Free Having Fun with Mr. Wrong by Celia T. Franklin Page A

you got it. Cheer up, will ya? We have so much to be grateful for.” Timmy needed to ease up and live a little. They’d both made their sacrifices for the sake of a common goal.
    ****
    Later in bed, Timothy reached for Margo. It’d been so long since he made love to her. They barely saw each other, let alone found a moment for passion. Maybe a little sex would fix things. He was rock hard with need and began kissing her neck and rubbing himself against her.
    She pulled away and wrapped the blanket tightly around her. “Stop, Timmy. I’m tired. I have to work early in the morning. There’s an important meeting I have to be sharp for.”
    He was horny. Really horny. Maybe it was from the wine. It made him amorous. But not her. She usually got tired after consuming the red. He pushed his erection against her backside while kissing the back of her neck. “Come on, Margo. It’s been over a month since we—”
    She pulled away again. “Timmy, stop. I’m tired. Wait until Saturday.”
    She’d been promising Saturday now for more Saturdays than he cared to remember.
    To hell with it. He hopped out of bed and jumped in the shower. He needed to shake off his desire. God, he missed the passion he used to have with his wife. Yet his thoughts drifted off to the curvy, doe-eyed, gentle blonde at work. He imagined her lips around his cock.

Chapter Seven
    Carmala finished her yoga class on a Wednesday night and walked the twenty blocks home. It was freezing outside, and she couldn’t shake the chill, despite her layers of clothing. As soon as she entered the hallway to her apartment, the welcome scent of Guido’s Italian cooking greeted her. She let herself in, pulled off her heavy coat, gloves, and scarf and took another deep breath. “It’s so nice to come home to dinner waiting.”
    Guido peered up from her tiny kitchen and smiled. “It will be even nicer once we get the new place.”
    She didn’t mind the casual way he mentioned “we” when referring to her new apartment. If things continued to go this well with Guido, she might ask him to move in with her. “First we need to find it.”
    “Did you make the appointment with the Realtor?”
    “I did, for Saturday, and was hoping you’d go along with me.”
    “Of course I will.” He stirred the pot of sauce and raised the heat under the pot of water for the pasta.
    “She said she’ll have at least ten places for us to see.”
    “Sounds like a full day.” He pulled out the spaghetti from the box and jutted his head toward the living room. “Go ahead. You get comfortable. The pasta will be ready in about ten minutes.”
    ****
    Guido watched Carmala carry her wine toward the couch. As he whipped up one of his Italian specialties for dinner, he thought about everything he did to please Carmala. It wasn’t easy to impress her; she lived in a world that he didn’t fit into. He did okay as a master electrician. He made great money at Keyes Electric, and his recent raise put him in line for the next level up, which was master foreman. If he got that promotion, he’d likely be assigned to the rebuild of the World Trade Center site, and that had been a dream of his for a long time.
    But even that promotion was a far cry from the salaries and prestige of the Wall Streeters Carmala associated with. And he had no aspirations of being one of them. He was happy with what he did. Really, he was. As long as his knees held up. He was still in his twenties, so he had a lot of juice left.
    Yet, you just never knew. The other day—he dared not tell Carmala—he hurt himself doing dead lifts at the gym. During his lunch break, he’d often get an extra workout with heavy weights at the men’s gym. He wanted to keep a superior physique. It was his only advantage over the stuffed shirts who surrounded Carmala on a daily basis. Anyway, he’d staked too much weight and strained his knees. The cortisone shot the doc gave him yesterday barely cut the pain. He’d live through it.