“Sure,” he says easily. “My parents, my sister. Some college friends? I don’t even remember at this point.”
“Your ex-wife?” I’m prying now.
“Oh, sure,” he says with another shrug. “But we never talked about it. She didn’t want me to.”
“Wait, what?” I hear this like the screech of tires on a road. “She had a problem with it? And you married this woman?”
“Easy,” Mark says. “That’s not how it was. She knew I was bisexual, and she didn’t care. Maybe she even thought it was sexy. But then she got pregnant. We got married. Our lives took a turn for the . . .” He’s quiet for a second. “We both sacrificed a lot. Neither one of us sowed any more wild oats, right? So we had, like, a stiff upper lip about it. We didn’t discuss the things that we’d given up.”
“Like hot single dudes.”
Mark gives me a smoldering look before he answers, “Yeah, like hot single anything. She hated it when I pointed out anyone else’s attractiveness. Hated it. So I just didn’t talk like that. I kept my feelings about Luke Evans to myself. Along with my thing for Anna Kendrick.”
“Huh. I don’t have a thing for Anna Kendrick, but I take your meaning.” And I definitely have a thing for Mark Banks. It grows stronger by the hour.
But I’d better rein it in. The week will be over in a blink.
Tonight, though, is going to be amazing. I’m going to clear out a dozen items on this man’s sex spreadsheet.
And that will just be the appetizer.
21
MY FIRST SEX ERRAND
MARK
Maybe someone switched bodies with me last night, since this hardly feels like my life. Asher and I eat Cubanos at a sidewalk café by the beach. Ocean waves gently lap the shore in the distance, and pop music saturates the warm air.
With a napkin, Asher wipes the remains of his sandwich from his lips, then says, “Just as good as I imagined they’d be.”
“Same here,” I say, as I ball up a napkin.
He runs a finger across the top of my hand. I shiver. “Mmm. Too many errands,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I say.
“But now that we’ve had our lunch detour, it’s time to hit the bakery,” he says.
We rise, weaving through the early afternoon crowds, chatting about lunch, and Miami, and beaches. “You’ve been to Miami before?” he asks.
“Sort of. Sure. But only on business. I never go to the beach. I’m always in a conference room.”
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “I’m going to have to stage an intervention.”
“I think you already have,” I insist, and he smiles.
The moment is so easy. So normal. Us, surrounded by tanned bodies in the sunshine.
But then, this whole scene must be normal to him. Going out. Dancing through life. Seeing men in New York whenever he wants.
I wince at the thought.
“You okay, Banks?”
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about me.
No way am I letting on that my mind meandered to his romantic life. Nope. I don’t want to know anything about it or how I fit, since this thing between us is not romantic.
It’s a fling. Just Cubanos and sex and errands.
“I’m all good,” I say, and we resume our path to Coco’s Cakes.
Amidst the scent of sugar and frosting, the tanned, curvy baker slinks up to us, all hips and shimmery body lotion, the swell of her breasts visible in a halter top.
Normally, I’d sneak a peek. But I’m on a mission, checking off tasks as I count down to sex o’clock. Only a few more hours till I can get this man alone.
“And this is the tropical coconut cake your sister hand selected,” Coco says, then slides between us at a tiny white wooden table, nibbling on the corner of her lips. “It tastes so decadent. Try it. It’s like a delicious explosion on your tongue.”
Asher chuckles, taking the fork from her. “Good thing I like explosions on my tongue. And I believe my friend Mark was saying the same thing last night.”
Shaking my head, I hold in a laugh. He nudges my foot under the white table, like I didn’t know what he meant.
“Yes, Asher, I said that,” I reply.
“Try this one then,” she says to me. “The frosting is so rich and creamy.”
“I love it nice and thick,” Asher says, laying it on, well, thick.
And making it very difficult not to laugh as I try the frosting.
It’s sinful, and I tell Coco as much.
“So you definitely like the taste?” Asher asks me, his tone dripping with sex.
So much that my dick sits up and takes notice, hardening in my shorts. “Yes,” I say, since why waste words when I am so damn ready to be done?
“It’s orgasmically delicious,” Coco chimes in.
Now I’m only thinking of orgasms, and I’m at a loss as to what to say to the baker, and why I’m even here.