Page 71 of Manhattan State of Mind

I sigh, rolling with her assumption. “That’s right.” A blatant lie, but if it makes her leave, so be it.

She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Enjoy your night.”

I guide her toward the exit, ensuring she doesn’t take a tumble, then dry off, grab my things, and head to my penthouse apartment.

As I crack open a beer, the liquid sliding down my throat, my eyes wander to the telescope mockingly sitting in the corner. When’s the last time I actually used that thing—weeks ago, before Lucy left?

With a sigh, I walk over and peer through the lens, adjusting it until I can see across the city to Washington Heights. Is she home or is she out with her friends? The friends she never wanted to introduce me to, because she was too scared or ashamed to admit we were dating. It may have started as sex but it turned into a lot more, and that freaked her out.

When we were together, we’d be right here in this apartment, enjoying each other’s company. I’d be experimenting with a new dish, to show her how far I’ve come with my cooking skills. Taking good care of my body is the primary focus now, my way of rebuilding myself from the inside out.

Coming to appreciate the little things—like swimming and cooking—is what makes me truly happy.

It only took me around forty years to get the memo.

Sinking into the plush sofa, I open my laptop, ready to delve into my plans for the first wellness retreat under the Quinn & Wolfe brand.

There’s an email waiting for me from my lawyer marked “Urgent.” I let out an irritated sigh. I despise seeing that word in my inbox.

I scan the message. It’s an update on the video circulating of me that the tabloid rags are having a heyday with. “Cease and desist sent for invasion of privacy and defamation. They’re backing off,” it reads.

I exhale deeply, feeling the tension release from my shoulders. It’s not just about protecting my reputation with Lucy. I may live an indulgent lifestyle behind closed doors, but I don’t need my nephews knowing the sordid details. They see me as some sort of role model, and for their sake, I need to keep it that way.

I click open the file with the retreat plans.

Can I make this work? The Quinns are right, wellness retreats aren’t in my blood. Not like casinos. But it feels possible now my lawyers have squashed the incriminating footage against me.

If it’s Quinn & Wolfe on the billboard, it has to be top-notch, nothing less. I won’t have our name sullied.

Guests will be whisked in by helicopters, escorted to extravagant villas decked out with personal saunas, massage rooms, and health bars. We’ll have Michelin-star chefs dishing up organic glazed tofu sculptures and wheatgrass shots at our farm-to-table restaurant, grounds teeming with mineral pools, tennis courts, golf courses…

I’m even floating the idea of equine therapy. Apparently spending time with horses promotes emotional growth. If that’s the case, I need a whole stud farm.

My sights are set on a large plot of landbeyond the borders of New York. If Lucy’s dreams and mine could weave into one, she’d be near her mom, close to her friends. A slice of city life, a dose of the countryside—the perfect cocktail. Sure, it’d take me further from Maggie and the kiddos in Arizona, but hey, I’ve got a private jet to make that journey. Besides, how many times did I brush her off in Vegas, too swamped to visit?

Maybe even one day, in the not-too-distant future, Lucy and I would have some babies of our own, cousins for Maggie’s kids.

Like a goddamn tsunami, the memory of her at the comic convention crashes over me. The visual of her body pressed against me in that tight costume floods my mind, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. They’re not just eyes, they’re tranquilizers for my fucking soul, melting away the stress.

It’s the only image I could see through fifty heart-pounding laps of the pool. Her, in that skintight cosmic-blue leotard dotted with glittering stars, thigh-high solar flare boots, and those mesmerizing blue eyes. I might have beaten my own personal record in the pool tonight.

She looked sexy as hell. Even with her face smeared with blue lipstick like some deranged galactic warrior, she was far more alluring than Lisa in her thousand-dollar designer dress.

My cock is throbbing, thinking about the way she rubbed herself against me and kissed me like nothing else mattered in the world.

For five glorious minutes, I forget about our past. I forget about her lost memories. I forget about the chaos of my life, about the chaos of Vegas. For five minutes, she was my only drug.

I know it’s her biggest fantasy. The tall mysterious superhero who takes control of her. I know she’s masturbating thinking of it. Maybe even right now. God, I fucking hope so. Playing with her clit while imagining the big guy in armor dragging her somewhere to peel off that dress.

I want her naked with her little soft pussy wet and begging for me. I want to see her pleasuring herself while she dreams about my big throbbing cock and the way I can fuck her like no man has before.

I want to fuck her in that costume. Again and again. I want to fuck her in every single costume she has. I want to see her on all fours begging me to fuck her as I slap that sexy ass hard.

I pull down my shorts and release my aching cock. What I wouldn’t do to have her sitting on it right now. I can almost feel her tightness around my shaft as I imagine myself thrusting inside her with all my might.

I let out a groan as I fist my cock. I’m so fucking hard for this woman. My thick veins protrude from under the taut skin of my shaft where blood pumps with urgent need.

I want to feel her tight walls convulse around me as I ram my cock into her. I want to hear her throaty moans as I push her to the limits. I want to hear her scream my name over and over.