Her husband Michael still motors around the house and the yard, but he has a heart condition, so she worries that Zach’s days with him are numbered.
Well, they’re both in their late seventies, and Zach is seven, so she’s not wrong to be planning ahead.
I walk down the steps as the sun dips toward the horizon. The clock is ticking. I’m not antsy for them to go, but…I am really fucking antsy to see my goddess again.
Once Candace is free from Zach’s octopus hug, she ruffles his dark hair. Did Nina do that? Probably. Does Zach remember his mother’s touch?
No.
His words, not mine. When I showed him the picture of his mom boosting him up on a jungle gym at the park—a shot Candace gave me for Christmas—Zach took a quick glance at the shot and said, “I bet we had fun that day.”
Zach bet. But he didn’t know.
I filed that under things that make me sad, especially since I actually like my parents. I see them often.
“You ready, cutie-pie?” Candace asks Zach.
“I bought a new rocket kit for Grandpa and me. I sent it to your house. Did you get it, Grams?”
Shaking her head in amusement, she looks my way. “He’s ordering his own rocket kits?”
That’s not normal? “Yeah. Well, the Internet’s pretty easy to use,” I say a little defensively.
“This world. I swear,” she says, then turns to Zach. “Yes, I thought your dad sent it.”
“Well, he knew I got it. I bought it on his phone the other night.”
Zach hurries to the hatchback, but before he yanks on the handle, he zooms over to me for one more hug. I give it to him happily. “I’ll come get you Sunday night,” I say, rubbing a hand on his back.
He’ll be mine again for another full week in the city, and next weekend too. We’ve had a blast these past five days, and my tiny yard is proof, still covered with the lava from the volcanos that we erupted. Mount Loa has nothing on this father-son duo. But I also took him to the movies and then spent the early evening hunting down superhero costumes.
I’ve been busy, and that’s what I’ve wanted for years.
I head up the steps and inside, where I shower then get dressed. Once I’m ready, I walk through the kitchen, my gaze straying to the window that overlooks the tiniest of backyards.
The littlest tree house in the city looks awesome there. Maybe I’m not so wet behind the ears with this parenting thing after all.
I take off, leaving this part of my life behind for now. For the rest of tonight…I’ll be someone else.
The man I wasn’t able to be for most of my marriage.
Sometimes, your mind plays tricks on you. You remember a restaurant as being incredible the first time you eat there. Then you return, and the same dish just isn’t as good. As I head into the Albrecht Mansion that evening, dressed in slacks, a button-down, and navy suspenders as promised—a little Gatsby-esque, complete with a black Art Deco mask—I temper my expectations.
Life has taught me to expect little, even when I want much.
A few years of marriage spent trying to please someone unpleasable will do that to a guy. Make you stop…hoping. Marilyn was a miser, doling out tiny portions of love and sex and happiness to a starving man.
When I want to feel voraciously.
My jaw ticks at the invasion of annoying thoughts about my ex. I don’t want to spend an ounce of energy tonight on what went wrong in my romantic life. The answer? Nearly everything.
Just for one night, I’d like to experience the rush of connection. The thrill of returned intimacy. The heat of hot, hungry sex.
But only after she’s begged for it.
That’s what I want most. To drive that woman so wild she’s crying and begging for me to send her over the edge.
And just like that, I’ve figured out what’s been dogging me. The huge mistake I made two weeks ago. When I left the party that night and arranged to meet her again, I screwed up big time. I thought meeting her in the library during her break would be enough.
Her break won’t be long enough for the things I want to do to her.
My goddess might think I like role-play, and, sure, I do. But role-play is simply the start of what I crave.
It only scratches the surface of why I go to The Scene.
With the same desire that drives me to work countless hours when I’m this close to acquiring a new app, a new content play, a new online site, I stride up the steps, propelled by renewed purpose.
I’m determined to get my woman. I want an entire night with her, and when I get her alone during her break, I plan to propose just that—to take her home.
I turn the corner, heading down the hall, the piano music catching my ear. I tilt my head, a little surprised. I’d have expected something jazzy again, from the roaring twenties era to suit the theme. But instead, the song is “Crazy in Love.”
The modern tune draws me down the hall and into the glittery room, transformed into a speakeasy. Already, the room is crowded, the corners occupied with women in flapper dresses kissing men in fashionable tweeds. In the far corner, a woman in wide trousers and a silky blouse is being kissed by two men. Wait. Now three.
The Scene isn’t a sex club per se. There aren’t rooms you can reserve with thrones or St. Andrew’s crosses. The Scene is more of an anteroom. When you step into the private parties, you know everyone you meet will be into something…unconventional.
Almost everyone’s into role-play, but The Scene serves other kinks too. The events aren’t always masquerades but often simple cocktail parties catering to those into voyeurism or BDSM. I prefer the masquerades, since I’ve found role-play is the appetizer to what I like most in bed.
And what I like most requires time. Lots of time.
Hence my rookie mistake the other week. But I’ll correct it soon enough because there she is at the baby grand in a darkened corner. My pulse surges the second I set eyes on her.
Someone understood the assignment. Her hair is short tonight. She wears a jet-black wig, cut straight at the jawline, and a shimmery black mask, covered in silver stars.
Wait.
Stars.
That sense of déjà vu taps on my shoulder. Was my déjà vu that I’ve been thinking of her?
Well, no shit.
I thought of her nonstop since I left the Albrecht Mansion two weeks ago. I can’t get her out of my mind. Every night, she goes to bed with me. Every night, I take my cock in my hand and imagine the things I want to do to her body. The attention I want to lavish on her.
I roam my hungry eyes over her behind the piano. Her black dress is sleeveless, 1920s style, exposing the pale skin of her strong arms. I can’t see the length of her outfit from here, or her legs. But I let myself picture black strappy heels. Something incomparably sexy that I’d tell her to leave on as I spread her out on the bed so I could feast on her for a good long time.
My skin heats at the sight of her. And I just…need. I need to touch her, taste her, satisfy two endless weeks of lust and longing.
Two weeks that felt like forever.
I watch her from across the room for a few minutes, willing her to look my way. She has to look up, right? But even when she shifts from one song to the next, she keeps her head down, focused on the job.
I swing over to the bar to get a drink. A pretty woman in an emerald fringe dress and a feathery black mask sidles up against me. “How’s it going, handsome?”