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I’d refused to pick her up, insisting that she meet me at the restaurant. We’d been ordered on a date, but no one had specified how long the date had to be.

With that in mind, I’d walked in the door planning to bolt after taking exactly two bites of the main course, but my first sight of her undid all of those plans, because I quite simply forgot about them.

The fact was that I wanted to spurn her, but I wanted to fuck her more. And the imbalance of those two urges only grew more pronounced with every contact.

I took her in as she made her way through the crowded restaurant. The tables were awkwardly close together, and she had to navigate between them by twisting and turning her perfect, decadent body to maneuver through. Ah, New York. Everywhere worth being was packed to the gills.

There wasn’t one eye in the room that stayed off her. Men stared, of course, but even the women couldn’t stop looking at her. I didn’t blame any of them. If her stunning looks weren’t enough, her flawless face had recently been plastered all over Times Square for some makeup ad.

She was wearing white with miles of her tanned legs showing and her bodice dipped down into a low V that exposed the delectable skin between her perky tits. When she drew closer my eyes ran down her legs, and I noticed the nude stilettos with red heels that peeked out as she walked.

She could keep those on when I fucked her up against the nearest wall.

I tried to shake off the visual but was only partially successful. My eyes traveled back up her body. I studied her ensemble, trying to figure out how it came off.

“What are you wearing?” were the first words out of my mouth.

I’d caught her off guard. She paused and glanced down at herself. “Are you asking about the designer? I think it’s . . . Hmm . . . Halston maybe? I’m not entirely sure.”

“I don’t care about the designer. What I’m asking is, is it all one piece? What the hell? What is this torture device?”

“It’s a romper, and it’s not a torture device. It’s actually really comfortable.”

“I meant a torture device for me. It was obviously designed by someone who never thinks about having sex, let alone having sex in a hurry. It looks great, but how am I ever going to get you out of it?” My voice was grumpy, almost childish, with an intentionally whiny lilt at the end.

She threw back her head and laughed.

I was entranced. Bedazzled. My blood throbbed in my veins. She’d never laughed for me before.

She was still smiling as she took the seat across from me. I was still staring.

Our table was small enough that as she pushed her seat in I had to part my knees to let hers slip between. I locked her knees there, reaching one hand beneath to grip her thigh.

Her smile died and something else went to life on her face.

Every time I looked at her sideways she seemed to melt under my gaze. Like she wanted to lie on her back and open her legs for any scrap of attention I gave her.

She couldn’t be as caught up in this ridiculous attraction as I was, I told myself.

She just has a role to play, I told myself.

But it was getting harder and harder to lie to myself.

Harder to vilify her. To deny her charms, her sweet, innocent nature. Her magnetic, constantly trembling lips.

She’d called me a hypocrite, and the barb had stuck. She wasn’t wrong. Her motivations were no different than my own. They were more innocent, really. She was an eighteen-year-old who came from nothing and wanted a better life. Who the hell was I to look down on that? Spoiled rich boy, indeed.

When I used to picture my wife, I’d had a very clear impression of who she must have been. I’d known, thought, assumed she was cold and calculating. Unfortunately I was wrong, at least in part. There was nothing cold about her. She’d become a warm, liquid throb in my veins.

Moreover, she seduces everyone around her. Even me. Especially me.

In spite of my best intentions, a different picture was being painted for me of my wife. She was not who I had assumed. There was something very straightforward, almost undeniably honest about her. And there was no way I could deny that she was hardworking. Earnest. Just trying her best to get ahead.

Despite my highest hopes, she wasn’t the bad girl gold digger I’d given her credit for.

In fact, she wasn’t bad at all.

She was good. I knew it in my bones. It wasn’t sight or smell or anything tangible, but it was there in the air around her, another sense. A feeling. I was starting to get a lot of those where my wife was concerned. The realization made my skin feel over-warm, like I was getting a fever just under the surface. I tugged restlessly at my collar.