2. Divorced Women Are The Best Lays
DIVORCED WOMEN ARE THE BEST LAYS
I was in the office when Troy said he needed to leave early for a family emergency. It’s Saturday night, and we were already short staffed, so I filled in at the bar. It’s not an uncommon place for me to wind up. Ben and I fill in wherever we’re needed for any of our businesses.
A boat captain out sick? We’ll drive the boat.
Chef called out? We’re tossing on an apron.
Our plan a few years back was to open a club, but then this space became available and it had everything we wanted. A place to dock our party boats, the perfect bay side views, and additional space that was nearly done that would play live music and feel like a club.
It was never our plan to set permanent roots in Tampa Bay, but we’re both glad we did. With Lincoln and Penny popping out kids and our parents getting older, it made sense to stay close and accept that what we want in life can shift.
We still have our fun, more than our fair share, but we’ve become legitimate business owners and though we don’t talk about it much, I know we are proud of what we’ve accomplished.
It’s weird, understanding our older brothers more and more with each year that passes by. I get why our oldest brother Aiden is so proud to have his own business, and why our middle brother feels accomplished taking over our father’s business.
Ben and I expanded this small little empire to what it is now. Granted, we couldn’t have done this without the first boat our father gifted us, or the lack of pressure from our parents because our older brothers were so grossly motivated.
But looking at what we built, the responsibility we have, I don’t hate it.
Our clientele for Carlson’s Bar and Marina were typically more refined, accomplished with money, and that’s how we liked it.
It’s also how we can charge eighteen dollars a cocktail and nobody bats an eye.
The party boat business fits more into a younger crowd and it’s an accomplishment hitting both markets.
It’s a typical night at Carlson’s; we have a guy in the corner on guitar singing covers and a mix of older men in boat shoes and women in cocktail dresses and high heels filling the warmly lit space.
Women are my favorite customers. They tip well, and even though I pass those along to the staff, it always gives me an ego boost.
Tonight’s no different. No, tonight is even better.
I’d spotted the trio as soon as I took over for Troy. He let me know what they were drinking, along with his other customers’ orders, before he hightailed it out of the bar with a somber expression on his face.
I could tell from across the bar that they were professional women, well off, put together.
But there was something about the dark-haired woman with the bright blue eyes that itched my curiosity. While her two friends spoke animatedly and with wide smiles, she seemed to be staring at the bottom of her martini glass, looking for answers.
It wasn’t that it was a unique experience. Lots of people came here and used alcohol or a crowd as a vice for whatever they were going through. Yet, something about her intrigued me.
Maybe she was the type of beautiful that forced you to pay attention.
It was effortless, like she was a genetic anomaly.
Thick dark hair framed her face and was beginning to curl with the night’s humidity, whipping off the bay.
Her lashes and brows were dark, framing crystalline blue eyes.
Her skin in high contrast, she must wear SPF 100 everywhere she goes to stay unblemished.
Her clothes gave the indication she was a professional, somewhere with a dress code. Maybe it was the thing that had her wound up so tight.
But something told me she wanted to untie that pretty white bow around her collar and let loose.
I wasn’t sure what it was about her, but it was there.
Maybe it had been too long since I’d been to Avalon—a sex club I was adamant on never joining, yet now held a monthly membership—or maybe it was the fact I’d been so busy I hadn’t fucked anyone in a while.
But she had my attention, and I unreasonably wanted to attract hers as well. I walk up to their party, while she’s staring down an empty glass.
“Another?” I ask, her bright blue eyes glancing up at me analytically, though a word doesn’t slip from her lips.
“We’d all like another. We’re celebrating,” her bubbly blonde friend says.
“Oh? What are we celebrating tonight?” I’m genuinely curious, it isn’t some ploy that bartenders often use to get heavy tips and repeat customers. I want to know what was going on in her pretty little head.
“Our friend Kate here is finally divorced,” the brunette friend said, and I glance down at Kate, who still hasn’t responded while I made the women their drinks.
Divorce is usually such a dirty word, but I’ve been in the divorce party business long enough that I know that isn’t what people wanted to hear. “Well, you’ll have to let me know his name, so if he ever comes in, I can give him a free drink for the misfortune of losing you.”
Kate looks up at me like she’s overthinking something, unconsciously licking the vodka off her plush bottom lip. Instead of lingering, I nod, and help the next patrons at the bar.
I overhear Kate and her friends talking about my looks, and it takes everything in me to hold back the smug smile off my face. I know how I look. Ben and I have no issues getting women. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever get sick of hearing it though.
My plan was to buy their next round, maybe flirt with Kate more and see if she’d actually speak to me, when fate intervened and the sweet divorcée broke a martini glass on the bar top.
She goes to pick up the glass in an embarrassed hurry as I grab her wrist. I shouldn’t think about the fact that my thumb could leave a perfect bruise on the body part, but I do. I grab a clean rag and hand it to her.
It doesn’t look bad, but I’m an opportunistic asshole and divorcées are my favorite flavor.
“I’ve got a first aid kit in the office. Leo, can you get this cleaned up?” I ask the bar back as I round the bar and come to stand before the three women.
Kate is tiny, probably five foot four in heels, as I grab her by the elbow.
“Follow me.” I direct her up the stairs and to my office and flick on the light. I can feel her gaze boring into my back the whole way and realize she still hasn’t spoken a single word to me, but followed me anyway.
I head over to the cabinet on the left, grabbing the first aid kit, before tapping the long desk that faces the water and houses two chairs, one for me and one for my twin brother, Benjamin.
Too short, I grab her waist and help her up onto the table, making her clear her throat, but she doesn’t say anything else.
“You know, I don’t usually have an issue getting women to talk to me,” I joke, as I pull back the rag and take a look at her hand.
I use the flashlight on my phone to get a better look to see if there’s any glass stuck in her flesh.
It’s hard to see with the blood and I know I’ll have to get her cleaned up first. I open up the first aid kit and hope that she decides to speak to me while I bandage her up.
“I’m sure you don’t, looking like that,” she says. Her voice is raspy and sultry. It’s not what I expected, in a good way.
Her eyes go wide as she says it, but I smile, taking her in. She’s beyond pretty, and I notice a scar that’s clearly old on her neck that fades into her collarbone. I’m intrigued, while at the same time find it charming and unique.
“I mean, you have to know you’re handsome.”
“It never gets old hearing it. As I’m sure you would know,” I reply.
I clean off her wound with alcohol and a cotton swab. She hisses in discomfort, but doesn’t stop me as I make sure her palm is clean and there’s no glass embedded in her skin.
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“A little cliché having a dickhead ex-husband who didn’t appreciate what he had in front of him,” I say as I apply ointment to her skin and wrap her hand up.
She blushes beautifully and I kinda like the fact she must not spend a ton of time in the sun. It helps you see when she’s flushed.
“Do you usually bring recent divorcées into your boss’s office after plying them with cocktails and then charm them into submission?” she says, before looking up at the ceiling. Clearly, the alcohol did remove some of her filter.
I don’t correct her and tell her that this is my office, that I’m the boss, and that no, I haven’t actually brought a woman here.
Usually I fuck women at the sex club I pay for to avoid the need for courting.
But every now and then when the mood strikes and the night feels right, I do sometimes treat myself to an unplanned drunken night of fuckery.
“Actually, divorcées are my favorite,” I say with a grin, her lush lips parting in shock at my words.
“What?” she asks, confusion written in her furrowed brows.
“Divorced women are the best lays,” I say plainly, placing a band-aid over her palm.
“How do you figure?” she asks, like she thought less of herself for ending a relationship that was consummated with the government. Like people don’t break up all the time, no one thinks less of them.
“Well, they’re usually so sexually frustrated it takes very little effort to make them come. Plus, they aren’t looking for anything serious. I don’t do serious, I do casual. Very casual.”
She blinks at me, her dark long lashes shutting over the top of her calculating eyes.
“Casual?” she asks, a woman of very few words.
“Yes. No girlfriends, the occasional hookup, and other arrangements,” I say vaguely, not wanting to spook her.
She licks her lips, glancing down at her bandaged palm. She could leave now, go back to her friends and the night would be over and we’d both go home unsatisfied. Either way, the ball is in her court as to where this evening should go.
Though it doesn’t seem like she grasps the memo. Maybe she needs continued outright bluntness, which I can more than handle.
“Would you like me to take you back downstairs to your friends? Or would you like me to bend you over my boss’s desk and prove to you why I love to fuck divorced women?”
She opens her mouth to say something, and then abruptly shuts it. Her eyes meeting mine head on, no shyness, just analysis.
“Do you have a condom?” she asks.
“I do,” I say, tugging at that sweet pretentious bow wrapped around her neck and tugging. “Are you sure, Kate?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s uh…it’s been a while for me.”
“Do you want me to promise to be gentle? Or do you want me to give you a memorable fuck that you can go back downstairs on wobbly legs and tell your friends about?”
Her throat bobs as my fingers trail along her collarbone, non-avoidant of the aged scar there. Kate’s eyes search mine for a moment, and she doesn’t respond with words.
Instead, she fists my dress shirt, dragging me down and capturing my lips against hers. At first her kiss is messy, unsure, and unpracticed. But as I tangle my hand in her curling hair and direct the kiss, she melts into the touch.
Soft whimpers and pants slipping out of her mouth.
I don’t kiss the women I fuck very often, but as I kiss Kate, I wonder why. I find this enjoyable, erotic, even. Maybe I should change my stance on the act. While enjoyable and hot, I don’t find it attaching me to this woman I just met. It just makes me want to fuck her even more.
We break apart from the kiss, both of us breathing heavily.
“All right sweetheart, take off your dress and turn around,” I order her, and she immediately follows directions.
It has my dick hard as she grabs the hem of her dress, removing the garment completely, showcasing a mismatched set of black panties and a white bra.
I forgot how alluring it can be when a woman wasn’t expecting to get fucked that night.