Marissa sat on the edge of the bed because every chair in the room felt too formal. She was thirty-nine, recently divorced, and tired of rooms where everyone pretended desire belonged only to younger people or worse, to people without consequences.
The dress was elegant. The robe over it made the moment look softer than it was. She had invited Paul upstairs to see the view, which was technically true. The city lights were beautiful. They were also not why he followed her.
Paul stopped near the dresser and kept both hands in his pockets. That restraint made Marissa look at him longer. Men who rushed were easy to dismiss. Men who waited made a woman listen to her own pulse.
He said the view was nice. She glanced at the window and said he had not looked at it once. That made him laugh, and the laugh loosened something in the room.
Marissa patted the space beside her, then changed her mind and left her hand still on the blanket. Not an order. Not a promise. A question with fabric under it.
Paul asked if she was sure. She liked him for asking, though part of her wanted to punish the question. Sure was a small word for a decision that had been building through dinner, through the elevator ride, through every careful pause.
She told him she was sure enough to let him sit, and smart enough to make him keep talking after he did.
When he finally crossed the room, he sat with a respectful inch between them. Marissa looked at that inch and smiled. Sometimes the space a man leaves tells a woman more than the space he tries to take.
