Dear Bridget,
I’m writing this letter because it’s highly doubtful I’ll ever garner the courage to say this to your face.
So, here goes.
We’re totally wrong for each other. You’re the proper single mum with a good head on your shoulders. I’m just the carefree British doctor passing through town and temporarily living in your converted garage until I head back to England.
But here’s the thing… for some bloody reason, I can’t stop thinking about you in very inappropriate ways.
I want you.
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. 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.
No questions asked.
Think about it.
Or don’t.
Whatever you choose.
It’s doubtful I’ll even end up sliding this letter under your door anyway.
--Simon
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EXCERPT
Dear Bridget, I Want You
Excerpt reveal
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.
Fucking.
Not making
love.
I needed my
head examined.
After two
hours and no sleep in sight, I decided the only way I was going to be able to
get any rest was if I got everything I was feeling off of my chest. Flicking on the light, I carefully set the framed
photo of my beloved Ben on my nightstand and then opened the drawer and dug out
a pen and piece of pretty stationery. I
would write down my thoughts to clear my mind.
I had no intention of actually giving the letter to Simon, so there was
no reason to filter anything I said.
Dear Simon…
★★★★
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