After leaving the bathroom, she heads for a table, and I go toward the oh-so-crowded bar. I did mention it was Saturday night, right? And this is REM. No, not R.E.M.—rem, like REM sleep, as in when you dream. Get it?

It’s the hottest club in New York City. Well, at least tonight it is. By next week it will be some other club. But the location doesn’t matter. The script is always the same. Every weekend my friends and I come here together but leave separately—and never alone.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a bad guy. I don’t lie; I don’t sandbag women with flowery words about a future together and love at first sight. I’m a straight shooter. I’m looking for a good time—for one night—and I tell them so. That’s better than ninety percent of the other guys in here, believe me. And most of the girls in here are looking for the same thing I am.

Okay, maybe that’s not exactly true. But I can’t help it if they see me, f**k me, and suddenly want to bear my children. That’s not my problem. Like I said, I tell them how it is, give them a good time and then the cab fare home. Thank you, good night. Don’t call me, ’cause I sure as shit won’t be calling you.

Finally getting through the crowd to the bar, I order two drinks. I take a moment to watch the writhing, twisting bodies melt into each other on the dance floor as the music vibrates all around.

And then I see her, fifteen feet from where I’m standing, waiting patiently but looking a bit uneasy amongst the arm-raising, money-waving, alcohol-craving herd trying to get the bartender’s attention.

I told you I’m poetic, right? The truth is, I wasn’t always. Not until this moment. She’s magnificent—angelic—gorgeous. Pick a word, any f**king word. The bottom line is, for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Her hair is long and dark and shines even in the dim light of the club. She’s wearing a red backless dress—sexy but classy—that accentuates every perfectly toned curve. Her mouth is full and lush, with lips begging to be ravished.

And her eyes. Sweet f**king Christ. Her eyes are large and round and endlessly dark. I imagine those eyes looking up at me as she takes my c**k into her hot little mouth. The appendage in question immediately stirs to life at the thought. I have to have her.

I quickly make my way over, deciding then and there that she is the lucky woman who’ll have the pleasure of my company for the remainder of the night. And what a pleasure I intend to make it.

Arriving just as she’s opening her mouth to order a drink, I intervene with, “The lady will have…” I look her over to surmise what she would be drinking. This is a talent of mine. Some people are beer drinkers, some scotch and soda, some an aged wine, others are brandy or sweet champagne. And I can always tell who’s what—always. “…a Veramonte Merlot, 2003.”

She turns to me with a raised brow, and her eyes appraise me from head to toe. Deciding I’m not a loser, she says, “You’re good.”

I smile. “I see my reputation precedes me. Yes, I am. And you’re beautiful.”

She blushes. Actually turns frigging pink in the cheeks and looks away. Who blushes any more? It’s goddamn adorable.

“So, what do you say we find someplace more comfortable…and private? So we can get to know each other better?”

Without missing a beat, she says, “I’m here with friends. We’re celebrating. I don’t usually come to places like this.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“I just got my MBA and start a new job on Monday.”

“Really? What a coincidence. I’m a finance guy myself. Maybe you’ve heard of my firm? Evans, Reinhart and Fisher?” We’re the hottest boutique investment bank in the city, so I’m sure she’s duly impressed.

Let’s just pause here again, shall we?

Did you see the rounding of this gorgeous woman’s mouth when I told her where I am employed? Did you see the widening of her eyes? That should have told me something.

But I didn’t notice at the time—I was too busy checking out her tits. They’re perfect, by the way. Smaller than what I usually go for, no more than a handful. But as far as I’m concerned, a handful’s all you need.

My point is, remember that look of surprise—that will make sense later on. Now, back to the conversation.

“We have so much in common,” I say. “We’re both in business, we both like a good red…I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this could go tonight.”

She laughs. It’s a magical sound.

Now I should explain one thing here. With any other woman, on any other night, I’d be in a cab by now, with my hand up her dress and my mouth making her moan. No question. For me, this is working for it. And strangely enough, it’s kind of a turn-on.

“I’m Drew, by the way.” I hold out my hand. “And you are?”

She holds up her hand. “Engaged.”

Undeterred, I take her hand and kiss her knuckle, grazing it ever so slightly with my tongue. I see my reluctant beauty try to suppress a shiver, and I know, despite her words, I’m getting to her.

See, I’m not the type who really listens to what people say. I look at how they say it. You can learn a lot about someone if you just take the time to watch the way they move, the shift of their eyes, the rise and fall of their voice.

Doe Eyes may be telling me no…but her body? Her body’s screaming, Yes, yes, f**k me on the bar. In the span of three minutes, she’s told me why she’s here, what she does for a living, and allowed me to fondle her hand. Those are not the actions of a woman who is not interested—those are the actions of a woman who does not want to be interested.