"I'm sorry!"

Silence.

"I'm so, so sorry!"

Pruna pulled on Jake's arm with both of her small hands to shake any reaction out of him, but the bit moveable man stared straight across the room, planting himself on the couch. Tears streamed down her face, but she paid them no attention because getting him back was so much more important. She had come home, dropping her sleek envelope clutch at the door and clipped off her black gala high heels. Then she had gone straight to confessing her sin because she needed to heal the rift fast because she knew more than ever that Jake was the man she wanted to spend her life with.

Jake had been absolutely silent - no word, no body language, and no eye contact. His whole being had completely shut down. He simply sat there in his grey sweats, the e-sports fan t-shirt, and his belly that doubled his circumference. He wasn't a special man by external measures. Yet their memories flooded back into her mind. Even something mundane like going for a walk down the street while the fall leaves fell to the floor and clogged up the street drains, it had been their memory. In hindsight, she could feel the warmth and presence of their togetherness. And that's what mattered more than magazine cover good looks. Her vision was clear now.

It had always been difficult with Jake. He wouldn't communicate his feelings. He'd silently get upset. He wouldn't speak up when he didn't like something. He'd simply turn into a sulking mood that affected the air until even cupcakes lost all their allure. He was boorishly simple at times like when a new Xbox game was released. Not even her new black lace lingerie could draw his attention as she had stood in the door frame, caressing her legs and letting herself slide down along the doorframe to a squat. "I'll take a rain check on that fuck," had been all that he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

Maybe, if she told him about how it happened, he could forgive her. She had gone to a donor dinner at one of these fancy private member clubs: wood-paneling along the walls, leather-bound books in shelves reaching the very tall ceilings, and gold-covered lighting at eye-level with no overhead lighting. Her heels had swayed hard on the soft carpet made for generations for only men to trample on. The old-world glamor and spendor had been impressive. She knew that she only had a tiny non-profit salary and a height that barely got her to five feet. Her frame was pretty frail as well. However, people told her that she packed a firecracker punch. With her outgoing, intense energy, she was able to create a psychological presence that took up half of the room. Before they even made it to the dining hall, she had joked with the group. Her voice was bellowing through the entire lobby to make heads turn and wonder who is that exquisitely dressed woman?

The dining hall had been the usual big round tables to accommodate 8-10 people for these quasi-professional meetings to entertain and talk about fancy topics. She had learned early in her career that it was important to appear dressed conservatively yet reveal her assets as best as she could. The black dress was tailored to show off just how tiny her midriff was - almost fragile - appearing in her thirties still very young. Her boobs were covered with broad cloth. Yet the side and top cleavage was revealing in such a way that any onlooker especially from the high vantage point of a tall man got their imagination stimulated where their minds-eye could perceive them entirely naked in their firm apple like shape, standing firmly in place when - as the imagination went - he'd strip the dress off of her in the privacy of a hotel room. All while that seduction happened, she'd joke about government regulation details and policy. She also added in a few sob stories about the people who were helped by the donations. She knew that telling the story like she had just met Nancy a couple of hours ago while adding personal details about Nancy had the most impact.

This one time had been different. Paul had shown up. He wasn't on the HVT (High Value Target) list from her boss. Someone had pulled him along. He had also come pretty late until the soup was half eaten. Not even waiting for his turn, he had taken up the center attention of the group by making loud remarks and comments. By the facial responses of the group, she could tell that they pulled away from him like he was an outsider imposing. However, he didn't seem perturbed. Quite the opposite, he exuded a comfort like he was commonly the centerpiece at social gatherings. Nobody seemed comfortable calling him out. It seemed like everyone had some doubts to who he may be.

And so Paul and she started jousting for the attention of the group. "So anyway!..." she snapped right in when he had to take a breath. She knew that donations depended on her steering the group in the right direction. She couldn't simply sit there passively. Her bonus depended on a good haul from that dinner. She couldn't afford any slippage in her work performance because there were plenty social sciences majors eager to take her job at the non-profit. It was good and popular cause. So when Paul retorted to her heart-touching stories with "Is it really that bad?" and directed the topic elsewhere, it cut her heart. She was getting frustrated and exasperated.

After dessert, a big part of the group bid farewell. People had been friendly, telling her that they'd keep the usual donations up. That was the polite way of saying that they wouldn't cut a check tonight. She felt tired and worn out from being high-energy the whole time. The constant setbacks of steering the conversation back into good waters only to get it pulled back into trivial entertainment topics had worn her down. Paul had suggested to do a sampling of the wine cellar. He had some special pull to open the governor's reserve - a collection that was rumored about around the world, with not even its contents publicly known. That enticed the last dinner guests to stay with excitement. She was going to go down fighting to the bitter end.

After two, three, four, five glasses of win on her ninety-pound body, she was talking whatever came to her mind. The group had gone on to salacious topics. They had done a competition on who has the prettiest tits. When the big-busted blond conceded to Pruna that Pruna's tits were so young, firm, and springy, Pruna almost cried because she had been watching that woman's big busts like the epitome of every man's dream.

They had played marry-fuck-kill with the other diners in the room. She had blatantly yelled out, pointing at a silver-haired and balding man: "'I'd definitely kill him!" And then she pointed at an Asian woman in a red dress: "And I'd fuck her!" Murmurs went around the table when she had proclaimed that she'd be into women. She could see the salacious fantasies roving through their heads because the wine had lowered any inhibition of their poker faces.

A waiter hightailed it to their table with an exasperated face. His arms waved them to settle down: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have to ask you to retire." The table only laughed in his face like he had made the best joke. Somewhere, she knew that she had turned into a rowdy, obnoxious table. They were causing a scene. However, the group vibe felt so comfortable, and she laughed with them at the waiter. Even though, somewhere deep down, she knew that she was burning ever coming back for a donor meeting at this club. The waiter looked around to register each face and commit it to memory. When his glance landed on Paul, he looked shocked.

"I apologize very much. I will reseat the table near you to give you more privacy."

He said that and walked away to usher the table nearby with an offer of a bottle of wine to sit elsewhere.

Around midnight, the dining hall had closed officially an hour ago, their table was still going. The waiter was still standing at attention at a distance to usher them more bottles on request. At this point, Paul's tie was hanging around an empty bottle, whom we had named Nick. Her strappy heels were hanging over the corner of a chair. Her feet with the red nail polish were on the table next to a plate. One of the male donors had bowed to her feet earlier because he had lost a bet. She was tilting her chair back and rocking.

The donors were ravaged with attention for what kind of spectacle she and Paul would pull off next. They were raucous and inhibited as well. Her mind could only perceive the moment. Her instinct told her to keep hogging the attention. There'd be a big payout. She could sense big, fat checks being handed on the way out without even having to ask for it.

Suddenly, it came to her mind: "Hey, Paul! You've never told us whom you'd marry, fuck, and kill!" Paul was middle in the story of telling a ridiculous story of how he was spanking a nun who had tried to give him a parking ticket for his bicycle in the Vatican.

Paul got all sober, serious, and quiet. He stared straight at her. She felt like the music had stopped playing. The silence was strange. The constant jibing had kept her mind focused on the moment. She took in the reality. They were in a big dining hall that was mostly already dim except for their table. There were forks, glasses, and napkins on the floor around them. The waiter looked tired. He looked pained at the mess around us because we had forbidden him from picking anything up.

"I'd fuck you!" he said with pronounced words. She couldn't even hear the words. His eyes were so dead serious and ready for action. She felt like he was a bear before pouncing. She could feel all that masculine intensity that wouldn't be stopped by anything.

He was handsome. He had walked in with a jacket that looked like a private pilot jacket with stripes, but a very aristocratic version of it. He was a hobby pilot. He was rich. He was well-connected. He had excellent wit. He spoke of trips to Europe and exotic locations where he didn't sit on the sidelines but dove right in to experience the places, like sailing a boat through the Greek Islands and entering one of the most dangerous barrios for the Brazilian Carnaval. In every way, she was the best of what she had always wanted from a man.

Every other man, she would have told off. She had gotten plenty of advances. She knew that she was a very attractive woman with certain men, who liked small, ethnic women. However, he was different. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man. And she never had thought that she had a shot at her dream man. The possibility of taking his hand and walking into a totally different life froze her.

Time had moved on, but she was still quiet. She was still looking into those blue eyes. She looked at the muscles and veins on his forearms, revealed by the rolled-up shirt. His body was very well-trained. She imagined what it would be like to caress those muscles. He evidently used lotion. His skin looked so smooth, fresh, and moist. He had such confidence about himself in how he carried himself. She imagined how he was hoisting her whole body up to take her with that confidence and strength.

"You are already painting it out in your imagination. No woman waits so long to say 'no'", he said cocky with that smirk like he had her all figured out.

She laughed - not like a no laugh. She simply laughed because she felt so much tension. Without looking the attentive energy she got from the rest of the table was that they all agreed with him. There she was at a business meeting, where she was supposed to be professional and raise money. Yet the meeting had entirely turned into everyone silently cheering for her to have sex with this stud in front of her.

"I'll show you something," he said, getting up. He took her hand with his own hand held up like they are doing some aristocratic chivalry thing. She hopped to her feet and held her heels with her index finger slung over her shoulder. Barefoot, she walked across the carpet after him, fully knowing the burning attention and curiosity of everyone else searing on her back with the exposed back and tightly squeezed butt cheeks in the dress.

He led her into a side door. They were in a study with a big mahogany desk and a green desk lamp. There were two armchairs in front of the desk. There was a deep leather couch on the other side of the room. This was some kind of study to make deals negotiated over food. The space was full of Old World decorum.

He didn't say anything. He hunched standing over the desk to scribble on a piece of paper. She took in the room. The smell of leather, mahogany, and cigars was thick. She was a guest in this world. Her world was IKEA and a fifth-floor walkup apartment. He had a firm ass as he was leaning forward to make it bulge. He seemed to own everything - not in a legal tender way but in how he treated everything. No endeavor seemed to stand in his way. He simply did and succeeded. It was intoxicating to stand near such a man and feel the possibilities. And this was her big possibility in front of her. Would she take it? Would she be brave enough? Would she shrink away, afraid that she wasn't good enough?

He turned back to her.

"There is a check on that table, made out to your non-profit. It contains the amount that all of your donors would have donated today. After we have sex, I'll give you a choice. I can put my signature on that check. Or, you can tear it up and become my girlfriend."

The confidence in his voice was a turn on. There was a baritone rumble. She was drunk. She simply wanted to give in to his baritone rumble without even considering what it was he was asking her. She knew she was married. She thought of her husband. She thought of the corner store pizza that they got every Friday night. She imagined Paul's dinners in Venice with ocean view and elegant company.