Mrs. Robinson (Mrs. Robinson #1) Read Free Page B

even younger and hotter. Someone more, say, professional than an intern or a secretary – what about a through-and-through “professional,” perhaps? If Richard could play Hide the Cock with every bimbo on Capitol Hill who was still too young to legally rent a car, then why couldn’t I do the same just because I was a woman? And didn’t I deserve a little affection, too, even if I was paying for it? Was it really too much to ask to be with someone who looked at me, instead of through me, or past me? Was it really too selfish to want someone to make me feel like I did when I was seventeen and free and thought the whole world was New York City?
    Cursing myself, I Googled the stupid app and pulled up its website. My eyes fell across a few phrases as I tried to convince myself to stop reading…
     
    Companionship provided at a cost…
     
    Models come pre-screened and tested for disease, and are chosen for their looks, physiques, and skills at providing companionship…
     
    …utmost privacy, safety and discretion guaranteed…
     
    Honestly, it didn’t sound half-bad, I decided as I finished reading and leaned back in my chair. Thanks to the spicy romances I cycled through faster than joggers burned through water bottles, I had oodles of new positions and scenarios I wanted to try out in bed – not that Richard gave a damn, anyway. Trying to get him to make love to me was usually as futile as trying to lead a cat into a bath. Just for shits and giggles, I glanced through the app’s roster of guys…and then felt something below my stomach clench with desire. They were gorgeous model-types, every one of them, and just looking at their photos made me feel all sweaty and nervous. And truthfully, this wasn’t the first time I’d thought about younger men. My sex drive certainly hadn’t decreased with age – actually, it felt like the opposite was happening – and sometimes I fantasized about finding someone who could keep up with my newfound energy. I can’t say I didn’t take the long route to Whole Foods sometimes just to pass the campus of Georgetown and take a glance or two at the students on the sidewalk, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t stopped to admire their strapping shoulders and muscled forearms. Occasionally I’d even imagined one of them bursting through my door, tossing aside their backpack, and treating me like they treated one of those slutty cheerleaders they usually hooked up with…
    Oh, God. The reaction that flooded through me reminded me I was being totally crazy, once again. I mean, paying a random twenty-something guy for sex ? That was more preposterous than some crackpot plot out of one of my novels. I needed to leave this stuff to my characters and stay in the real world. What was I even thinking?
    A few minutes into my book, my phone lit up with my husband’s name and photo, making a strange and pathetic relief flood through me. Even if I hated Richard, those dark eyes and that greying hair and that scar on his cleft chin from that bar fight in the ‘80s were still wonderfully familiar to me, and in some sick sense he made me feel like I was still the same person I was before we’d fallen into this mess; like the girl who lived instead of the walking dead. Forgetting that he didn’t have one, I decided maybe Richard had had a change of heart and picked up the phone with a smile, hating myself for that smile all the while.
    Come on, Richard, I thought to myself. Come on. Prove me wrong. Just this one time, you gorgeous little fucker.
    “Richard!” I answered, disgusting myself with my eagerness. “Hey! You’re coming to Le Brasserie after all? I’m so glad, I wasn’t expecting you so-”
    Richard spoke gruffly to someone in the background, cutting me off. His voice was small and far-off, like headlights across a median on a darkened highway.
    “That’s right, Sam,” he grunted, completely unaware that his own wife was listening. “You’re Daddy’s little slut. My