I take a deep breath, staring Marc’s door down. Date number two. You can do this.

I need to.

I need to do anything and everything I can to get the taste of Elio out of my mouth and the feel of his body from under my skin. I can’t believe I let him kiss me. I can’t believe I let a married man light a fire inside me like I’ve never felt before.

I raise my hand to knock, once, twice, three times.

All the more reason to be here, on a date with someone who has no skeletons in his closet.

The door swings open. Marc stands there, a big cheesy grin on his face. “Hey, baby,” he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. “You look good enough to eat.”

“Thanks,” I reply, surprised.

His words should make me feel warm. They should make me feel good.

They don’t.

“Come on in.” He gestures to the room beyond, and I step through and into his temple of motivational prints. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Why do you ask?” I’m just upset because I kissed a guy who was a total douche. Obviously.

“You seem a little strange.” He gestures to the couch, and I settle into it. “Is it because of what I said?”

I wrack my brain. What he said? He’s said plenty of things to give me cause for concern before, but none of them have happened during the last two minutes of my life. “What did you say?”

“You looked good enough to eat.” He takes a deep breath, sinking onto the couch beside me and taking my hands. “Romy, you look amazing. You’ve worked so hard these last few weeks, and the results are finally starting to show.”

“Thank you.” I smile, because damn it, that might just be the nicest thing Marc has ever said to me.

“And that’s why I was thinking this might be a good time to take our relationship to the next level,” he continues.

I stop breathing. He wants to have . . . sex?

I’m unsure how I feel about that. On the one hand, I’m ready. I’ve been ready to have sex with someone who isn’t my ex for a very long time.

But at the same time, I always imagined that someone would be Elio.

This time last week, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go on a date with Marc. Is it really time to get naked together?

“Wow.” I nod slowly. “Tonight?”

He laughs as if I’m being ridiculous. “Tomorrow. I wouldn’t just spring it on you like that.”

My eyes widen. I need warning?

Surreptitiously, I glance at his jeans. Is it because he’s so big I need to . . . stretch?

No. It can’t be. I’ve seen him in gym shorts before. If there was an anaconda lurking in his jungle, I’d have had some indication of it by now.

What if it’s so big he straps it when he works out?

“Tell me more,” I say, not willing to agree without checking the details first, especially after the I-thought-smoothie-meant-sex incident. Clearly, interpreting his signals is not my strong point.

“I want you to meet my family.”

Oh.

Oh.

That kind of next level.

“I know this is only our second date, but we’ve seen each other every day for weeks.”

“You want me to meet your family?” I ask, bringing the conversation back to safe ground.

“Yes. I’ve told my mom all about you. She can’t wait.” He leans closer, takes my hands in his. “Seriously, babe. It would mean a lot to me.”

“I—”

A sharp rap on the door interrupts me.

“That’ll be dinner. I ordered before you came. Sorry, I was really hungry,” he says, jumping from the couch and heading to the door.

My mind reels, trying to process it all. Marc Moretti likes me. He wants to introduce me to his family. He wants to take care of me.

“Let’s eat.” Marc closes the door and dumps a plastic bag unceremoniously on the table. “I’m starving. Marc had a big day of clients.”

Marc talks in the third person and doesn’t give me goose bumps.

But maybe goose bumps aren’t real. Maybe they only exist in the places I first found them—fairy tales and Disney movies.

I walk over to the table and sit opposite him. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

“Great! I’ll text Mom now, let her know to prepare some extra food. She's a stickler for getting the right numbers,” he says, picking up his phone and shooting off a quick message. He seems so happy, almost thrilled to be introducing me to his folks. Have I read things with him all wrong? Is he more into me than I’d first thought?

“My family are real excited to meet you,” Marc continues, placing a plate in front of me then one opposite him. “I haven’t taken a girl home in a long time. They can’t wait.”

A warm flush races over my chest. I’m . . . I’m special to him. This is a big deal.

“Okay, here we go. One salad, hold the dressing and the cheese.” He places this close to my plate. “One steak, rare, and one half-size steak, medium well.” He distributes the protein, giving him the rawer, bloodier piece, and me the more petite one. “Enjoy.”

As he sits and serves food onto his plate, I look at the unappetizing dishes in front of me. Limp lettuce. A piece of tomato. A chunk of steak so small and thin it could fit in my purse if I took out my store loyalty cards.

“What’d you get up to today?” Marc asks, diving into his steak, which I have to say, looks thick and juicy enough to get a prize spot on Ultimate American Barbecues.

“Just more work on the blog. These last few weeks, I’ve been more assertive about dealing with clients, and I’m starting to make serious traction,” I reply.

“Because Get More with Moretti isn’t just a workout of your body. It’s exercise for the mind, too,” Marc says, clapping himself on the chest. “I got your back, babe.”

“Yeah,” I reply slowly. I’d put my renewed drive down to the fact that I was no longer spending so much time mooning over Elio, but maybe Marc’s right. Maybe being mentally fit and physically fit go hand in hand.

“And how did your workout go today?” Marc emphasizes the question with his fork, speaking the words around his mouthful.

“Fine. I cut it a bit short. I had a lot on my plate and knew we were hanging out tonight, but it was . . . fine.”

“Short?” He narrows his eyes.

“Short like I ran two miles instead of six.” I study my plate, push a lettuce leaf around. I don’t mention the fact that I also skipped the weights session he had listed on my schedule.

“Romy.” Marc puts his cutlery down and reaches across the table for my hand. “Are you okay?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Uh, yeah. Sure I am.”

Aside from kissing a married man.

“It’s just you know how much working out means to me. How much it should mean to you.” He purses his lips, presses his eyes closed for a moment. “You can make it up next week.”

“I can?” Over my dead body.

“I’ll train with you. We’ll do an extra private session together.” He squeezes my hand. “And I won’t even charge you for it.”

“Oh! That’s . . .” Hellish. The worst idea I’ve ever heard. “Sweet.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He releases his grasp and attacks his steak again with gusto.

We spend the rest of the meal making small talk about the gym, his business, clients who’ve impressed him today, and his training schedule for the week ahead. All the while, my mind races.

Is this it for me? Could Marc Moretti possibly be . . . the one?

No. Things would have to change a lot for me to consider him happily-ever-after material.

Still, I try the name out in my head. Romy Moretti. It sounds good on paper.

And in a weird way, Marc kind of does, too. He owns his own business and his own apartment. He doesn’t have a wife, a child, or any strange skeletons lurking in his closet that are absolute no-nos for me.

He’s without question the most eligible bachelor I’ve dated since Jeremy—eligible being a key word here—so why am I still resisting?

Maybe because I haven’t felt those goose bumps.

But maybe that’s because I haven’t given goose bumps a chance.

“Let’s have sex,” I blurt.

Marc looks at me, surprised.

“Sorry. I just mean . . .” I glance down at the plates in front of us. “Things are going well between us. Right?

“Right.” Marc nods, confusion in his eyes. Does he need a written invitation?

“So I think it’s time we took this relationship to the next level. Not just with your parents.” Oh God, what am I saying? “I don’t mean I want to have sex with your parents.”

“I know.” Marc laughs, his eyes sparkling.

“I just . . . I want to have sex. Don’t you?” I ask, looking at him from under my lashes.

Marc glances down at his steak. “You’re ready?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Okay. Good.” He nods, then attacks his steak with his knife and fork as if it’s a race. “Didn’t want to push you, but if you’re there . . .”

“Oh, I’m there.”

“Eat up.” He nods toward my plate. “You’re going to need all the strength you can get.”

A deliciously naughty shiver runs through me. Now that’s what this relationship has been missing. Sex. Passion.

Hot kisses up against the wall in a nightclub.

No.

Just thinking about that betrayal makes me feel sick.

We finish our meals, and Marc takes the plates to the kitchen and cleans up. He leaves me alone in the living room, and this time I have no hesitation. I flick the buttons on my blouse, exposing my white lacy bra underneath. I undo the zip on my skirt then wriggle out of it, sliding it over my hips and placing it on the couch.

“Do you want . . .” Marc’s voice trails off.

I spin around, ready. Waiting.

He looks at me, his gaze running over my near-naked body. I push my chest forward, dart my tongue out to wet my lips. I’m a seductress, a black widow, and he’s fallen into my web.

“Okay.” He nods simply, then gestures down the hall to the bedroom. “Give me one minute.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there in a state of I-don’t-know-the-hell-what. Confusion? Anger?

I glance to my clothes for help. I hadn’t expected him to sweep me off my feet, but I’d thought the sight of me in lingerie would at least have him acting somewhat excited.

The Just do it poster glares at me from above my discarded clothes.

Yes.

Just do it.

It’s time.

I follow Marc down the hall to the bedroom.

When I enter his room, my heart melts. Two large candles on either bedside table are lit, casting the room in a romantic glow. Marc shakes his hand, the match he was holding winking out, and in the half-light, he offers me a smile, those brilliant teeth almost glowing.

“Oh, Marc.” I walk toward him and press my mouth to his. How did I doubt this? We may not have everything in common, but things like this—romantic lighting so our first time could be perfect—how can I question it?

“Romy.” His breath is hot against my lips.

He wraps his hands around my body, pulling me close to him. I trace my fingers up under his shirt and tug it over his head, flinging it across the room. His chest is—

Wow.

His chest is wow.

I’ve seen him without a shirt on before, in the posters for his gym, and after the occasional workout. Now, up close, those muscles gleam, and I run my hands over them almost reverently. Lust fires through my veins. Come to mamma.

My hands dance over his abs, up his chest and—

Ouch!

I jerk my hand back.

“Are you okay?” Marc asks, concern crossing his features.

“Yeah, I am. I just . . .” Your skin just bit me, I want to reply, but that’s ridiculous, because whose skin bites people? “Let me just . . .” I return my mouth to his, wrapping one leg around his body and pressing our pelvises tight.

“Yeah, babe. That’s what I’m talking about,” he groans, his mouth working its way over my chin, across my jaw, down my throat.

I run my hands along his back and feel that little prick again, but this time, I’m ready for it. It must be—he must be really hairy. He must shave his back and chest, only it’s been too long in between grooming sessions, and I’ve snagged my finger on a sharp end.

I stifle a giggle. Grooming sessions. I wonder if he can reach himself or if he pays someone to shave his body for him?

“Lemme at those boobs,” Marc groans, pulling one strap of my bra from my shoulder. His mouth works over my flesh and to my nipple, and I tense in anticipation of what’s coming next. Touch me. Make love to me.

He unhooks the clip at the back of my bra, then steps back to let it fall from my body. “Oh, yeah. That’s what Marc’s been waiting for.”

Oh, good. Marc’s referring to himself in the third person again, this time during sex. Sweet baby Jesus, save me.

He steps closer and, without warning, motorboats my breasts.

His hair gel is slimy on my skin. His stubble scrapes at me. His head moves so fast, I’m surprised he’s getting any enjoyment out of this, because I sure as hell am not. It’s like an over-enthusiastic dog has buried his face in my boobs, searching for a treat.

“Wow, Marc,” I breathe, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but needing this to stop. “That just—that turns me on so much. Too much. I need you, now.”

I grab at his hips, jerking them forward so he has to move his face. Thank God he does, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“No woman can resist the Moretti motorboat.” He grins, unbuckling his belt, and I don’t gag, so high-five to me.

God, what am I thinking?

As Marc undresses, I count all the reasons I should stop this before we go any further. He’s not turning me on. He’s a nice guy, but that zing, that spark you should feel with someone—it’s not there.

Marc drops his pants.

Hot damn.

His cock is . . . wow.

Now that’s an anaconda.

I lick my lips in anticipation. Marc may lack in foreplay skills, and he may lack in height, but when it comes to things below the belt, he’s girthy, long, and ready to play.

“You like what you see?” he asks, his chin in the air.

“Uh-huh.” I nod, enthusiastic. Sex. I’m going to have sex with a man with a beautiful body and a beautiful penis. What more could I ask for?

“Take off your panties,” he orders, and like a good little girl, I do, because hello, lovely cock. I will do whatever you wish. White lace is discarded on the floor.

“Get on the bed.” He points to the black silk sheets. I slide onto them, arching my back ever so slightly to entice him with my boobs since he’s clearly a tits man, and I will even consider putting up with the Moretti motorboat again if it means I’m getting a full-service downstairs.

“Like this?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He steps closer, running his tongue over his lips. “Now get ready to hold on, because you’re in for the ride of your life.”

A shiver runs through me. Goose bumps prickle my skin—goose bumps! I can’t wait.

Marc grabs a condom from his bedside table, sliding it on quickly.

“Here comes Marc,” he cries out, and bam.

He slides inside me.

I tense, waiting for the pain that’s sure to come from a year of no sex and a serious lack of foreplay, but maybe those candle lights cast deceptively long shadows, because inside me, Marc’s dick doesn’t feel that big. It feels kind of . . . lacking.

“Feels so good,” he grunts at my ear.

Uh, yeah. Sure it does.

“Fuck me, Marc,” I say, trying to inspire him with dirty talk as he’s previously inspired me. “Show me how you use that great big cock of yours.”

“Gonna do that. Gonna make you scream,” he whispers, and his mouth latches onto mine.

We kiss, then he shifts his hips, pumps once, twice, three times, building up a rhythm. This is good. It’s not fireworks, but it’s nice to ease into things. It’s been a while since I had sex, so maybe I just need a little warm-up. Maybe I just need a little—

“Marc’s coming! Marc’s coming!” he yells, as if we’re on a ship and he’s calling for a man overboard.

He collapses in a sweaty heap on top of me.

Oh. My. God.

What just happened?

If I was to count the number of times he thrust into me, I wouldn’t run out of fingers.

Fingers.

Maybe he’s just . . . a little rusty. Maybe his plan was to get that first nervous sex out of the way, then explore my body farther with his hands, his mouth, letting those long fingers take me to new pleasure-filled heights.

“Be right back.” He rolls over and gets off the bed. The light from the en-suite bathroom flickers on, and I hear the sound of a tap running.

When he comes back, he collapses onto the sheets beside me.

I tilt my body so my breasts are right in his eye line, then run my hand along his chest, tracing long circles, eager to get things moving again. “How are you feeling?”

“Wiped. Good session.” He nods, as if rewarding me for training hard at the gym. He clamps one hand over my finger, stopping its movements. “Don’t do that, baby. Marc’s trying to sleep.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. That’s it? Six pumps, a Moretti motorboat special, and we’re done?

“You can stay the night if you want,” Marc murmurs, rolling onto his side and facing away from me. “Was good, wasn’t it?”

I don’t have words to reply. Good wasn’t the adjective I was thinking of.

How terrible for this man, to have gone through his life thinking that constituted as good sex.

And how terrible for me.

I stare at the ceiling, the candles casting shadows across the roof. Marc’s nice when he wants to be, and motivated, and successful. He likes me, and there are no secrets with him. What you see is what you get. But we don’t have that connection. There are no sparks, and he’s a total dud between the sheets.

Plus, he refers to himself in the third person. Can I live with hearing “Marc’s coming, Marc’s coming” for the rest of my life?

No, I decide. That’s not the real me. The real me—

The real me is a lot like the things I liked about Marc. He’s successful, owns his own business—and so do I. He’s motivated, and while I haven’t always been what you’d call inspired when it comes to goal-setting achievements, these last few weeks I’ve started to turn things around.

The only thing I don’t like about me is the fact I kissed a man who has a family.

But I won’t let that crush me again. I won’t lose myself in depression.

I don’t need Elio to be happy. But I also don’t need Marc. Neither of them will make me feel better about myself. Only I can do that.

I’m going to move on. This time, I won’t do it the unhealthy way—trying to replace my addiction to Elio and muffins with Marc and protein shakes. This time, I’ll do it on my own, and I’ll be stronger for it.

As Marc’s breaths even out into the long sighs of near sleep, I hear him mumble. “S’lucky we waited to do this till now. Any earlier, and I would have been drowning in rolls.”

Any sympathy I felt flies right out the goddamn window.