by Helena Maeve
Pia swallowed hard. That wasn’t entirely true. She missed being held, missed having a guy’s arms around her, missed the male scent, the taste of a man’s skin. She needed to believe she could be happy again, that she could make a man happy again, because a part of her feared her capacity to enjoy life had died eighteen months ago along with her husband.
This morning, Steve had texted to say he was in town and staying at the Grand. For all she knew, he’d never left town but had filled each evening since he’d met her having fun times with a string of tall and amusing blondes. Did it matter? Apparently, he’d left an envelope at reception with his room key inside if she wanted to see him.
up 2 u. but plz cum
Pia knew what he wanted. He was only interested in her because he thought it was what she wanted too, and it sort of was but—Christ—too many buts in her life. Stop thinking and just go for it.
When she found herself standing outside the hotel she wondered if her legs had made the decision her brain struggled with. Her stomach urged her to go home. Her heart sat on the fence. Her feet, ruled by her libido, carried her inside and straight up to the front desk.
“Hi, I think you have a message for me. Pia Andrews.”
The guy looked her up and down in a not very pleasant way and something inside her began to shrivel. He handed over an envelope with her name and Room two-ten scrawled in untidy writing. She felt the hard rectangle of a card key inside.
“Thank you.”
Pia walked away from the elevators towards the bar. Did that guy on reception think she was a prostitute? Oh, God. Apart from not being paid, what was the difference? Idiot. There was a big difference, but this was still a mistake. Her stomach churned and she felt sick. She pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled to Steve’s number.
“Hi,” Pia croaked.
“Hey there, sexy. You are going to make it tonight,” he said rather than asked. “Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m here but…” Bloody ‘but’ again. “…could we go for a meal or a drink?” The word ‘first’ hadn’t emerged but at least she hadn’t said ‘instead’.
“You can have a drink in my room. I’ll order room service if you’re hungry.”
Pia sighed.
“Hey, I’ve champagne on ice. All I need is you here with me. Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Oh, God, did I say yes?
“Great. See you soon.”
She stuffed the phone into her pocket and walked to the elevators.
It’s just sex. Where’s the problem in that? I love sex. I love being held, being touched, the way my toes curl when I come. I miss it. I’m fed up of doing everything myself. No one’s going to know.
She wasn’t going to fall in love with this guy, which was the whole point. She’d had love and she didn’t want it again because she couldn’t cope with the pain of losing it for the second time. Still, the doubts were there. Sex with no emotional attachment? How would she feel tomorrow? Happy? Guilty? Dirty?
Fine, she’d feel all three but at least she’d feel something, right?
Pia gulped. Well, she’d never know if she didn’t go through with it. If guys went for what they wanted, why couldn’t she?
She and Steve had talked and talked last Friday and there’d been something—beginnings of a friendship, blatant sexual interest, though not love, never that. He’d laughed at her taste in music, he liked the same pizza toppings as her, he wanted to know what soap she used, what she did in her spare time. She’d found out he had a brother who drove him crazy, he liked to ski but he was crap at it, and anchovies made him sneeze.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t fancy him. An evening of pleasure with a fuck-buddy. What was wrong with that?
The fact that worries flooded her mind answered that question.
The elevator doors opened on the second floor, and even as she reached for the button to take her back down, her slutty feet carried her into the corridor. The elevator doors whispered shut behind her. Pia’s heart hammered as she checked the room numbers.
Maybe I should go home.
Shut up.
When the key card didn’t open the door, she sighed with relief. A sign. Not that she believed in signs.
Knock on the bloody door.
No.
Lift your hand and knock.
I can’t.
“Can I help you?”
Pia jumped, barely managed to repress her squeal, and turned to see a maid right behind her.
“Do you have a problem?” the woman asked.
Thousands of them. “I can’t seem to make this work.” Pia waved the card. “I’ll go back to reception.”
“No need.” The maid took out a master key and clicked the door open.
Another sign. Bloody hell. Pia swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
The room was lit by two lamps either side of a large unrumpled bed. No sign of Steve. Did that cancel out the good sign of having someone open the door for her? No champagne either. Not good that the signs now ran in the negative. I don’t believe in bloody signs. I should leave.
But I’ve got this far.
Pia closed the door and unbuttoned her coat. She heard the shower running and thought about joining him but wasn’t quite brave enough. Maybe not in the shower, but—she eyed the bed. Why not? It was why she’d come.
She stripped, piled her clothes and bag neatly on a chair by the door and slid down between the cool cotton sheets until her head was covered. Pia hoped he finished in there quickly. The longer she had to think, the more time she had to talk herself out of this.
If the few friends she had left knew what she was doing, they’d be horrified or disgusted. Probably both. Once, she’d had lots of friends, although they’d been her husband’s friends before they’d been hers, and after they’d demonstrated their sorrow, almost taking over his funeral with their grief and stories and laughter, most had slipped away into the ether.
People had liked Mark more than her. Hard not to. He was a charismatic guy, a professional comedian, full of hilarious one-liners, the best possible guest for any party, guaranteed to make the dullest event brighter, even his own funeral. Except at home, he’d fretted so much about not being funny that life hadn’t always been easy. They’d been invited everywhere. But once he was gone, invitations to dinner, weekends in the country and drinks parties dried up, as did the phone calls. Pia was a reminder of what they’d lost when Mark died and she suspected most of them preferred her to disappear too.
No more hiding—well, apart from right this minute because she quite liked it here under the covers, warm and snug and safe, away from the flat and its memories. She’d spent most of her married life wanting to be different and now she was, no longer the butt of Mark’s jokes, the wife who unintentionally fed him perfect lines. Instead, she was the not-so-grieving widow and the reason Mark was no longer here.
Pia gritted her teeth. She’d stopped going down that road. She wouldn’t travel it again. It was enough that it was always there, a dark, dusty track winding forever in her mind, but she wouldn’t take that path because it only led to blackness.
It wasn’t wrong to want her old life back, her pre-Mark life. She needed to date again, start a relationship, although she wasn’t quite ready for the churning emotion of that. Tonight, she was here for one thing only. Sex. Hot and sweaty, fast and rough, slow and soft. Whatever she could get.
She heard a door open and froze. I should leave right now.
A heavy form settled on her left side, pulling the sheet tight against her. Had Steve noticed she was in here? Then an equally heavy form settled on her right side, and Pia’s heart leapt into her mouth. What the hell?
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About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance n
ovels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email: [email protected]
Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
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