I can do this. I can totally do this. This is who I am now. Bold. Confident. Sexy. Slut-bag.

They waited in a queue for a cab. Pawing and kissing each other. An old woman tutted at them and Tal blew her a kiss. Misch laughed and worked on giving him a hickey. Then it was finally their turn and they tumbled into the backseat of a taxi. Tal gave the name of her hotel, and they took off.

“How do you know where I -,” she began to ask, but then his fingers were pinching her lips closed.

“No talking. Remember what I said? There's a good girl.”

Sex in a bathroom, check. Blowjob in a taxi, check. I'm crossing all kinds of personal boundaries tonight.

~Why Am I Here~

Tal was in Italy for work. Work was slow, though, and Rome was beautiful in the summer, so it was kind of like a vacation.

But he still had to work.

Mischa Rapaport was a distraction. A beautiful distraction, who had an uncanny gift for making it impossible for him to think of anything but sex. Hence the little snafu at the restaurant the night before; he'd been there for work, Mrs. Rapaport had simply gotten in the way. When he'd realized she was there, he'd figured talking to her wouldn't hurt anything. In fact, it might lead to something else, he'd just have to finesse it a little.

Thumbing her almost to an orgasm at the table, not exactly finesse. Fucking her in a bathroom stall, while awesome beyond all words, definitely not finesse.

Of course, no one had ever accused Tal of having finesse, anyway.

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It's probably overrated.

Tal stood next to the bed, looking down at Mischa. She was sleeping on her back, one arm raised above her head, her other hand resting on her stomach. She had put on a long t-shirt before falling asleep – he found her modesty adorable. He'd licked just about every inch of her skin, and yet she still tried to hide pieces of herself.

He found a lot of things about her adorable. She was supposed to be a one-night-stand, a fling, a moment in time. He wasn't sure when he'd decided it should become more, but all of a sudden, bam. It was. The moment he saw her in that restaurant. The moment she went into that bathroom stall with him. The moment she got in that taxi with him.

Something about this woman. She makes me want more. All of her. All the time.

He wanted to wake her up, pick back up where they'd left off, but he decided against it. He slowly moved away from the bed, made his way over to her luggage. She'd hung up a bunch of clothes in the closet, shoved some things into the dresser, but he could see that there was still stuff in her bags. He sat at the foot of the bed and pulled the luggage tray close, pushing the top of her suitcase open.

It didn't take much digging to realize it was her makeshift hamper. He dug in the side pockets, found some jewelry. Some hidden money. He left it all alone, flipped the lid closed. Then he rummaged through the large pockets on the front. Found a tour guide for Rome, some brochures for her insurance company. He finally found what he was looking for in the smaller pocket, shoved way down to the very bottom.

It was a small frame, maybe five-by-seven inches. Mischa was younger in the picture, though not by too much, and very tan. She smiled widely at the camera, one hand holding the fedora she was wearing down on her head. She looked good – Tal was willing to bet she'd always looked good – but she wasn't what he was interested in.

No, it was the man standing next to her, the man she had her arm around. Michael looked to be around five-foot-nine, or ten. Not a whole lot taller than Misch. He had sandy colored hair, almost with a hint of red in it. Or maybe it was just in contrast to his face, the man had a ruddy complexion. Along with his dark blue eyes, his appearance was overwhelmingly … normal. If Misch was an exotic locale like Bali or Indonesia, then Michael was Akron, Ohio. Bor-ing.

And more so than that, it was apparent to Tal that whenever the picture had been taken, they were already struggling as a couple. Maybe they hadn't known it, but he could tell. He was a very observant person, his job required it. The way their arms were around each others shoulders, not their waists. The way there was a space between them, big enough for a balloon to fit. The way they were smiling, so broad, more like a grin, no hint of mischief. They both were wearing tank tops, both non-sexy. It all spoke leagues to Tal.

Why on earth did you marry this man, Misch?

Not that he cared, it was none of his business. He just wanted to know what made her tick. What made an exotic, sexy dancer settle down with some boring, country tax accountant. Or whatever white-bread did for a living.

What made a woman settle down with a man who couldn't please her in bed?

And why do I care? Why am I even here? What is this woman doing to me?

Being there was wrong. He knew it was wrong. It wasn't allowed. Sleeping with her the first time had been a challenge. Breaking the rules and seducing a married woman? Yes, please – Tal loved trouble. And when he'd seen her in that restaurant, just a chance to push the boundary even further. See how close to the edge he could take both of them.

The only problem with edges, though, was either a person had to step back or step off.

He was no longer sure which step he was going to take.

And that meant trouble for everybody. Trouble Mrs. Rapaport didn't need, nor deserve, simply because Tal had been stupid enough to forget his place in the world. Stupid enough to grow a crush on a married woman who was off limits.

“What are you doing?” Misch's voice was sleepy behind him. He faked a yawn and dropped the frame to the floor, scooting it under the bed with his foot.




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