Mature Romance: Senior Sex Ends at 50 (Steamy Romance) (Senior Adult Romance Book 1) by Bedard Maurice

Author:Bedard, Maurice [Bedard, Maurice]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Valentino Publishing
Published: 2016-03-17T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

Faith sat in the corner of the booth at the bar across the street from her office and tried to remember the last time she'd been out at a place like this. Everything was very gently dingy, though not dirty – just worn. The brass rail at the bar needed to be polished, there were patches on the booth cushions, and the glass tabletops had been turned upside down to avoid making chips or scratches worse.

But when she'd asked the bartender for a whiskey sour, he'd given her a small smile and poured it without glancing pointedly at the wines. She wasn't even sure they had wines. Besides, it wasn't like she was going back to any of their usual spots. It was becoming painfully clear that she would be keeping the money, and Roger would be keeping their friends, when the divorce was eventually settled. Of course, given how many of them had known that he was cheating and hadn't bothered to say anything to her, that was probably for the best.

She had to sigh. If he'd told her what was wrong, that he wanted more sex, or any sex at all, she would have made the appointment with her doctor much earlier. If he'd told her that he was a typical sexist man who only wanted a pair of tits if they still stood up on their own – well, she probably would have given him her blessing, if he'd only told her. But the sneaking around, cuckolding her in front of all of their "friends" - that was what she couldn't forgive him for. That, and assuming that she was a bloodless ice sculpture, just because her needs had changed.

She'd spoken to Jackson every night since their escapade in the dining room. Sometimes they just talked, about movies or TV or books or dinner. Sometimes she listened to him touch himself; sometimes she let him direct her hands. She'd never masturbated as a girl; despite her own mother's insistence that bodies were healthy and exploring them only led to more satisfaction, something about it had always seemed vaguely dirty.

Tonight was the last day in Jackson's self-imposed week of exile. He'd given her instructions for tonight, and just listening to them had left her feeling squirmy and interested on the phone. Go to the bar. Find someone to bring you home. Don't even ask their name. Just tell them that I sent you. That I want them to make you feel good for me.

If it was dirty, it was the very best kind of dirty. The kind that felt sweet and sexy and amazing.

The only problem was that the bar she'd chosen was not, apparently, the kind of place where a woman in her 50s could go to get picked up. Is that what people did now? She'd spent most of her week on the internet, exploring photography and stories and videos and learning all the things she wished she'd explored so long ago. The whiskey sour that the bartender had made was amazing, however, so she didn't really want to leave.

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