Was on the fence about posting this at all but figured haters gonna hate no matter what so... big thanks to the amazing, supportive ladies on FB who cheered me on to post. And so sorry if this story disappoints you.

I wrote this when I was in the early stages of "The Way I Wanted" and wasn't sure exactly which direction I wanted to go with that one, so you'll notice some similar… themes LOL This story is in no way similar to TWIW though, except the kink (and even that's ultimately diff, too)

If you're looking for perfect characters and a slooow burn, this is not the story for you! And if you want more, please let me know! Or if it needs to stay frozen as a one-shot that's okay too I guess lol

Additional thanks to Paige, Jennifer, Tandee, May, and Bee for their thoughts and hand-holding!

chapter one
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Sitting at the bar, waiting for my date, I people-watch while sipping my wine.

I spot a couple near the end of the bar who look like they're in the middle of an argument.

I watch another on the other end who aren't talking but seem at ease in each other's presence.

I focus on the bartender and how he flirts with the lone woman a few seats over. I can't hear what they say, but he's smiling, and she's laughing. It's cute.

Honestly, I could do this all night. Bars and airports are the best places to people-watch.

My cell phone buzzes on the bar. It's a text from Michael, my date, saying he's running late and will be here in the next twenty minutes.

I almost reply with don't bother, but decide fuck it. My hair and makeup are done, and I'm in my good skinny jeans and a nice, semi-revealing top. I can endure some stilted, forced conversation, drink my weight in wine, and call it a night.

While I wait, I text with my friend Kate, scroll through Instagram, and read the recent comments on the latest yoga practice I posted on my YouTube channel last night.
I'm replying to someone in the comment thread when a man in a dark suit sits beside me without ensuring the stool is free.

"Sorry, that seat's taken," I tell him.

He glances over at me. He's strikingly handsome, with stubble shadowing his sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. His emerald eyes hold a particular amusement behind them, and I suddenly have the feeling that he isn't going to move. Not quickly, at least. And for some reason, I like that. I'm pretty sure it's because he's attractive.

"No one's sitting here," he points out.

"I'm saving it for someone."

"Ah." He has a half-empty tumbler with amber liquid in his hand, and I have to wonder where he came from and where he was sitting before. "Mind if I keep it warm until they show up?"

I don't see the harm in that, so I say, "Sure."

I want to keep staring because he's so good-looking, but I pull my gaze away. We're sitting close, so it'd be weird, rude, and downright obvious to stare. Instead, I dart my eyes toward the large mirror above the bar to admire him. It's safer this way.

A minute passes.

Nearby laughter, idle chatter, and soft, overhead music fill the silence.

I still watch him in the mirror as he types on his phone. In the reflection, I see him look over at me.

I sip my wine and casually look to my left, opposite where he is.

"Are you waiting on a date?" the man asks.

I glance over at him now. "Yes."

His eyes blatantly rake over me. "First?"

"Third."

"Ah. The third date," he muses. "Do you like him? Or her, I guess. I don't want to assume."

I smile a little. "I like him enough to have a third date."

But honestly, not that much. This date was something to do, a reason to get out of the house. If Michael hadn't asked, I wouldn't have reached out.

"Where'd you meet him?"

I give him a strange look. "Why?"

"I'm just making small talk."

I regard him. He seems eager, but not in a pushy way or even an outright blatant way that lets me know he's hitting on me. I'm not sure what he's doing, but I like how he licks his lips after he drinks from his glass, and I enjoy having his eyes on my face. So, I entertain the so-called small talk.

"We met online."

"Tinder?" he asks.

"No, Farmers Only," I quip, and he produces the deepest, sexiest laugh. I fight a smile. "Yes, Tinder."

"Is the sex good?" he boldly asks.

I should be shocked this stranger is asking about my sex life, and yet I'm not. There's something calm and reassuring about him. He doesn't seem like a creep. He appears interested and confident, which is a massive turn-on for me.

I don't answer his question right away because the sex with Michael is nonexistent.

He hasn't even tried for a kiss yet. I would have been down to sleep with him on the first night, especially since I'm only looking for something casual, a means to an orgasm that isn't orchestrated by my hand or my vibrator. But the connection isn't there with him, so I doubt it would have been good sex anyway.

This stranger doesn't need to know all of that, though.

"The best sex I've ever had," I lie.

"Wow," the man says, rubbing his stubbled jaw. "Good for you."

"It's great for me," I say, spinning my glass by the base.

The stranger leans in and whispers, "I think you're lying."

I narrow my eyes. "I'm not."

He shifts back into his own space. "Okay."

"Okay."

We're quiet. Something about him antagonizes me, but not in a frustrating way. It's almost in an addictive way that makes me think he'd be fun to debate with.

I stare at the mirror above the bar again. After a beat, his gaze seeks mine out, and he finds my eyes in the reflection, looking right at me.

"When was the last time you had great sex?" he wonders, his voice low.

I take a second to collect myself, then angle myself on the stool to face him fully.

"What is this?" I straight-up ask. "Are you hitting on me? You know I'm waiting for a date, so what gives?"

He turns to face me, too. "I'm conversing with a beautiful woman and intend to give up this stool when her date arrives. That's all."

He sounds truthful.

"You make it a habit of talking to random women about their sex lives?" I push.

"The ones whose sex lives I want to know about, yes."

Again, honesty.

Warm from wine, I decide to be honest, too.

"The last time I had great sex was…" I have to think about it. "Last year."

He whistles. "I'm sorry."

"Why? It was great sex."

"But a year ago?"

"We can't all be ambitious and try for great sex every time," I say. "That's exhausting."

He licks his lips. "No, it's not. It's easy. And satisfying."

"When was the last time you had great sex?" I ask.

His face stays neutral as he says, "Last week."

I laugh uncomfortably. "Good for you."

"It's great for me," he echoes my words from a minute ago.

I give him a stern look. "So, why aren't you off having your mind-blowing sex? Why are you here?"

"Because I'm talking to you," he says seriously. "I was sitting over there," he adds, pointing behind me with his glass, "and saw you. And I was intrigued."

I crane my neck to look at where he's pointing and see an empty table.

I'm not buying it. "Intrigued? Why?"

"Because you're sexy. Why else?"

My heart starts beating faster. It's been a long time since a man has been this forward and charming with me, but they've never been this good-looking. It makes my brain fizzle out for a second.

I wish I had told Michael not to bother because this conversation with this man isn't stilted or forced, and I don't want it to end.

"There are a lot of sexy women in here," I tell him as if he hasn't noticed.

"I haven't noticed."

Oh.

"There." I nod further down the bar to a busty female, then point past his shoulder toward one who is more classically beautiful. "And there."

He never once looks away from my face. "Well, I only noticed you. So."

My stomach flips.

I drain my wine glass and order another pinot when the bartender arrives. The man next to me orders another scotch, too.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Edward Cullen. You?"

"Bella Swan."

"Bella," he repeats. "Bella, with the sexy body and mediocre sex."

"Edward, with the…" I try to think of something witty to say. "Bold questions and the… wife?" I'm unsure how I didn't notice before, but I suddenly spot a gold band on his left hand. "You're married?"

His face flashes with a brief second of remorse. "I am."

"And you're hitting on me," I say, flat and irritated.

"I just wanted to get to know you," he says.

"You called me sexy and beautiful and asked about my sex life."

"Because you are, and I wanted to know."

"So the sex you had last week was with your wife," I accuse.

"Actually… no."

I'm beside myself with surprise and disgust. "Seriously, you should go."

He holds my gaze. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable."

"You're not. I need you to go away." He had me feeling more intrigued in ten minutes than Michael has in three dates, and he's married. Life is genuinely un-fucking-fair. "I doubt your wife would be happy to hear what you're doing right now."

"She actually would be happy," he murmurs.

I look at him. "No fucking way."

He cracks a smile. "Listen. Bella." He leans closer. I stay put, not backing away, even though I should. "If I went home and told my wife I gave a stranger the best sex of her fucking life, she wouldn't just be happy; she'd get off on it."

I swallow hard. Not because of what he admitted about his wife, but thinking about him giving me the best sex of my life makes me grow warm.

"That's insane," I whisper.

"Yeah, well. That's what she likes. And I aim to please, so."

I don't even know what to fucking think right now. It honestly sounds fabricated. It sounds like a lie he tells women so he can have his cake and eat it, too. But if that were the case, why not remove his ring and not mention his wife at all?

"Honest truth?" I ask, not even sure why I'm still sitting here.

"Honest truth," he echoes.

"Why does she let you do that?"

He shrugs. "That's a bit personal, isn't it?"

I scoff and laugh. "And you asking about my sex life isn't?"

"Well, you didn't have to answer me," he points out.

He's right. But there was something about him that made me want to open up. And now I'm closed off.

"That's not normal," I tell him.

He laughs softly. "Are you judging us?"

"Yes."

"What is normal anyway? Who is normal?"

"I mean… I am?"

A softer smile this time. "Yeah, maybe you are. You're also one of the most beautiful women I've seen in a long time, and something inside of you is clearly interested in what I'm saying; otherwise, you would've slapped me and walked away by now."

He's right again. I'm intrigued not necessarily by him but by his situation. So, I continue having the most bizarre and honest conversation I've ever had with a stranger.

"Okay, so tell me about this lifestyle. She lets you fuck other women?"

"Yes."

"It doesn't make her mad?"

"Maybe it does, but it turns her on more than it makes her mad."

"Does she fuck other men?"

"No."

"But she could if she wanted to?"

"I guess, but that wouldn't have the same effect on me as it does on her when I sleep with other women."

"Hm. So, you pick up random women?"

"Essentially," he hums.

"Where do you find them? In person or online?"

"I find women on Farmers Only," he jokes, then says, "I prefer meeting women in person. I don't waste a lot of time online. You can't get a good feel for someone while messaging. But in person, you can see them. Hear them. Feel them. You can tell if there's an instant connection."

His eyes never leave my face the entire time he speaks, and I get the strangest feeling he's talking about us.

But that would be ridiculous.

"And does that happen often? An instant connection?"

"No," he immediately says. "Well… rarely."

I look away and drink my wine, ignoring the rare pull I feel toward him.

"Do you tell them you're married?" I wonder.

"Yes."

"And they still go for it?" I balk.

"Not always."

"So, then… then what?" I ask, more intrigued than I realized before.

"We have safe sex. I go home. Tell my wife. And she gets off on it," he says, like it's simple and ordinary.

"Wow. You must be the luckiest bastard in the world," I muse.

He smirks. "It has its perks."

"What's the downside?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He thinks seriously for a moment. "My wife can't get off unless I fuck another woman."

The brutal honesty slips from his lips, and I don't even think he meant to say it. After the words come out, he looks guilty for confessing that and shakes his head. I suddenly feel bad for him, which is crazy. I feel bad for the man who gets to sleep with whoever he wants?

It's a total mindfuck. But for that split second, I felt something radiating off of him, and it wasn't the charm he's been oozing over the last twenty minutes. It was darker. Sadder. Broken.

"The perks outweigh the cons," he clarifies, smoothing over his vulnerable moment.

"Perks like fucking other women?"

"Perks like fucking you."

I laugh and feel stupidly flattered. "That's not happening."

"Why not? You're not interested?"

I ignore his last question. "Because you don't just… no. People don't do this. This is crazy."

"People do it all the time. Pick up strangers in bars. Have sex. Go their separate ways."

"You're married."

"And you're mostly single, right?" he reminds me, and I can feel his determination. "We could leave right now. Go back to your place. Your date is late anyway, and I'm sure you already know it's going nowhere with him."

He wants to fuck me.

A weird, sick part of me wants him to. The way he's laying it out like this is intriguing. I haven't been this invigorated in a long time. I haven't engaged in verbal foreplay in forever.

So, I consider it. My lower stomach burns with heated arousal thinking about Edward between my legs and giving me the supposed best sex of my life.

"No, thanks," I say instead, dampening my desire for him.

"I don't know, Bella Swan," he muses, his gaze more intense than before. "I think you're going to walk out of here tonight with me on your mind."

My pulse is out of control, and so is the tingle between my legs. "You don't even know me."

"Wishful thinking, maybe. I know myself well enough to know that you will be on my mind, and I won't stop thinking about you until I know what it feels like to be inside you."

It's fucking bold. And sexy. I've never been more turned on and annoyed and confused in my entire life.

I glance around to make sure no one is listening to our conversation. Thankfully, everyone seems to be distracted.

"Bella?" Michael's voice sounds behind me, and I nearly fall off my bar stool.

"Michael." I clear my throat because my voice sounds husky. "Hi."

He doesn't look shocked or pissed, so he didn't hear what Edward said to me. Instead, he kisses my cheek and smiles. I can feel Edward's eyes on me.

"Sorry again for being late," Michael says politely.

"It's okay. Um. Yeah."

I'm flustered and hope my cheeks aren't burning as much as they feel like they are. My eyes flick up to the mirror above the bar, and my cheeks are two red orbs. Cute.

Michael glances at the lack of seating.

"There's a table over there," I say, pointing toward the one Edward gave up to sit by me. "I need to close out my tab, and then I'll join you?"

Michael smiles. "Sounds good. I'm going to run to the bathroom."

He walks away, and Edward and I are alone again.

I'm too nervous to fill the silence, though.

Edward downs his scotch and pulls out his wallet to throw some bills on the bar. Before he slips his wallet back into his slacks, he hands me his business card.

"Your drinks are on me. Enjoy your mediocre sex, and think about my offer," he murmurs, and then he's gone.