Dear Bridget, I Want You(27)

There were just so many reasons why we weren’t a good match. So, this attraction would have to be ignored for my overall well-being. As I lay in bed trying to do just that, the urge to masturbate to memories of Simon reading me my novel replaced my good intentions.

Readying to do just that, I got up to shut off the light when I noticed a folded piece of paper by my door.

Bending down, I picked it up and started to read it.

It was the last thing I ever expected.



Dear Bridget,



It’s highly doubtful I’ll ever garner the courage to say this to your face. Don’t feel you need to acknowledge this note the next time we see each other, either. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I promise to play dumb. I know you, and what I’m about to say would be awkward for us to talk about face to face.

So, here goes.

We’re totally wrong for each other. We both know it. You’re probably the last woman on Earth I should want and vice versa. You’re the proper mum with a good head on her shoulders, who will always need to put her son first. I fully understand. I’m just the carefree, cheeky resident passing through town and temporarily living in your house.

But, here’s the thing…what they say about wanting what you can’t have is apparently true. For some bloody reason, I can’t stop thinking about you in very inappropriate ways.

I want you.

Wrong as it may be…more specifically, I want to make you come. Hard. I want you to get lost in me, and I want to hear you say my name over and over while we fuck. I get stiff just imagining what that would feel like, given that you haven’t been with a man for so long.

And these thoughts are making me insane. I’ve stopped fantasizing about anyone else and haven’t been interested in seeing anyone, either.

The only reason I’m even admitting all of this to you right now is because I don’t believe it’s one-sided. I notice your eyes when you look at me, too. You probably don’t think I can see the need written all over your face as clear as the days of the week on your knickers…but I can. Maybe I recognize it so easily because I’m feeling the exact same way. And as crass as I appear when we’re joking around about sex, my attraction to you is not a joke.

So, what’s the purpose of this note? I guess it’s a reminder that we’re adults, that sex is healthy and natural, and that you can find me just through the door past the kitchen. More specifically, it’s to let you know that I’m leaving said door cracked open from now on in case you’d like to visit me in the middle of the night sometime. I’d love nothing more than to give you the best orgasm of your life. No questions asked. Just unbridled sex.

Maybe the way I’ve worded this has got you convinced that I think I’d be doing you a favor, but make no mistake about it, the pleasure would be all mine. Ultimately, this proposition is coming from a place of selfish desire. And I can’t seem to shake it.

Think about it.

Or don’t.

Whatever you choose.

It’s doubtful I’ll even end up sliding this under your door anyway.



—Simon





Every time I considered leaving my room, I would grab the framed picture of Ben and stare at it. The urge to go to Simon was so strong; I basically hadn’t put down the framed photo of my deceased husband in an hour. I was lying in my bed, holding a picture of a dead man while fantasizing about one who was very much alive and in the other room. With the door cracked open waiting for me. There was one part of Simon’s note that I just kept reading over and over.

I want to make you come. Hard. I want you to get lost in me and I want to hear you say my name over and over while we fuck.

While we fuck.

While we fuck.

I was pretty sure that Ben had never used the word fuck like that before. Did we even fuck? We made love, sure. Our sex life was normal—at least, I think it was normal. Don’t get me wrong, the passion wasn’t the same as when we first got together. But after ten years, both of us working full time and raising a child, it was normal to have some of the desire dwindle, wasn’t it?

While we fuck.

I looked at the picture of my husband and sighed. We didn’t fuck. Not even in the beginning. And I felt guilty for that now. Maybe we should have been fucking. I certainly didn’t do anything to entice him to want me the last few years. Was it my fault our sex life had gotten boring? I rested the picture of Ben over my heart and laid my hand over it. I could feel my heart beating out of control beneath my fingers.

Shutting my eyes, I tried to force thoughts of Simon from my mind. But it was no use. Visions of his hard, sculpted body hovering over me had infiltrated my brain. So, here I was, a thirty-three-year-old, single mother lying in my bed all alone with a picture of my dead husband held to my heart while I visualized fucking another man.