My Last Love Story Read Online Free PDF

hadn’t been such a great idea…
    “Here, give me those,” Zayaan said, tugging my bag and umbrella out of my hand.
    Unencumbered, I shrugged off my raincoat, and he took it, too, handing my purse back to me before heading to the coat check. After the exchange, we didn’t speak or even look at each other as we waited for Nirvaan.
    Sometimes, it saddened me that it’d come to this between us. This man was my soul mate, and through no fault of his, I couldn’t stand to be near him now. I found no humor in our situation, no matter what Hubbard had quoted.
    “Are you okay?” I asked when my husband rejoined us. “Would you rather go home for dinner? Or somewhere less exotic?”
    Nirvaan shook his head, saying he only had to pee and was fine, so we followed the sleekly dressed half-Asian hostess to the hibachi grill in the middle of the restaurant. The space was packed, every seat taken, every table laden with food and sake. I was glad I’d had the foresight to make a reservation through the restaurant’s mobile app. The hostess took our drink orders once we’d settled in our seats and sauntered off to fulfill them.
    “Pink Shirt and Fake Tits checking you out, chodu ,” said Nirvaan through the corner of his mouth. He had the menu open before him but clearly wasn’t interested in selecting his dinner from the listed offerings, busy as he was with scanning other delights. “Baby, scoot hither.” He conspiratorially leaned close. “Give those two lovely ladies a chance to corrupt our friend here. He deserves a reward for all his hard work today.”
    I followed my husband’s line of vision to the women sitting on the opposite side of the massive grill. In the expanse between us, a quartet of Asian chefs danced about, flaming up masterpieces in the woks on the grills. Pungent garlicky aromas wafted up, making my mouth water and my stomach growl. Through the steam, I saw the women were indeed looking our way. A sideway squint showed Zayaan returning the favor with his signature mystery-man look—hooded eyes, calm but cocky expression, a hint of a leer curling his lips.
    A flame of jealousy ignited in my belly. I wrenched my eyes away and looked down at the menu in my hands.
    I didn’t understand myself at all. I loved my husband. We were happy together. I didn’t want Zayaan anymore—not in any capacity, other than a good friend. I had pushed him away, locked up all memories of him for twelve years. I’d been very successful. But ever since our enforced proximity, it had become impossible to maintain any sort of equanimity.
    I didn’t want those women staring at my guys—both my guys. I wanted to stake my claim on them in front of the whole world.
    I could brand Nirvaan, claim his mouth with lips and tongue, and there would be no mistaking my rights. Then, I could lean into Zayaan and run my hand down the pearly-white buttons on his shirt to his heart. A kiss here, a touch there. I wondered if the women would take my actions as a warning or an invitation.
    Here’s the thing about places like Carmel-by-the-Sea where half of the populace was of an artsy temperament and the other half was mega rich—no one cared about ménage à trois or even ménage à twenty. In such places, kinky was normal.
    Not that the guys and I had ever been kinky outside of our childish fantasies. We weren’t a sexual ménage. Had never been, would never be.
    But our audience didn’t know that, did they?
    I wasn’t drunk, truly. My sake bomb had only just been placed in front of me, so I couldn’t blame my insane cogitations on its consumption—not that I ever blamed alcohol for anything. I preferred to take responsibility for my own thoughts and fancies.
    I didn’t know these women, but I did know how my guys would react if I actually gave in to my wicked desire. Nirvaan would guffaw if I made a spectacle of us. Probably egg me on to add a tabletop belly dance to the action. But Zayaan would bristle like an angry porcupine. He