This was not good.
Simon almost kissed me.
His hand nearly touched my ass.
He was hard.
I could feel his erection against me.
It shouldn’t have happened, and yet I couldn’t turn my body off tonight, couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop wondering what would have happened if Brendan hadn’t come into the kitchen.
I never kept any pictures of Ben laying out. It was just too painful to look at him. I did, however, keep a photo of my late husband in my bedside drawer. Sometimes, I would take it out and look at it when I felt like I needed his guidance to get through a particularly rough day. Tonight, I took the photo out for an entirely different reason. It was out of guilt, because I knew without a shadow of a doubt that for the first time since Ben’s death, I was really developing feelings for someone else. I was starting to move on.
The only problem was, I simply couldn’t move on with Simon. His plans were to go back to the UK, and a future with him therefore wasn’t an option. Even though he and I had never discussed it, Calliope also told me he didn’t want kids. While he was great with Brendan, there was a big difference between developing a friendship with a child and taking on the role of parent. Anyone I would eventually end up with would have to accept the father role.
There were just so many reasons why we weren’t a good match. So, this attraction would have to be ignored for my overall well-being. As I lay in bed trying to do just that, the urge to masturbate to memories of Simon reading me my novel replaced my good intentions.
Readying to do just that, I got up to shut off the light when I noticed a folded piece of paper by my door.
Bending down, I picked it up and started to read it.
It was the last thing I ever expected.
Dear Bridget,
It’s highly doubtful I’ll ever garner the courage to say this to your face. Don’t feel you need to acknowledge this note the next time we see each other, either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I promise to play dumb. I know you, and what I’m about to say would be awkward for us to talk about face to face.
So, here goes.
We’re totally wrong for each other. We both know it. You’re probably the last woman on Earth I should want and vice versa. You’re the proper mum with a good head on her shoulders, who will always need to put her son first. I fully understand. I’m just the carefree, cheeky resident passing through town and temporarily living in your house.
But, here’s the thing…what they say about wanting what you can’t have is apparently true. For some bloody reason, I can’t stop thinking about you in very inappropriate ways.
I want you.
Wrong as it may be…more specifically, I want to make you come. Hard. I want you to get lost in me, and I want to hear you say my name over and over while we fuck. I get stiff just imagining what that would feel like, given that you haven’t been with a man for so long.
And these thoughts are making me insane. I’ve stopped fantasizing about anyone else and haven’t been interested in seeing anyone, either.
The only reason I’m even admitting all of this to you right now is because I don’t believe it’s one-sided. I notice your eyes when you look at me, too. You probably don’t think I can see the need written all over your face as clear as the days of the week on your knickers…but I can. Maybe I recognize it so easily because I’m feeling the exact same way. And as crass as I appear when we’re joking around about sex, my attraction to you is not a joke.
So, what’s the purpose of this note? I guess it’s a reminder that we’re adults, that sex is healthy and natural, and that you can find me just through the door past the kitchen. More specifically, it’s to let you know that I’m leaving said door cracked open from now on in case you’d like to visit me in the middle of the night sometime. I’d love nothing more than to give you the best orgasm of your life. No questions asked. Just unbridled sex.
Maybe the way I’ve worded this has got you convinced that I think I’d be doing you a favor, but make no mistake about it, the pleasure would be all mine. Ultimately, this proposition is coming from a place of selfish desire. And I can’t seem to shake it.
Think about it.
Or don’t.
Whatever you choose.
It’s doubtful I’ll even end up sliding this under your door anyway.
—Simon
Every time I considered leaving my room, I would grab the framed picture of Ben and stare at it. The urge to go to Simon was so strong; I basically hadn’t put down the framed photo of my deceased husband in an hour. I was lying in my bed, holding a picture of a dead man while fantasizing about one who was very much alive and in the other room. With the door cracked open waiting for me. There was one part of Simon’s note that I just kept reading over and over.
I want to make you come. Hard. I want you to get lost in me and I want to hear you say my name over and over while we fuck.
While we fuck.
While we fuck.
I was pretty sure that Ben had never used the word fuck like that before. Did we even fuck? We made love, sure. Our sex life was normal—at least, I think it was normal. Don’t get me wrong, the passion wasn’t the same as when we first got together. But after ten years, both of us working full time and raising a child, it was normal to have some of the desire dwindle, wasn’t it?
While we fuck.
I looked at the picture of my husband and sighed. We didn’t fuck. Not even in the beginning. And I felt guilty for that now. Maybe we should have been fucking. I certainly didn’t do anything to entice him to want me the last few years. Was it my fault our sex life had gotten boring? I rested the picture of Ben over my heart and laid my hand over it. I could feel my heart beating out of control beneath my fingers.
Shutting my eyes, I tried to force thoughts of Simon from my mind. But it was no use. Visions of his hard, sculpted body hovering over me had infiltrated my brain. So, here I was, a thirty-three-year-old, single mother lying in my bed all alone with a picture of my dead husband held to my heart while I visualized fucking another man.
Fucking.
Not making love.
I needed my head examined.
After two hours and no sleep in sight, I decided the only way I was going to be able to get any rest was if I got everything I was feeling off of my chest. Flicking on the light, I carefully set the framed photo of my beloved Ben on my nightstand and then opened the drawer and dug out a pen and piece of pretty stationery. I would write down my thoughts to clear my mind. I had no intention of actually giving the letter to Simon, so there was no reason to filter anything I said.
Dear Simon,
In your letter you said that you noticed my eyes when I looked at you and thought I might be attracted to you. Well, there has never been a more true statement. From the first time I saw you in the emergency room, I was drawn to you. While you were busy digging a fish hook from my ass, I was relishing the feeling of your big hand touching me and imagining what it might feel like for you to…
I stopped and sucked on the top of my pen, rereading what I’d written down. I knew exactly what I’d imagined that day, but yet I was too much of a prude to pen the words. How could I, a woman who was too prudish to even write down my sexual fantasies, possibly fuck a man like Simon? I gave myself an imaginary smack in the head and forced myself to continue. If writing this letter was going to be cathartic and allow me to get some rest, I had to at least be honest. So I continued.
While you were busy digging a fish hook from my ass, I was relishing the feeling of your big hand touching me and imagining what it might feel like for you to fuck me from behind while I was bent over the exam table. I also imagined your finger in my ass. Which is actually pretty strange for me, since I’ve never done any sort of anal play. But there, I said it. That was my first thought of you. Basically, in the first ten minutes of seeing you, I was imagining your dick inside of me and your finger in my ass.
I laughed after writing that last sentence. Never in my life did I talk like that, but it was definitely fun writing it down. It was freeing to say these things, even if I’d never have the nerve to say them out loud or give the note to Simon. I thought he should know that, too.
By the way, Sexy Simon, as long as I’m telling you my innermost thoughts that I’d never have the nerve to actually share with you—random thought: Did you notice that never and nerve have all the same letters? That’s pretty interesting since nerves probably lead to a lot of nevers. But anyway, back to you, my Sexy Simon. After that first encounter in the emergency room, I came home and masturbated to thoughts of you. It had been the first time I’d used my vibrator in years—since my husband died. You awoke something inside of me that I’d thought was dead.
So, yes, I’m attracted to you. In fact, attracted just doesn’t seem to be a strong enough word to describe what I feel when I’m around you. There is nothing more that I would like than to come to your room right now. But there are just so many reasons I can’t. And all those reasons lead back to one thing: I’m scared.
Scared you won’t want me once you see my body. I’m not twenty-two anymore, Simon. I’ve given birth. Gravity has started to show me who’s boss. I don’t spend hours doing yoga or at the gym like I probably should.
Scared that I don’t know how to fuck. I know that probably sounds ridiculous. But it’s true. I’ve had sex and made love—but fucking is a whole different ball game. What if I get nervous and turn into a starfish? How will I ever be able to face you again?
Scared my son will walk in. Yes, I know, there are locks on doors. My fears aren’t necessarily rational, Simon.
Scared that I’ll be cheating. (See above ^^ statement on rational.)
Scared that I’ll grow attached to you and you’ll leave. Even though, deep down in my heart, I know this has already started to happen, I fear that moving things into an intimate relationship will only make it harder when you leave.
So there, that’s my truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’ve never been so honored or felt so beautiful because you want me. But I’m afraid it can never happen.
—Bridget
Wow, I hadn’t expected that to be so therapeutic. I reread my letter twice and then took a matching envelope from my stationery set out from my drawer and folded the paper inside. For good measure, I even got up from bed and spritzed a little perfume on it. Then, I turned out the light and settled back into my bed. I was a heck of a lot more relaxed than I’d been before writing it. Except…I had one more thing I wanted to say.
Sitting up, I flicked the light back on and grabbed my pen.
P.S. While I won’t be able to join you in your room, I’d really appreciate it if you could video yourself jerking off. It’s my most recent fantasy that I pleasure myself to, and things would go a lot quicker if I could just have a video of you doing that instead of having to imagine what that looks like in my head. Thanks!
I was cracking up as I folded the letter back into the envelope and sealed it. Then I wrote Simon’s name across the front with a big girly heart as the dot over the i. Sleep came easier after that. In fact, I’d fallen into such a deep sleep that I overslept. Again.