Page 42 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Remy’s face goes blank. When he backs away and leans against the counter across from me, I feel a tiny bit disappointed. Then he nods. “A fling. Right. Okay.”

I meet his gaze for a moment and decide to start with the big one. “I require exclusivity for the duration of our relationship. I realize that isn’t the norm these days, especially for a casual relationship, but—”

“Done.”

“—it’s a non-negotiable for…” I blink. “What?”

“We’re exclusive. My turn. My kid comes first. That means I can’t drop everything and come to you. I might not be able to call and text as much as you like. Some nights, I won’t be able to get away. You have to be okay with that.”

“Of course,” I answer, still slightly reeling about his agreement to exclusivity. In the few times I tried to go out with men after my divorce, I was shocked at the state of the dating scene. When I told a prospective date I wanted exclusivity, they’d usually immediately stop talking to me. It made me feel like an old-fashioned, sexless freak. I wanted to be okay with casual sex. I wanted to be able to separate sex from emotion…but I couldn’t. My brain just doesn’t work that way.

That, combined with the infidelity in my marriage, meant that non-exclusive relationships were a minefield for me. I ended up disengaging from the dating scene entirely.

But now, maybe I could do this. It’s been so long, and the sex we just had was so good. Maybe I can have a successful fling. If we agree to the terms, I could protect my heart. All the benefits and none of the risks. I could relax, loosen the reins, and then go back to my regular life with a new outlook.

“What else?” Remy asks, studying me. “I can practically hear your mind whirling from all the way over here. Tell me what you need.”

I meet his gaze and try to dampen the thunderstruck feeling cracking through me. I’ve never had a man be so direct in asking me about my needs—and I’ve never believed he’d bend over backward to meet them.

With Terry, it was always me trying to meet his needs. Even when we were trying for a baby, I’d end up consoling him when the pregnancy tests all came up negative. I tried to make up for my failings by being the perfect wife in every other way.

Now, I realize nothing I ever did would have been enough for him. Even if we’d had children together, I doubt it would have changed the outcome. He’d eventually have tired of me, and I’d eventually have burned myself out trying to be the perfect wife for him.

But Remy is staring at me intently, waiting to hear what he has to do to fulfill my needs. He’s completely focused on me, and the full force of his attention makes my insides turn to warm goo. My heart gives a violent lurch.

Reeling myself back in, I force myself to speak calmly when I say, “We should set a time limit to this fling. I mentioned a month earlier. Do you agree?”

A muscle feathers in Remy’s cheek. After a long pause, he answers. “A month? Seems pretty short, especially after what just happened. Might not be enough to get you out of my system.”

The way he says that is growly and possessive and a little bit angry. His arm muscles tense as he grips the edge of the counter behind him, and his dark eyes study me. I want to close the distance between us and run my hands all over his body. I want to stroke his beard and watch his expression soften.

But—fling. This is supposed to remind me that I’m a woman, and I need to loosen the white-knuckled grip I have on my own life.

“A month would allow us to scratch this itch without ruining our neighborly relationship.”

“Our neighborly relationship,” he repeats.

“Yeah. We wouldn’t want to make things awkward, since we’ll be living next to each other for the foreseeable future.”

“You think you’ll be able to forget the fact that you just rode me to oblivion in my greenhouse?” His voice is rough and low. It makes me want to wrap my legs around his hips and go on a hunt for oblivion once more.

I straighten and soldier on. I know a time limit is a good idea. It’s the only way I can protect myself from falling for a man who has shown me—and told me—he’s unavailable.

“A month is all I can offer,” I tell him. “I have a business to run. You have your work and your nephew. We both have a lot on our plates.” Plus, it’ll limit the amount of damage he can do to me. Whenever I feel myself getting too attached, I can just think of the built-in end date. But he’s right; a month is short, so I add: “The clock starts Monday.”

Today is Tuesday, so we’ll have a few extra days. I’m not quite sure why it seems so important to have that extra time right now, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I discover I very much want him to agree.

Remy looks like he wants to argue, then abruptly relaxes. He dips his chin. “Fine. A month from Monday. After that, we go our separate ways.”

“Excellent.” I paint a bright smile on my face and stick my hand out. “It’s a deal.”

He stares at my palm for a beat, then slides his hand against it. When his fingers curl around mine, I’m not prepared for the jolt of heat that travels up my arm—nor am I prepared for the harsh tug he gives me. I crash into his chest and find myself wrapped in Remy’s arms.

He kisses me until I’m dizzy and panting and full of need. Then he pulls away, hands framing my face. “It’s a deal,” he tells me.

The next day, I work from home. Paula sends through a list of inventory requests, and I have a backlog of social media posts to create. One of the reasons I bought this house was the third bedroom on the ground floor, which is the perfect size for a home office.

Maybe Laurel was right about me needing sex, because today I feel like a new woman. I get more done in three hours than I’d usually be able to do in a full day. Without having to do the inventory checks, I can focus fully on one single task at a time. I get two months’ worth of social media posts drafted, scheduled, and ready to post.

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