Dear lovers,

There are many different elements in a strong relationship. No matter where you stand on the virginal scale, sex will be an important part of your new life with your husband-to-be, make no doubt about it!

The good news is, we’re long past the time of the woman having to “grin and bear it,” administering to her man’s needs on the daily because of some antiquated notion of what she’s supposed to provide: a hot meal, an ironed shirt, and sex on tap, all before he goes out for cigars with the boys.

No, today, sex is much more give and take. Whether you’re a giver or a taker—and let’s face it, it’s fun to be both!—talking about your sexual expectations for the future with your husband-to-be is of the utmost importance. There is nothing worse than being left high and dry when you’re feeling wet. Sex in marriage should be a two-way street.

Love,

Romy

It turns out Marc’s definition of a short walk is very different to my own. Twenty minutes later, I’m in Marc Moretti’s home. Marc Moretti’s private sanctuary.

It’s void of any personal touches. There are no photos of family are on the walls, no artwork adding a splash of color to the white furnishings. The only things that qualify as decorative are the motivational messages in plain black frames lined up at equal intervals throughout the space.

Trust yourself.

Take a chance on you.

Feeling good starts from the inside out.

It’s as if he’s decorated his living room to remind me that I’m doing the right thing. Getting over Elio by getting under Marc is definitely a good idea.

“So, this is it.” Marc gestures to the open-plan kitchen and living room. “Why don’t you relax while I get changed into something more comfortable?”

Holy crap. He’s giving me the “get changed into something more comfortable” line. That means he’s going to get naked. We’re going to have sex, and it’s going to make me forget all about my coffee hottie.

“Sounds good.” I nod as he disappears down the hall.

What sort of sex will it be? A man like him, he’s in good shape. I wonder if I should be stretching in preparation?

I place my handbag on the floor, trying to keep my thoughts under control. You’re being an idiot, Romy.

“Sorry, just one sec,” Marc calls, and I swallow. Any minute now, he’s going to come out here, all naked and buff and ready to fuck, and I’ll be standing fully dressed and giving him the wrong impression.

Just like Elio gave you.

I won’t be that person.

I won’t make Marc feel as if he’s gone out on a limb, and I’m shoving it back in his face.

I flip open the top button of my blouse, walking closer to one of the prints to check my level of exposure in the reflection. Good. Sexy, but not over the top. The print glares back at me in stark black and white, its message loud and clear.

Just do it.

Divine intervention, perhaps?

I swallow down my nerves. Maybe it’s time I started acting more like Marc. Maybe me seeing this poster now is like fate pushing me in the right direction.

I flip open another button. This time, the curves of my lacy red bra show, the deep line of my cleavage visible. I pull my shirt down farther still, emphasizing my bust even more. It’s hardly like I’m touching myself while lying on the sofa, but it’s a start. There’s no mistaking that my boobs are open and ready for business.

My hand lingers over the third button when I hear Marc’s feet padding down the hall.

“Sorry about that. I never like to wear the same gear to two sessions in a row in case I . . .”

I spin around.

Marc Moretti isn’t naked.

He’s fully clothed, his tank a navy blue instead of the black it was before.

Turns out “smoothie” really was code for “smoothie” after all.

I grab at my shirt, pulling it closer together.

“Did you lose a button?” he asks, concern in his eyes.

“I . . .” No, I was trying to get ready for sex and seduction, because I thought we were a thing. “Yes,” I rush out, holding my hands over the white button still firmly in place. “It’s a . . . cheap top. Must have just popped off.” I am an idiot. How did I read this so wrong?

“Let me get you a pin,” Marc offers, and disappears back down the hall again.

There’s no time to waste. I race into the kitchen, jerking open his top drawer. Spoons, forks, sporks—aha! Steak knives. My heart pounds as I grab one out and hold my button as far from my shirt as I can before slicing through the cotton that ties it to my clothing. I carve once, twice, and thank the lord for gym junkies and their obsession with protein and perfectly sharp protein-cutting utensils, because the button pops off and falls to the floor, disappearing under the fridge. I drop the steak knife in the sink.

“Here.” Marc walks into the kitchen, one arm extended, a gold pin visible.

“Thanks.” I lean against the counter, all casual, calm, and collected. Exactly how I feel on the inside.

He steps closer, and his eyes flick to my chest. “Damn,” he breathes. “Do you need a hand?”

“It’s fine.” I take the pin and turn away from him so he won’t see the embarrassment no doubt staining my cheeks. I won’t misinterpret his signals twice.

I stab the pin through one side of my shirt and into my skin, wincing. Ouch. Then I push it through the hole on the other side of the material, closing most of the gap.

Finally, I turn back around to face Marc. I need to get out of here before I make an even bigger fool of myself. If he was even remotely interested before, and I’m starting to seriously believe that I was imagining things, there’s no doubt he’s not anymore. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t mention it.” He turns to the fridge and pulls out a bunch of celery from the vegetable crisper, followed by a few apples, a knob of ginger, and some spinach. “Romy, I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

“As a client who needs a serious amount of help?” Because trust me, not only is my body in need of a workout, but apparently, my mind is too. How did I read this situation so wrong?

“No.” He pulls a cutting board out from a cupboard under the sink and places it on the counter, turning to me. His voice softens as he tilts his head to the side. “This is going to sound ridiculous, like I invited you back here to put the moves on you . . .”

“Ha!” I squawk. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

“Yeah.” He steps closer to me, his eyes dark with that teasing hint of something that I could have sworn I saw at the café earlier. “But I will make you the best goddamn smoothie you’ve ever tasted. And then, I’m going to ask you out. On a date. And I’d love it if you said yes.”

“I . . .”

I’m not ready for a date.

I’m in love with Elio.

I hate Elio.

“Sounds perfect,” I reply.

After all, it’s just one date.

What could possibly go wrong?