it.

The pallor of my skin strikes me, so I move closer and check my face.

Faint dark circles are visible around my eyes, a dull gaze sliding off the mirror.I pinch my cheeks, the color shifting from ashen to red.

Am I tired? Yeah. Yes, I am. I haven't slept well in a while, and with no sex, no vacations, and not even a long weekend, it's tough.

Well…

Sex will happen tonight.

With that thought Ipullaway from the mirror andconsiderwalking into the bedroom wearing only my heels and underwear.

Surprise Thomas.

I ponder for a few more seconds and decide against it.

It would look tacky.

Let's just make him undress me.

MELODY

The song'slyrics are about unrequited love,and itshouldn't really be my business, but for some reason, my brain refuses to connect to the thinggoing onbetween my date and me.

This is a different kind of love––if you can call it that.

Whatever this is, we're doing it with very much responsibility.

His hands go down my back, unzipping my dress, while his lips draw a path down my neck.

The soft, expensive fabric says farewell to my body before I walk out of my dress, and he gets to see me with bands of lace between my thighs and over my breasts, sexy heels, and nothing else.

His satisfaction matches mine as I feed on his reaction.

It's a fleeting, meaningless moment, but life is often made of scraps.

"Melody…" he murmurs, resting his hands on my waist while my arms close around his neck.

His voice carries a pang of warm sincerity for the first time since I met him.

Everything else has been polite, dull, and empty, and now I realize how much I crave something real.

‘Like that man last night,'a voice teases in my head, and I mentally slap it away.

Thomas brings his eyes to mine, his enthusiasm for me not dinged in the slightest, and for a second there, I think he'll go for a passionate kiss.

It doesn't happen.

He brings his hand to the back of my hair and resumes kissing my neck, which I like. I even get tingles from it, but it can't pull me out of my head. And for sure, it can't make me forget that we are two strangers about to have sex without a genuine connection.

Adjusting my expectations, I simply go with it.

"Do you have condoms?" I ask, practical and eager to get to the point.

"Of course," he says, relief tinging his voice, confirmingagain that he and I will never be more than this.

Two adults scoring some points with each other.

He pivots toward the nearest nightstand while I remove my heels and slide under the covers.

Smiling, he unbuttons his shirt and tucks it out of his pants while retrieving a few foil packets from the drawer and tossing them onto the nightstand.

He likes what is about to follow, and I try to share his sentiment despite feeling like I'm in a boardroom meeting.

Moments later, we lie next to each other, facing one another. His lips are on my neck again, never going near my mouth, while my fingers splay over his shoulder.

He works out,hardmuscles grinding beneath his skin.A mix of weight lifting and jogging, I suspect.

Nothing outrageous, though.He doesn't have much definition, not that I believe it's been his goal.

More silky hair covers his abdomen and arms. It tickles me, which makes it hard to stop thinking about it.

Between the music playing over the speakers and him pressed against my body, I can't get into the moment.

He has his boxers on, his hand gliding to my back to unfasten my bra, mine going down his happy trail, when a loud noise makes the windows shudder.

Several car engines rumble outside, tires screeching, and annoying laughter drifting from behind the windows.

Men and women.

Exhaust fumes spread through the air.

The man facing me begins to harden, producing an erection I am eager to touch when the noise gets louder.

Sweat lines his skin while he mutters something under his breath.

"Does it bother you?" he asks.

"No," I say in a clipped voice.

I know that feeling when you're about to get what you've always wanted, and something ruins itfor you.

I'm probably less anxious than he is since I'm not as aroused as he is, but I'm willing to get there with him.

For a different reason, though.

I want to prove myself and the man outside that he is not my boss. He won't change my plans for the evening.

The nerve he has.

I see now how this could become a problem.

Right now, he's messing with Thomas.

But then there will be another date or something else for me to do. A flicker of worry zips through me, but I refuse to think about him any longer.

Thomas turns into a horny dude struggling to drag me across the finish line while we haven't even gotten started.

He pushes the waistband of his boxers past his erection that swiftly bounces up, yet sadly, he gets unlucky with my bra clasp.

More beads of sweat form on his brow while I freeze, not knowing what to do.

Help him with my bra? Rub his shaft?

My center is nowhere close to welcoming him inside me.

What about kissing? We haven't even kissed.

And all that happens while people still clamor outside.

I don't get to touch him when he jumps out of bed, palming his bulge and reaching for his phone.

He paces to the window and peers outside from behind the curtain.

The chaos moves away just as the 911 dispatcher answers Thomas' call.

"What's your emergency?"

"Never mind," he says and hangs up on the man.

"They'll know where you've called from."

"I hope so," he says, the street turning quiet again. "There are always cops around the corner. I'm sure I'm not the only one bothered by this insane noise," he says, his brow furrowed. "What is wrong with these people?" he mutters, sliding his phone onto the nightstand. "It's late," he huffs, suppressing a bad word at the last moment.

I feel like cursing too.

I also feel like this is a sign.

And I'm not talking about the man going crazy outside. Maybe his therapy sessions are not going deep enough to fix his head.

I'm thinking about myself trying to do something that clearly goes against my fate.

Things meant to happen are easy as every flicker of energy in the universe conspires to help them come to life.

Look at the devil with green eyes creating havoc outside. He has no problem screwing with our evening and our lives while we struggle a lot.

But enough about him.

Even without him, Thomas and I are not meant to be.

We'll probably see each other again, and perhaps we'll have sex in the end, but he'll benefit more from it than I ever will.

And frankly, as much as I'd love to have sex, I dread the morning after or the hour after.

The moment I have to go home, empty inside.

But…Hope dies last, and self-doubt is its crazy cousin that never goes away, so we give it a go again.

This time, he loses his boxers, giving me a full view of his manhood. He's taller than me, not by much, though, and he is sturdy. It"s not abadpackage either if you ask me.

I remove my bra to clear his way and welcome him next to me. It just happens that his erection has quietly said goodbye to us––placing 911 calls usually does that–and now we're back to rekindling the fire.

His touch is no longer smooth and patiently tender, and I can't blame him, so he tries something different from the get-go, nudging me to my back and tucking his knees between my legs.

I'm a bit reluctant to have him on top of me, especially without an erection, but I'm willing to make an effort. And maybe make it work.

The mostdifficultpart is convincing his length to harden again.

Unfortunately, Thomas is completely out of his game.

His brain is fried, and his awkward moves only match his lack of inspiration.

Embarrassment washes over his face while he tries to move his hand over my body and get himself hard again.

His hand feels like a cold pancake on my chest, and it wouldn't make a difference if he dragged it down between my legs.

Telling me sweet, dirty words is out of the question too. He's just grieving the moment he has lost.

Our knees collide as he shifts his position to grab his cock and give it a good rub, and I bite my lip to stop the pain.

"This doesn't work, does it?" he asks, panting, his voice a dreadful mix of frustration, anger, and clipped breaths as he spectacularly fails to harden his dick.

"We can do it next time. Don't worry," I say, gliding a hand over my boobs, pulling upright, and glancing around to locate my bra.

"Sure," he says, rolling to his back, defeated.

His grim acknowledgment sounds like a breakup, and nothing is out of the questionat this point.

Most men don't recover from a moment like this. Especially when it's their first time with a woman.

They'dratherstart fresh with someone else than fight a hangup like this and permanently associate a particular partner with feeling like a failure in bed.

So… I'm doomed.

Not really.

It's okay for me either way.

His hand covers his groin while I fasten my bra.

"It's never happened to me," he says, rubbing his free hand over his face. He looks more relaxed now and even produces an amused smile.

Behind all that, I get a glimpse of a tiny existential crisis. Today, a failed erection. Tomorrow, a knee pain. And before he knows it, he hits another age milestone.

Things that have shined brightly and captivated him––women, financial goals, and random things––no longer hold sway over him.

Perhaps his fears are the beginning of amajorchange.

We all go through that.

I go through that.

I see a therapist for that.

What happened this evening has nothing to do with that, but ithas the power torevive those nasty little balls of angst.

I don't know what to say to him.

I want to be a good human, but even if I get a moment of real intimacy with him, he'll resent me, particularly for that.

If not tonight or tomorrow morning, when he'll have his coffee in the breakfast nook while scrolling mindlessly through the headlines on his phone, then next week when he'll go to his office.

Or when he'll set his eyes on someone else, trying to forget this moment of vulnerability.

So it wouldn't do much for either of us.

"I believe you," I say in an unwavering voice, although we both know he's headed that way.

You can't fight nature, which puts things in perspective for both of us.

For him asin maybeplayingthe dating game forever is not what he thought it might be.

And for me asin perhapsfinding something meaningful and real attached to these encounters is more important and urgent than ever.

"And it has nothing to do with you," I say, which is true. "The evening was perfect," Iadd, rising to my feet and shimmying my way into my dress before putting my shoes on. "If it wasn't for that craziness outside, I'm sure we would've had a nice time," I murmur, smiling while half-zipping my dress.

He's still, lying in bed, drinking me in.

If nothing else, the man is infatuated with me.

I get that a lot lately, although thatpretty muchsums up my encounters with them.

"Do you mind?" I ask, sweeping all my hair over one shoulder.

My words jolt him out of his reverie.

"No. Not at all,"hesays, smiling, moving past the mountain of embarrassment that shook throughhiscore moments ago and back to being a gentleman.

He pulls his boxers up, erases the distance between us, and tenderly zips up my dress before sliding my hair back and kissing the top of my head.

For a second there, we have a wonderful moment, and he is more than a man who––rightfully so––couldn't produce an erection while I get a glimpse of what I'm actually missing in my life.

And it's more than an erection.

It's that rare, beautiful connection.