Page 73 of My Always One

After three weeks of off-and-on togetherness, I’m surprised by how fucking ready I am to be inside her. I’d been wrong. Being with the same woman isn’t mundane or boring. Hell no. Each time with her there is something new, something better than the time before.

We’ve been going at this now for nearly three weeks.

That thought reminds me of the date.

Shit.

In two days, it’ll be her wedding date.

I scramble to think of something to help her get through that date.

Of course, my first thought is more sex.

I mean, it’s a cure-all for what ails you, right?

It always works for me.

But for once, I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about her. It’s funny how just thinking about Sami reroutes my circulation.

My treadmill begins to slow for my cooldown. I’m twenty-five minutes into my thirty-minute run when a piercing scream shatters my bubble and scatters my thoughts. I turn just in time to see Miss Tits and Ass in mid-air, before landing herself half on the floor and half on the treadmill.

Jumping off my treadmill, I offer her my sweaty hand. “Are you all right?”

She brushes herself off and takes my hand. Her hold lingers as she stands. “I guess you’re my hero. You saved me.”

I pull the earbuds from my ears, not positive of what she said. I mostly noticed the way her puffy lips moved. It’s a revelation I hadn’t realized was even possible. With this woman’s hand in mine, I see her as I never have.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging; I’m assessing.

I’m seeing her bleached blonde hair, Botox-enhanced lips, and fake tits.

Is she pretty?

I suppose.

No matter how pretty she is, she’s fake; she’s emblematic of all the women I’ve been involved with. No wonder in the past I haven’t wanted anything permanent. The women weren’t permanent. They were all similar to this woman, an illusion of what is supposed to be sexy.

“You know,” she says, “since you saved my life, I owe you three wishes.”

Freeing my hand, I reach for my shirt and wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I do, her gaze goes to my abs.

Shit.

This is my move except it’s not.

It’s only sweat.

When I don’t speak, she says, “I’m still available for drinks.”

“I’m still—”

“You said you werekind ofseeing someone,” she interrupts. “It’s been a few weeks. Are you still onlykind of?”

“It’s complicated.”

She lifts a painted and manicured finger to my chest. “I’m not complicated, Marshal. I know what I like, and I’m a no-strings-attached kind of gal. Tell me that doesn’t appeal to you.”

It would have.

---