Sitting at another luxury hotel bar alone. Tom was supposed to be here in Paris with me - another 'urgent writing deadline' apparently means more to him than our anniversary. The champagne tastes like disappointment.

I can feel men staring at my tits in this dress. Let them look. At least someone appreciates what they're seeing. The way that bartender keeps glancing at my cleavage makes me wonder what he'd do if I invited him up to my suite. How his rough hands would feel on my thighs, pushing my dress up as he fucked me against the window overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

Sometimes I think about what would happen if I just let go completely. Let some stranger bend me over this marble counter and take me from behind while other guests watch. Maybe that's what I need - to be someone's secret fantasy for one night.

The worst part? I'd probably still be thinking about how my husband should be the one making me scream.