She didn’t say much to me as I got ready that night, donning the lone suit I’d packed.  Never would I have imagined when I was packing it for this little love nest, that I’d be wearing it to go out with another woman.

I was pretty miserable about that.

I was fully dressed, ten minutes before it was time to go, when I approached her.

She was watching TV in the house’s colossal living room, sitting slouched on the couch, looking bored as she flipped through channels.

I sat beside her, feeling overdressed in my suit, with her in her shorts and crop top.

I gripped her thigh and rubbed, watching her face.

She barely spared me a glance, still cycling through channels.

I set my jaw and moved to kneel in front of her, blocking her view.

She looked at me then, but the look told me nothing.

I leaned down and kissed her soft mouth, gripping her hair with one hand, the other rubbing between her legs, over her shorts, finding her cl*t with my thumb, and stroking circles around it.

She squirmed and kissed me back, but kept her hands to herself.

I slid the hand in her hair down, found a hand, and guided it to me to rub at me over my slacks.

I worked us both into a frenzy before I pulled back, panting.  I glanced down as I pushed my hand inside a leg of her shorts, and finding her wet, shoved two fingers into her.

I stroked in and out, my other hand still guiding hers as it rubbed my straining length, still over my clothes.

She was on the edge when I yanked my fingers out of her, and stopped her hand on me, made it squeeze my tip, then pushed it away.

“Let’s stop this nonsense right now,” I told her firmly, trying to sound reasonable (which I didn’t feel) instead of angry (which I did).  “I don’t want to go.  I want to stay with you, right here, and finish what I just started.  Tell me not to go.”

She met my eyes steadily, and I knew what her response was before she said it.  “No.  I think you should go.  I’ll be here when you get back.”

I slammed the front door when I left and didn’t say goodbye.

I was so pissed that I had to pull over halfway there and get my temper in hand.  I didn’t want Lourdes to know how much I didn’t want to do this.  She didn’t deserve that.

Lourdes was dressed to kill in a little black dress that showed off her toned legs and just a hint of cle**age.  Her hair was parted down the middle, hanging in long, thick curls to her mid-back.  Her makeup was sultry, bringing out her big, dark, mysterious eyes.

She was a knockout, for sure.  If I wasn’t so out of sorts, I was convinced I would have been drooling at the sight of her.

As it was, I had to dig deep to stay engaged, and act like nothing was wrong.

I’d gotten last minute reservations at Joel Robuchon, because Lourdes had told me once that French food was her favorite, and I’d made a note of it at the time, because I’d been working up the nerve to ask her out on a date.  It was supposed to be one of the best, and most expensive, French restaurants in town.

It was certainly impressive at first glance, I noted, as we were shown to our table.  The decor was luxe, but the place was nearly deserted.  I figured that was because, though it was a Friday, the meals ran expensive, and when I say expensive, I mean five hundred dollars a plate, and that was before you added in the alcohol.

I wasn’t worried about it.  Money was literally the least of my problems, at this point.

Lourdes gushed about the place, admitting she’d been wanting to come here, but hadn’t been on a date in ages.

I felt like the worst kind of despicable for that one, but consoled myself with the fact that at least I’d taken her someplace she’d wanted to go, even if I couldn’t force myself to think of this as a real date.

We both decided to go with the sixteen course degustation menu, since that was what the waiter insisted we had to do.

I didn’t care, my mind on staying out as late as possible, just to spite Iris and make her worry.

Lourdes, as much as she was a health nut, enjoyed each course, tasting everything as only a health nut, who rarely ate this extravagantly, could.

None of it was my cup of tea, but I kept silent about that, as I was used to sitting through meals that I knew I wouldn’t necessarily enjoy.  My parents had trained me well for that.

I tried the caviar, didn’t like it, but pretended I did when Lourdes raved about it.

I barely got the Foie Gras down with a neutral expression, though Lourdes said it was the best she’d ever had.

My favorite part of the meal, by far, was the bread cart.  I overloaded on carbs, knowing I’d have to make up for it with the next day’s workout, and not caring, something about eating a bunch of stuff I didn’t like exaggerating my hunger for something I actually enjoyed.

The sixteen tiny courses went by slowly, the full meal taking nearly four hours, and after a time, I did start to enjoy myself.

She was a very nice lady.  Extravagantly beautiful.  Very charming and even funny.

It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t look at it as a real date.

You can’t go out with one woman, while being in love with another, and have it be a fair comparison.

“You didn’t love it,” Lourdes accused teasingly as I opened the passenger door and handed her into my Tesla.

I walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat before I responded.  I sent her an apologetic smile.  “It was very impressive.  I don’t believe I’ve ever been served food with real gold flakes on it before.  That was definitely a highlight.”