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Acknowledgments

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Prologue

Online shopping

“We should have used a different picture.”

“No, I like this one.”

“I look like a square.”

“You are a square, honey,” Nadia says with a small grin on her face.

It’s barely seven o’clock, but the sun is long gone. It’s so dark outside that it feels like the middle of the night. The boys are at a sleepover down the street. The lights are low, and there’s a fire crackling in the room. We have drinks; Nadia stopped by a shop that apparently makes nothing but charcuterie boards for the occasion. We’re sitting on the couch next to one another, our sides pressed together and my laptop balanced on our knees.

Nadia’s scrubbed off the day, which for her means that she dropped the expensive meat and cheese tray on the kitchen counter and jumped into the shower to wash off her makeup. But instead of pulling on her thickest flannel pajamas like normal, she put on a silky robe and perfume.

I’ve been trying to figure out if she’s wearing anything underneath that robe for the past half-hour.

Nadia’s fingers grasp my chin. “But look how adorable your dimples are?” She turns my head a bit to the left to make sure that I look at the computer and not at her because if given the choice, I would only look at Nadia for the rest of my life.

The picture of us is the most recent one that doesn’t look like we took it at a Sears photo studio and doesn’t have our kids crawling all over us. We took it at the wedding of Nadia’s sorority sister, Celeste, on a rare weekend away from the boys and our regular life. We had a little too much champagne. We danced. We pretended for a few hours that we didn’t have any responsibilities. We look happy, carefree, and I’m smiling so hard that both of my cheeks prominently feature deep indentations.

Not too long before that picture, while a bunch of our friends from college were doing the electric slide on the dancefloor, I pushed my hand between Nadia’s legs. She was wet and happy and drunk and came on my fingers so fast because there was nowhere to hide. The chances of us getting caught seemed high, and that made Nadia’s thighs shake. What I remember most about that picture is that I was grinding my dick into Nadia’s ass while the photographer took dozens of photos.

My wife is right — this is a good picture for us to use. And as usual, she lets me come to that conclusion on my own while she lovingly caresses my chin with her thumb.

“You look great in this picture,” I say.

She sighs and nuzzles her nose under my chin. “If I were on here looking for a couple to date, those dimples would get me.”

I swallow, and Nadia licks up the column of my throat. “Get you to what?”

I feel her smile against my neck, and then her hands are on my chest, and she’s shifting on the couch, moving down. “Fuck.” I practically throw my laptop onto the couch next to me, out of the way, so nothing is standing in the way of Nadia and my dick.

“Wait.” Nadia’s on all fours, her palms pressing into my thighs, so close to my dick. “We’re doing this tonight.”

I nod quickly. “We sure the fuck are,” I say, humping my dick up into the air. Only Nadia can get me this hot this quick.

She rolls her eyes and turns to my laptop.

It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to realize what she means. “Oh, that. Now?”

Nadia’s hands move to the elastic waistband of my sweats, and her fingers curl over the edge. The blunt tips of her nails graze my pubic hair. I whimper.

“Now,” she says, pulling at my pants and underwear.

I lift my hips to help her. My head falls back at the absolutely feral way Nadia licks her lips when my dick pops free. My usually reserved wife, who walked through the door with tired eyes and a weak grin, looks completely reborn when she spreads her mouth as wide as it will go and sucks me into her throat.

“Holy fucking shit.”

She hums around me.

I lose myself in the soft silk of Nadia’s tongue and the tight grip of her hand at the base. We’ve been together for fifteen years, and she’s sucked my dick more times than I can count, but every time, it’s like her throat is brand-new, and I feel like a nineteen-year-old virgin again, ecstatic that someone besides myself is touching me.

“Oh my God,” I groan, and then the warmth of her mouth disappears.

“The computer, Darren,” she huffs, reminding me why we’re here. She’s out of breath, and there’s a trail of spit connecting her mouth and the head of my dick. She collects it and uses it to jack me off a few times before her head descends again.

I scramble for the computer because we both know I’ll do anything to keep Nadia’s mouth, hands, or pussy wrapped around my dick, but even as I move a shaking finger to the trackpad, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pay attention to the screen when my wife is trying to suck the soul out of me through the head of my dick.

“Mmmm,” Nadia hums around my shaft.

“Shit,” I hiss, and my head falls back.

Nadia taps my thigh with her free hand to get my attention. I look down at her head moving slowly up and down and up and down, but she’s pointing at the computer.

“My god.”

I blink and blink and blink, trying to clear my eyes before I realize that my glasses have fallen off of my face onto my chest. Once I put them back on — maybe a little askew — I see the picture Nadia liked.

“Charisse,” I read aloud, just as Nadia starts to fondle my balls. It takes me forever to read her profile. I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“What’s to know?” Nadia gasps for air. “She’s cute.”

“She’s too young,” I pant, pulling the laptop closer.

Nadia slowly strokes my dick and squints at the screen.

I’m barely holding myself together.

Finally, she shakes her head. “Can you filter for age?” she asks and then heads back toward my dick.

“Wait,” I yell and then sigh toward the ceiling. “Fuck, wait.”

Nadia stops, and without the stimulation of her mouth and tongue and hands, I can finally think clearly. I take a few slow breaths, and then I make the most of it. I shift to the side and open the filters on the InfiniThree dating site. I quickly check all the filters that we’ve agreed upon — age range, geographic location, and whatever the fuck else.

Nadia has a death grip on my dick and her libido the entire time.

“Okay,” I finally gasp as our new list populates.

Nadia takes me back into her mouth, and that is how we spend our evening, fucking and sucking and coming while we swipe through our options of women we’d like to date.

Book One: Darren

first date

The last time I was on the market, early morning dates weren’t a thing, or maybe I just never went on any. From what I recall, dates used to look like power lunches between classes, drinks at a crowded bar — so it didn’t feel too intimate just in case it didn’t work out — and long dinners, but only after date three. All my memories of dating before I met my wife were full of darkening skies, sticky tabletops, and the crush of bodies.

But that’s what happens when you meet your wife at nineteen.

My brief dating life feels like a million years ago, and I’m tired even remembering it. The nervous energy, the hope, the empty wallet, the disappointment. When I met my wife, I thought I’d never have to date again. That’s at least part of the reason I feel completely out of sorts to be waiting in front of a coffee shop for a woman who hopefully looks like her profile picture, so I can recognize her. I wonder if she’ll think my corny jokes are funny in real life.

I can still taste the spearmint on my tongue, and I haven’t stopped yawning yet. My biggest fear is that I’ll open my mouth to say hello and yawn directly into her face. This wasn’t the kind of concern I’d thought about the last time I went on a first date, but that was a decade and a half ago. I’ve changed. I’m a completely different person today.

My knees creak when I stand from a low chair, my sciatica is always giving me trouble if I don’t stretch before a workout, the gray at my temples makes me look sophisticated at the best of times and just plain old more often than not, and I don’t dare leave the house without antacid pills.

I am officially and seriously an adult.

Apparently, the dating scene has been growing and changing just as seriously as I have.

The last time I went on a first date, I was nineteen — younger than the woman I’m meeting today— but when I let myself think about our eleven-year age difference, I think she might as well be that young. What do we even have to talk about, really? When I focus on age, all I can see is our many differences. She uses too many emojis when we text, she has three roommates in a two-bedroom apartment, is seriously considering quitting her job because “fuck these capitalist pigs or whatever,” and she was adamant that we meet first thing in the morning because “I don’t want to waste a good Friday evening on a bad date. You understand, right?”

I don’t, actually, but I said I did because I didn’t want her to realize just how boring I am, and she’s cute. No, sexy as fuck. And way out of my fucking league.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath. “Don’t think about that.”

We’d agreed on Brews Crews because it’s a popular coffee shop in a new downtown commercial development that might be close to where we both worked or not, but it’s in a central location where there will be people around, but hopefully, not anyone who knows us personally. It’s the kind of place where someone can meet a complete stranger without having to divulge too much about their personal lives and habits. Thankfully, that was something that appealed to both of us because we each had to entertain the possibility that the other was a serial killer, didn’t we?

This coffee shop was also a good choice, according to my date, because if we hit it off, she wanted the option to have a quickie in the bathroom and never come here again. She’d said that. Well, typed that. I’m still kind of in shock at that message nearly twenty-four hours later. It’s not going to happen, but thinking about it makes my dick hard in an instant.

I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk, trying not to look like a pathetic old man waiting for someone who’ll find his salt and pepper beard sexy instead of sad. I want to look like someone who hasn’t been doing some deep-dive research on orthodontic shoe inserts, which are just good for foot health and have nothing to do with age.

But there’s no stance I can strike that will hide that I am absolutely the kind of man who likes to pace when I’m stressed. Usually, I walk in circles and splutter an expletive-laced monologue to pump myself up, but I keep the monologue internal today. I don’t want to undermine what will probably be a borderline first impression anyway.

“Darren?”

I freeze at the sound of my name, in a cute squeak of a voice that’s full of energy as if whoever’s speaking has been up for hours and her veins are already full of caffeine or adrenaline. My back is to her, and the anticipation I feel as I slowly turn to face her is honestly too much for me to handle this early in the morning. I stifle a yawn and use the scant few seconds before I come face-to-face with her to center myself and pray.

Lord, don’t let this young girl laugh in my face.

I matched with Jourdan Brooks one month ago. I won’t pretend as if she was the only woman I was interested in, but she was the first one who made me sit up straight in my chair and take notice. And after two glasses of red wine and a sliver of an edible, that impulse was more than notable. I remember feeling loose. Her profile was bold, all of her pictures skirting the edge of acceptable per InfiniThree’s profile guidelines. I know because I’d read them closely. Jourdan, I assume, had probably clicked ‘accept’ without a second thought about terms and conditions.

I liked that about her.

At the time, the differences were alluring; they even made a kind of sense. If I was going to do this, then I should do this. I should try something new. I should shake up my life.

The fact that Jourdan is even more beautiful in person gives me a shallow rush when we come face-to-face for the first time. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes an older man like me think he’s a little invincible. She has big brown eyes that are almost molten in their warmth. Her wide mouth and thick lips draw my eyes immediately, and her berry lipstick only accentuates the attention that kind of mouth deserves. It is impossible not to imagine those lips around my dick, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for days. My brain had already created a pathway, and it speeds right there today.

I’d thought the pictures on her profile — or the even riskier ones she sent me privately — were amazing, but pictures could never do Jourdan justice.

“Earth to Darren,” she says. “Unless you’re not Darren, in which case, this is awkward as fuck, my bad. You look like him, though.”

“Fuck,” I mumble. Apparently, I’ve just been staring at her for who knows how long, so awkward first impression unlocked. “Shit. Sorry. It’s my bad. You’re beautiful. Like really beautiful, and I was just wondering if you meant to message me?” I swipe a hand over my head. I hadn’t meant to say any of that. Why can’t I ever just shut the fuck up?

Jourdan’s laughter sounds like wind chimes, a gentle tinkle, almost too soft to hear without leaning forward and invading her personal space just a little bit. I want to catch every note, but I don’t want to freak her out; this is a hellish limbo I’m in, and I’m starting to wonder why the fuck I’ve put myself in this position.

“Okay, no need to ask if you’re nervous then. Cool.” Her voice is light, playful. That’s how I’ve been imagining her in my head.

“I’m terrified, actually.” I don’t have to correct her, but I get a little too honest when I’m anxious.

Jourdan steps forward, invading my space, clearly not as nervous as I am about first impressions. Why should she be, though, when she looks like she does?

My back goes rigid. So does my dick.

She tips her head back and smiles at me. “Calm down. There’s no need to be afraid of me. We’re just getting coffee and having a chat.”

I nod and take a breath, trying to get my shit together.

“Still,” she continues, “I’ll make sure you have lots of interesting things to tell your wife when you get home tonight.” She whispers this sentence like it’s a secret, and it is, kind of.

When setting up this date, I suggested something more traditional, a nice dinner somewhere, maybe in another town, where people who knew me and my wife, Nadia, were less likely to recognize me.

Jourdan, on the other hand, was adamant about a morning date. “If someone spots you having a romantic dinner with some girl who’s not your wife, the gossip mill will have a field day. But make the same date at eight in the morning in a very public place, and most people will just assume you’re doing a work thing. No one would suspect you’re looking for a girlfriend.”

It had made perfect sense at the time. But Jourdan pressing herself against me like this kind of defeats the point of getting up this damn early, doesn’t it?

My dick says no.

“You feel like you’re cheating, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I breathe, glad she understands.

“And is that turning you on a little bit, maybe?”

Okay, she understands a little bit too much. I swallow instead of answer.

She probably felt the way her question made my dick jump anyway. Jourdan sucks her plump bottom lip into her mouth.

I groan involuntarily and look away.

“Okay, no rush. We can talk about this later. Come on,” she says, walking toward the coffee shop, so many of her curves rubbing against me. “I need caffeine ASAP.”

I have to take a deep breath before I feel strong enough to follow her.

Nadia’s going to get a fucking kick out of this.

coffee date

“Am I your first?” Jourdan asks.

No, she doesn’t just ask, like a normal person. Jourdan lifts onto her toes and whispers the question directly into my ear. Her lips brush my earlobe. Her casual affection is mildly terrifying, not because it’s unwanted, but because it’s been years since I even noticed someone being interested in me besides Nadia.

Jourdan’s attention is overwhelming, especially physically. I’m battling my body’s reaction to her, trying desperately to keep my dick from announcing its interest before she’s even told me her favorite color.

“What?” I wheeze, finding it hard to focus with her next to me and the sounds of the coffee grinder and Boyz II Men playing a little too loud for eight in the morning.

Jourdan presses her body against me, and her laughter tickles my beard. “Am I your first date as a newly-minted man in the life? I’m gonna take that cute little vein throbbing in your neck as a yes.” The way she says ‘throbbing’ is pornographic, and I like it.

I like all of this — her sultry whisper, her soft breasts against my biceps, her vanilla perfume. My enjoyment is incredibly inconvenient. In fact, there’s only one thing I don’t like. “In the life?” I mutter with distaste. “Sounds like I’m in a gang.”

She looks me over. “Oh, you’re definitely too square for that. But I’m your first date, right, since you and your wife decided to open your marriage?”

She whispers that sentence as a courtesy, but even hearing those words terrifies me, and I look left and right to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear us.

She dissolves into the most adorable giggle and rests her forehead against my shoulder, shaking her head. “Definitely the first,” she huffs around her laughter.

“So, why’d you two choose me?”

We’re sitting outside with our drinks now. I got a small latte that’s too sweet, and she got a large iced coffee that looks to be mostly oat milk. She’s leaning forward, the plastic straw between her lips, her eyelashes fluttering at me.

“Why did you choose us?” I ask, hoping to deflect.

She tilts her head and bats her eyelashes at me. “You two looked cute together in all of your pictures. Like you love just being near each other. Very wholesome.”

“Oh,” I breathe with a smile.

“Apparently, wholesome makes me wet. Who knew?”

I choke on my drink, and Jourdan sips hers, watching me with a smile. “Your turn,” she says when I stop gasping for air.

“You’re beautiful,” I admit, too out of sorts to think of anything more complex. It’s not a lie.

She rolls her eyes. “Men always say that like it’s an answer. Give me your phone.”

“Wh-what?”

She’s taking another sip of coffee and just offers her hand to me, palm up. I hesitate for a second, but in the end, I do what she says. As soon as I unlock my phone and place it in her palm, she snatches it away, scrolling with her perfectly painted, long, bright red nails.

I squirm in my seat, imagining them scratching down my spine.

“Awww, you have her in your phone as ‘Wife.’”

My face heats, and I feel foolish. I’m too fucking old to feel foolish about a young girl.

“Will you put me in as your Girlfriend? Or Pussy on the Side?” She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “POS. Don’t like it. Cunt in the Corner?”

I groan. This is moving too fast, right?

She puts the phone on speaker, and Nadia picks up. “Everything okay? Did you meet her? Are you at the right Brews Crews?”

“Um,” I start.

Jourdan cuts me off. “We met,” she purrs.

I swear Nadia sighs at the sound of her voice. Very relatable.

“Don’t worry. He’s being a perfect gentleman.”

Nadia clucks her tongue.

I splutter, “What?”

“Don’t hold that against him,” Nadia says.

“Hold that— What does that mean? We just met. Am I supposed to take her to the bathroom and fuck her before the ice melts in her drink?”

I realize how loud I’m speaking after I’ve said all that. I definitely shouldn’t have said all that out loud.

Jourdan, however, is beaming at me and pressing her drink against her chest, circling right around where I think her nipple will be.

I curse and tear my eyes away from her chest — where I really shouldn’t be looking, anyway — and look at her face. Her straw is still between her lips, but she’s not drinking. Her tongue is lapping slowly at the plastic, and she’s watching me hungrily.

“Can he do that?” she whispers in a voice thick with lust and longing.

“Jesus,” I groan.

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