She is Mine

Thanks for the memories, Chris. Last night was great. If I’m ever back in Paris, I’ll look you up.

xoWeaver

PS Get your ass out of bed before eleven or they’ll charge me an extra $50.

PPS I always pay my debts.

Inside the envelope is a folded twenty-euro note. I lay back on the bed and reread the note a few times, hoping against ridiculous hope that I somehow missed her phone number on the first few readings. How can it be that she just took off like that, without a trace? I mean, I’ve done that before, sure. I’m not naïve when it comes to one-night-stands, I’ve just never been on the receiving end like this before. It isn’t my habit to deceive women. I always make sure I’m crystal clear about my intentions, but sometimes the message isn’t received, and I’ve had to block a few numbers over the years. I’m not sure it’s because of my incredible charm or large bank balance. Probably both.

It was one night, Chris, I tell myself, but I can’t get her out of my head and the disappointment sticks with me as I wash up in that tiny bathroom and put on my crumpled suit. It wasn’t just the mind-blowing sex, the down-for-anything way she had about her, it’s more. Being with her last night was easy. She was fun. Unpredictable. Independent. I can’t remember the last time I met a woman who stimulated me like that. The idea that I won’t get to see her again makes me uncomfortable. I’m not a fool to think that she is the one. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll ever find a woman I want to spend my life with, but I know I want to spend more time with Weaver. Simply put, I really want more.

My phone pings in my pocket, and I check the text message coming in from my brother, Martin.

How was last night? Did it satisfy your craving for a bit of freedom and fun?

I think about the question for a beat before returning the text. It had been fun, way more fun than I anticipated when he first gave me the address to the restaurant. Satisfied, though? Not at all. If anything I’m less satisfied, yearning for what I felt last night and desperately disappointed it’s over.

Then something pops into my head. I remember the website I saw Weaver looking at in bed, Sugar Girl or something like that. It looked risqué, but when I asked Weaver what she was doing, she lied; said she was looking at her email. Why was she looking at that website? I pull it up on my phone and scroll through the homepage, looking at the thumbnails of various women, none of them Weaver. I shove my phone in my pocket, frustrated.

As I walk down the seven flights of stairs, images from last night flash in front of my eyes. Her smooth skin, glowing in the moonlight; the way her body reacted to every touch; the low moans, the frantic keening; how she gave and took so hungrily. By the time I reach the street, I’ve decided. This isn’t over. It’s far from over. This is only the beginning.

I text my brother.

Yes, I had fun. I’m not satisfied, though.

Not yet.