VERSUS (Second Chances 2)

Next to that is a manila envelope.

It holds the details of whatever hell awaits me tomorrow. Every night but Friday and Saturday, my assistant prepares his notes for the appointments and cases I’ll be dealing with the next day. Divorce as a business is lucrative. Tomorrow will be profitable judging by the thickness of tonight’s envelope.

“Don’t be so quick to say that.” Her gaze trails around the room before it lands on my face. “You must be important to someone.”

Watching as she gives me a full once-over, I shove a hand through my black hair.

In the car on the way here she avoided looking at me. Her attention was stolen by the Uber driver who was as infatuated with her as I am.

His small talk about the construction that plagues the city in the spring and summer was annoying and trite, but she found it inviting and intriguing.

At least, that’s how it seemed to me as I sat and studied her profile, wondering how anyone can be this beautiful from every angle and in every light.

“Who are you important to?” I reach for the scotch, but I stop before I curve my fingers around the slender neck of the half-empty bottle.

I don’t need a drink. I need a fuck.

She takes a step closer to me. The heels of her stilettos tap against the brushed oak hardwood floor. “You. Tonight.”

She’s right. She’s also still dressed.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Take off your shoes.”

Hesitation doesn’t halt her. She kicks her shoes off with fanfare, sending one flying onto my Italian leather sofa.

She’s no more than five-foot-three or four without the added benefit of her heels.

“The dress,” I demand. “Drop the dress.”

“Tit for tat.” She shakes her head. “Or is it tits for that?”

I watch as her hand circles the air in front of her. “Lose the suit jacket, Dylan.”

My modus operandi has remained unchanged for at least the past decade. The woman I’m with strips naked. I bring her to orgasm with my fingers, or if the temptation is strong, my mouth.

Only then do I undress and that’s so I can fuck freely.

Another round might be in the cards if the first was enticing enough. Often it’s not and my lover for the night will take her leave after trying to push her number on me.

I don’t need phone numbers. I need space to sleep, preferably alone.

I slide my gray suit jacket from my shoulders. Folding it in half, I place it over the arm of the sofa.

“Cufflinks,” she says in a voice that is a mix of a breathed whisper and a veiled moan.

Power is heady. If watching me undress gets her wet, I’ll play her little game.

I remove my cufflinks, carefully placing them on the table next to the bottle of scotch.

I turn my attention back to her. Her bare feet are shifting on the floor. It’s not nervous energy. She’s moving to a beat that only she can hear.

She’s a natural. A born dancer, much like the woman she reminds me of.

“The dress,” I repeat. “Take it off.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll lose the watch.”

Her left hand makes quick work of the clasp on the silver watch on her right wrist. Once it’s free, she tosses it at me.