Poison

“Maybe he’ll actually be a good fuck,” she replied. “You’ll have to fill me in with the gossip on Monday. I can always give you an emergency bail out call if you need one. We can pencil one in.”

I thanked her – the one person in my life who wasn’t constantly shaking their head and demanding that I should run back to Seb. My parents were devastated, our entire network of mutual friends was still reeling, my friends too. Even Nicola, my bestest bestest bestie in the whole bloody world.

“I’ll let you know when to put in the call,” I said. “Honestly, I appreciate it.”

She tipped her head. “Sounds like you are planning on hooking up with this one, then.”

I guessed I was.

Maybe he’d be the one who finally got me off and gave me just a scrap of what I needed.

I sent him a reply.

Saturday? Eight pm? Oscars on Bath Street?

He’d replied before I’d even put my phone down.

I’ll see you there, you gorgeous kinky bitch.

Finally, my heart got a flutter. Hopefully my clit would follow soon enough.

The afternoon project meeting went fine, and I finished up another successful work week, at odds with the carnage of my personal life. I finished another day by taking my lamotrigine meds before bed and ticking the chart. Five days with no seizures – a slight improvement on the few weeks prior. I thought about Trojan as I laid there, picturing us as that same burning couple in the club that night. The pair who had ignited each other as well as a shitstorm of chaos for me.

Even one night with that kind of passion would make it worth it, though. Enough to remind me for even just a heartbeat that I was still Anna Blackwell, a woman still herself somewhere underneath the fear and the numbness and the crud of having a brain that couldn’t be relied on to function anymore.

Or so I prayed.

I got ready on Saturday evening with a sprinkle of nerves dancing all over me. Thirty-five years old, and in that moment I felt it – a world away from the early twenties-something girl who could hit the clubs and dance all night without even tossing a thought to the life looming ahead. Hell, what I’d give for a taste of that girl again.

I’d at least have a try at it.

I picked out my finest little black dress and tousled my freshly-dyed jet-black hair, and made my makeup even sultrier than any of my last dates – an ever increasing style since moving away from Sebastian. I was ready, teetering in my highest heels as the taxi dropped me off in the city centre. I grabbed an orange juice from the bar at Oscars, cursing again that my meds made alcohol forbidden to me. And there he was, leaning against the bar at the other end, a beer in his hand as he stared on over with a smirk.

Trojan.

I flashed him a smile back and he headed on over, and there they were again, those nerves dancing hard.

He was huge. Huge and hot. His shirt stretched tight over his chest and his shadow of stubble just right on a firm, hard jaw. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dimples perfectly at odds with the strength of the rest of him.

Yeah, he could well be the one to give me an orgasm. Several if I was lucky. A whole night of them if the universe cut me a break.

“You look even better than your profile picture,” he told me, and I felt my cheeks burn up.

“The feeling is mutual,” I replied. “You’re quite something in the flesh.”

His smirk grew brighter. “I hope you’ll be saying that when the night is done.”

So did I.

Small talk was small talk, but I kept looking at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed against mine. How hot his tongue would be as it sought mine out and ate me up. How solid his hands would be as he took my dress off and reached down between my thighs.

I should’ve told him about my epilepsy to prepare him for any potential seizures but opted to avoid the topic. I kept up on the orange juice as he necked back the beers, and small talk turned to dirty talk, him telling me how much he wanted to slam me deep, and hard and plough my ass with the kind of intrusion I hadn’t felt in years.

Yes, my clit was fluttering.

Finally, it was fluttering.

Stacey called with our pre-arranged potential bail out call, and I told her I was great thanks, and then we were off. Trojan – who was actually called Sean – finishing up his beer and knocking back a double whisky before we headed on out of there.

He didn’t take my hand.

Maybe that was the first sign.