Page 13 of Lovers Fate

“Forty-six.”

“Is she pretty?”

He nods.

“Does she know you’re here?”

He shakes his head.

“What do you want, Randy?”

“I want to fuck.”

“Hmm…your wife doesn’t fuck you, Randy?”

“It’s not her. It’s me,” he stammers. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask like I don’t care.

He closes his eyes briefly. Sweat coats his brow. “I can’t finish,” he admits.

“You mean your dick?”

He looks away shamefully. “Christ,” he mutters.

I continue to swirl my finger over his wrist and feel his pulse racing.

I tilt my head. “Tell me why you don’t finish.”

“I don’t find her attractive—not like I used to.”

Dick.

“Why? Is she fat?” I press, “Too old?”

“I think…” he says, looking to his right at the bartender, “about someone else.”

I’m betting the bartender goes to the same university where he teaches. It’s why he is here sitting miserably alone instead of throwing money at the stage or paying for a lap dance. Randy is picky. He likes innocence. That’s why he teaches. He wants to feel important. Doted. Like a king. One thing I learned in the psych ward was how doctors profiled their patients. Got in their head. Asked the right questions and observed. You can find the rest in a book on psychiatry.

I remove my hand and stand, causing him to jolt back in his seat. I sit beside him where the money is within reach.

I lean in and smell his cologne, similar to the one Dr. Foster wears. I’m sure he only wears it when he visits this place. My gaze settles on the visible patch of hair above his shirt, causing my stomach to tighten. I don’t like men with chest hair. It reminds me of Chris.

I lower my voice. “You think of her, don’t you?”

His throat moves when he swallows. He knows who I’m talking about. She’s watching Randy. But I know things. “When you fuck your wife, you think of her, but when you open your eyes and see your wife, you don’t finish. That’s why you’re here, hoping she’ll say yes.”

“Please,” he says in a shaky voice.

Something hot burns inside my veins. It’s thick and heavy, like a drug-induced high. A dark energy I didn’t know existed. My finger swirls over his crotch, his hard cock pushing at the seams. “Randy, Randy, Randy,” I sing-song. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I’ll do anything,” he says eagerly.

His cock pulses under my fingertip over his pants. Begging.

“Listen carefully.”

“Okay,” he says like he is a child I’m scolding.

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