Sophie
Ever dapper, always elegant, Holden played the final notes in a Beethoven Concerto on the grand piano.
I tapped my fingertips against the black lacquer of the piano in Holden’s apartment overlooking the Mandalay Bay pool. Several stories below, hotel guests drank towering drinks and splashed in the cool water.
“Finito!” Holden declared with a flourish as he finished the piece, then stood up and bowed deeply.
I clapped and shouted my one-woman ovation: “Bravo!”
“Thank you, thank you to all my adoring fans,” he said, then blew air kisses to the fictional crowd.
I wrapped my arms around him in a hug. “You’re going to be amazing. Though that’s not a surprise in the least.”
“You really liked it?”
“Liked it? I absolutely loved it. It was . . .” I let my voice trail off as I searched for just the right word to describe his musical talent. I brought my fingers to my lips like a chef pleased with a dish. “Magnifique.”
He sighed happily and beamed, placing his hand on his chest as he mouthed, Thank you. He wore tight blue slacks, loafers, and a crisp striped button-down. My ex-husband had achieved some sort of pinnacle in male fashion—he never dressed down.
He was a lot like me.
That was the problem in our marriage.
He was a bit too much like me.
He liked clothes, he liked shopping, and he liked kicking back on the couch and gabbing over a glass of chardonnay and a pint of ice cream.
Best friends in high school, Holden and I were perfect for each other. I was the computer geek; he was the music geek. Together we were two peas in a pod, driven by our passion for machines or instruments. We connected, we laughed, and we had a grand old time. Our easy way together reminded me of what my parents had, and I wanted that kind of love. So after college, I married my best friend.
It seemed like a great recipe for a successful marriage. Everything between us had gone swimmingly as husband and wife, except in the bedroom. We’d learned we wanted different things from a lover. Fine, lack of bedroom chemistry wasn’t the ultimate barometer for the success or failure of a marriage, but I didn’t excite him, and he didn’t excite me, and the things we tried to spice up our love life fell flat.
The time I’d asked him to pull my hair and talk dirty to me had resulted in him calling me a hot bitch as he tugged gently on my strands. He then broke into peals of laughter, clutching his belly as he said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t say things like I want you on your hands and knees now, woman.”
That was where I wanted to be though.
And that was where he wanted to be too, because he’d inquired casually one evening over our second pinot noir if I might want to try a threesome with another guy.
“Maybe someone who could say those things to both of us? Who could give all kinds of those sexy, dirty orders you like?” he asked.
My ex-husband went both ways, and when he went, he submitted. Which meant we didn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t ever gel. There was simply no room for two submissives in a marriage.
But was that the right word for me? I didn’t really know if the term fit me, since I’d never been in that type of relationship. My experience was limited to Holden and to a college boyfriend who’d been rather “fratty” in bed.
Still, I knew what turned me on. I knew what I fantasized about.
Being dominated. Being taken. Being tied up. Even if I’d never fully experienced that type of lover, I was sure of what made my blood heat up and my body spark. Fantasies tripped through my mind late at night in bed, alone, and they often involved being pinned.
Bound.
Tied.
After struggling to make it work between the sheets, Holden and I had both agreed we’d be better off friends than lovers. The transition away from him wasn’t wholly easy, and there had been times when I’d felt unsure of myself and my femininity. But we made a pact to stay the close friends we always had been.
A talented pianist, Holden had both toured the world and played in recording sessions for commercials and jingles, and he’d be joining the symphony at the concert I’d arranged in two weeks to raise money for the community center. “Do you think Clyde will try to marry you off again at the concert?” Holden asked.
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the piano. “He’s bringing a boy-child to the event. I have no doubt he wants to pawn me off on his lawyer grandson, and he thinks if he can just get us in the same room, we’ll fall madly in love.”
Holden shuddered dramatically. “Being the glamorous divorcée”—he sketched air quotes as he used the moniker that a Vegas high-society blog had bestowed on me—“isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”
I swatted his shoulder. “You’re a glamorous divorcé too.”
“Oh yeah. They’re lining up in droves for a piece of me,” he said with a wink.
Piece of me. My mind flashed back to a couple of nights ago at Aria, and to the commanding way Ryan Whoever He Was had controlled my pleasure backstage. A frisson of longing raced through me. I craved his touch again.
“Hello? Did you just drift off to la-la land?” Holden asked, waving his hand in front of me.
I blinked then grinned, caught in the act of remembering a hot encounter. “I did. Because I met someone the other night, and we had a fantastic time.”
Holden patted the piano bench. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
I sat on the bench and recounted the details. Not all of them. Not the particularly naughty ones. But the tidbits about how we met, and how he showed up at the gala, and how I barely knew anything about him.
“Which I like,” I added. Perhaps I liked it so much because it was the opposite of my experience. I’d known everything about Holden, I’d gone in with my eyes wide open, and we hadn’t worked out.
I knew virtually nothing about Ryan. Maybe the change was what I needed. To go into this thing blindfolded.
Wait. Add that to the list of things I wanted to try. Blindfold.
“Be careful,” Holden said in warning. “He could be anyone.”
“That’s why it’s fun.”
“That’s also why it’s dangerous.”
I nodded. “I know. I like danger.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said, patting my knee.
“It’s only fun and games. I’m not interested in anything more. In fact, I hope I never learn his last name,” I said as I crossed my legs and kicked a foot back and forth, demonstrating how completely content I’d be in that scenario.
Even though, truth be told, I was terribly curious about the man behind the orgasm.
9
Sophie
So many sartorial choices.
On the one hand, the sun-yellow dress hugged my hips quite nicely.
On the other hand, the red one with the tiny white polka dots did offer a nice little cleavage peekaboo.
As I tapped my finger against my lips on Sunday afternoon, weighing the options for tonight in my perfectly organized, neatly arranged, color-coordinated closet, my phone buzzed from the back pocket of my jeans, signaling a text.
Absently, I reached for the phone, noticing the time. Seven more hours until my date. Four hundred twenty minutes. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred seconds.