Free Playing It Safe by Barbie Bohrman

wondering how I didn’t know this and feeling antsy about it. Actually, I’m not sure exactly how I feel about Alex in general now that I know he’s so close to me. Because I can see it now—in a moment of weakness I’ll be at his door, wearing a trench coat (because everyone in Miami has one for no reason at all, but it goes with the fantasy) and nothing underneath except for thigh highs and black stilettos. He’d open the door, and I’d waltz right in with such confidence it would make him confused at first. No words would be exchanged. I would simply command him with a quick snap of my fingers to sit on the couch. Then I’d turn on the music. “Straight On” by Heart would flood our senses as a small smile played on his lips when it dawned on him what was about to happen. I’d perform my best teasing stripper dance for him while he tried to grab a hold of me. But I wouldn’t let him. Not until I ended up on his lap, straddling him, would I allow him to yank the belt of the trench coat open and watch as his eyes feasted on my naked body, splayed open for him like a present on Christmas morning. At that point, I’d be so turned on by his heated gaze that I’d hand the reins over to him by leaning over and whispering in his ear, “I want you to do everything to me … please.” Yeah, I’d add the please bit at the end with a little whimper for effect just to see how he’d react. He’d take the bait, of course, and he’d do everything to me, acts that might even be illegal in some states, and I’d love every single second of it.
    I’m still humming the chorus of “Straight On” in my head when I pull into Alex’s driveway a few moments later and stop in mid-hum as soon as I get a good look at his house. Holy crap! It’s freaking huge! I do a double take at the GPS on my dashboard and confirm I’m in the right place before turning off the engine and stepping out of the car.
    It’s a Spanish-style-meets-contemporary-revival one-story home that sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of Miami. Like a little getaway vacation home that you would only see in magazines, but not little at all. The exterior looks to be freshly painted in warm beige with accents in light cream and clay-tiled shingles. The solid wood monastery-looking front door is nestled within a large archway, reminiscent of the Spanish-style architecture that is unique to this area.
    I approach the front door with trepidation, feeling incredibly underdressed in my worn, hip-hugging jeans and fitted red cardigan, which I paired with a white tank top underneath. I’m wearing black ballet flats and the barest of accessories in the form of plain silver hoop earrings. I’ve decided to wear my hair down today, after much deliberation, in its natural pin-straight state. Why I decided to wear it down I have no clue, since I’m already pushing it off one shoulder so that it doesn’t stick to the back of my neck.
    Standing directly in front of his door for a few moments, I take a deep breath and fidget for a bit before raising my hand and giving it a couple of quick raps. While I wait, I can’t take it anymore; I fix my wedgie from the anti-sex granny panties I forced myself to wear, just in case I decide to lose all sense of decorum and think about giving in to the carnal urges when I’m around him.
    The door unlocks and opens slowly to reveal a little girl, no more than ten, if I had to guess. She has long, curly blond hair with big blue eyes and bears a striking resemblance to Alex. What the hell? He has a kid? How did I not know this? It’s not a huge deal because I’ve dated men who’ve had kids in the past. Granted, it never gets far enough to actually meet the kids because they’re idiots—the dads, not the kids. What the fuck am I saying? I’m not dating Alex, so why should I care if he has a kid or not? It shouldn’t bother me, right? Please, someone tell me I’m not crazy for feeling like I’ve