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Isabel sprawled out on her living room couch and closed her eyes, reveling in the silence. Derek had rushed to work two hours ago for a conference call after having come home past midnight from "another long day at the office." He'd brushed Isabel off when she'd tried-- for the twenty-second time in the last two months-- to get physical with him, complaining of exhaustion. She was pretty fatigued at the end of the day too, but even she had energy to fuck her spouse every now and then, she'd pointed out. But he'd already fallen asleep.
All the signs were there, and she'd concluded that Derek was cheating on her and leading an alternate life in which he had no wife or responsibilities. He no longer saw Isabel as the fun-loving, kinky woman he used to ravish for hours on end-- that was, before they got married. Six months after they got married, she realized he almost seemed to resent her for making him settle down. After two more years and two sexless months, Isabel discovered she resented him just as senselessly, and it was time to get out.
Why had they rushed into marriage? she asked herself countless times, lying awake at night, unfulfilled. Why had she gotten married at all? It had ruined everything for them. The claustrophobic feel of the wedding band on her finger suffocated her. It was hard too, knowing he must feel the same way. Why would two commitment phobes marry? One of the reasons they'd been attracted to each other in the first place was because they'd shared the opinion that people were animals and not intended for monogamy.
Isabel rose from the couch to brew some coffee, marveling that she wasn't more upset at Derek. Perhaps she'd known all along that one of them would cheat. Neither of them had ever been particularly good at keeping their hands to themselves. She knew that it was time to end things. She could blame him for his transgressions, but she understood. She knew that sooner or later, she would have slipped up.
She had the entire day and night to herself, as per usual, since she did her writing at home and had a workaholic soon-to-be ex-husband. Her publisher was shipping over the final draft of her manuscript to rework before sending it off to print. He'd called her in a panic last night because they had to cut a month from the production cycle of the book. "I'm shipping it priority," he'd told her in a rushed tone. "I need it back in two days, MAX!"
"Yeah, yeah," she'd replied. In truth she was sick of staring at the manuscript, but it was almost over, and then she'd be able to work on her next novel. Whatever that was going to be about...
Isabel meandered into her considerable living room and lay down on the carpeted floor on her back, stretching out, breathing deeply, preparing to do her morning yoga routine. The hour she spent every day kept her limber and energetic, helped calm her down, and kept her voluptuous figure curvy but beautifully toned. Her naturally darker skin (acquired from her mother Ana's Spanish heritage) had a healthy glow to it, and was remarkably taut and wrinkle-free, even at thirty-five.
She'd just finished stretching her legs when the doorbell rang. Isabel rose slowly and walked barefoot down the hall, into the foyer. She peeked through the peephole and saw the usual delivery truck, and a dark-haired man wearing a navy uniform whose back was to her. He definitely wasn't her regular delivery guy, Carl, a heavyset and balding man who never smiled. Isabel unlocked and pulled open the front door, then realized she'd forgotten to put her silk robe on over her white cotton tank top and matching pants.
The delivery man turned around and Isabel's eyes went wide. He wasn't a delivery man at all. He was a boy, probably no more than eighteen, nineteen years old, tops. And he was possibly one of the most gorgeous male specimens Isabel had ever encountered. His face was youthful, but his body was well developed, all masculine. His broad shoulders were visible beneath his uniform, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, too tight on his biceps.
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