His manner was imperious, as if he came from old money. He didn't. Like me, he was one generation away from thieves and conmen. There was a formality as he ordered his food, dismissed the waitress and drank his wine. He was an arrogant ass. I watched from across the room, doing my due diligence.
"Enjoy your dinner, Eli. You won't be able to afford many more nights like this."
It bothered me that I'd verbalized my thoughts. It was unprofessional. Looking away from Eli, I made sure that no one was obvious in their concern about the crazy lady at the table for one who was whispering to herself. Eli Martinez worked for a hedge fund and could easily afford his meal at Rio Bistro. I couldn't, but my dinner was an investment.
The waitress was sweet and her job was probably a hell of a lot more difficult than that of most of the people she served. She'd been attentive and patient. I was sure she would have preferred to have more than one customer or that I'd eaten faster, but I had a job to do.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"Just the check, thank you."
I paid and left a healthy tip before I nursed my coffee and waited for Eli. He finally finished his aperitif, got up, and exited the restaurant. I checked my phone and used the Notes function to record the time he left. I surreptitiously took a photo of the blonde he was with. It wasn't his wife, she was a different blonde. Eli was at Rio Bistro every Tuesday and Thursday and never left earlier than 8:30. Tuesdays were for his girlfriend du jour, Thursdays were with his wife.
The next day I sat outside the Rio Bistro's parking lot and drove off at exactly 8:35. I timed the drive to his apartment and noted the stoplights, just as I had the previous 11 times I'd mapped out his trip home. Parking next to a playground a block over, I made my notes, compared them to my previous observations, and then drove home.
It had been a long, stressful day and I wanted to unwind and relax.
Eggplant lasagna wafted through the air and seducing my senses as I made my way to the bathroom. Stripping off, I stepped into the hot pounding water. As I turned around, I placed one hand on the shower door and the other on the wall and let the water and heat work their magic on my back. Head bent down and long wet hair obstructing my view, I smiled as I heard the bathroom door open.
Michael's deep voice was warmth and love and support. "Not even a hello? Just pass right through the kitchen and into the shower?"
"Hello, my love."
"My love? You think that's going to work?"
"Did it?"
I loved the voice of his rumbling laugh. "Yeah, it sort of did. Rough day?"
My clothes were strewn about the floor. I knew I'd have to wait patiently as he put his socks in his shoes, folded his shirt, then his pants, and placed his underwear in the hamper before he joined me. We were different in so many ways. My husband was a neat-freak and I absolutely wasn't. He loved classical music and I listened to anything but. Michael was large and built for strength where I was lithe and built for speed and endurance.
Stepping into the shower, he lifted my chin with his index finger. I expected him to kiss me, but he paused, looked into my eyes for a moment. His cute lopsided smile began to grow and then he bent down and met my lips with his own. Straightening, he caressed my face, hands stretched along my jaw, fingers gently stroking that sensitive skin just below the ear. I shivered. He leaned down and kissed me again as the water dripped from his head to mine.
Hands gentle on my shoulders, he turned me towards the spray and slowly began to massage my upper back.
"Long day?"
I was glad to be facing the wall instead of my husband as I lied to him.
"Ummmm, right there. Just stay right there. Yeah, Mrs. Ferguson can't understand why she isn't losing weight. She was telling me this when she had powder on her cheek. The woman stopped for donuts on the way to the gym and didn't see the problem."
"Get her a new trainer."
"No, I'll just have another talk with her and set her up with the nutritionist."
"Okay. Things were good aside from Mrs. Ferguson and her donut addiction?"
I laughed and wriggled as his fingers worked their magic. "Yeah, just busy."
I'd been lying to him for almost two months with made-up excuses for why I was late or had to miss dinners. I couldn't exactly tell my husband that when I wasn't a personal trainer I was a second-generation thief and safe-cracker and was going to take absolutely everything of value from Eli Martinez. Instead, I told him stories about Mrs. Ferguson or Ilse Westbrook. Ilse was married to Adam, who was a hotshot wrestling coach. She brought down her friends and the girlfriends of a bunch of the wrestlers. She was probably responsible for half my clientele.
The stories were all true, but they only told him about part of my life. Michael didn't need to know what was going to go down. I was going to get my piece of justice from the children of the men who abandoned my father and let him rot in prison for the crimes they helped commit.
"You're incredibly tense, Sondra. You sure you're okay?"
"I am now." And I was. As long as I was in the arms of my husband, everything else could fade away into the background.
He didn't say anything in response to that, just kept working my shoulders with his fingers. My eyes fluttered closed and I sighed. Slowly, the pressure began to change; one moment he was working a knot out of my neck, the next his hands were sliding firmly along the tops of my shoulders. The moment after that, the firm pressure became lighter, softer, more sensual. His fingers traced back to my neck and one by one, his fingertips gently trailed down my spine.
My neck didn't lack attention, though; by the time his fingers reached the base of my shoulder blades, his lips were on the spot where my shoulder met my neck. I sighed again, softly, and shivered almost imperceptibly. His fingers moved to my ribs, far enough down so that when he slid them around me, they were just beneath my breasts.
He didn't move his body closer to mine; he knew I would do it myself, that I'd step back and relax against him as he moved his hands up to cup my breasts. I couldn't stop myself. The moment my breasts were in his palms and my nipples were hardening against them, I leaned back into him.
A soft murmur of appreciation met the spot he was kissing on my neck as my ass met his quickly-hardening cock. He pushed it against me, taking just a moment for himself, just a moment of relief in my body before devoting himself to my pleasure.
Michael was generous when it came to sex. It was almost surprising how tender he could be, especially knowing how capable he was of rough passion. No matter how he wanted it, it was never about him taking me; it was about him loving me, loving my body, doing whatever he could to make me happy. His pleasure was dependent on my pleasure, his release prolonged by mine.
I loved those little moments, those ones where he couldn't stop himself from giving in, just a little bit. I loved the sharp intake of breath as he slid his cock against me, the soft but resonant groan as I shifted my hips and felt his twitch against me.
He pinched my nipples and I smiled; one hand continued cupping my breast as the other traced intricate little patterns down my ribs and stomach until it reached my mound. In contrast to the slow, lingering pace he'd started with, his fingers dipped immediately into my folds and found my clit.
"Someone's eager tonight," I said, smirking.
"Don't want the lasagna to burn," he said, his lips brushing against my skin.
