Welcome to Part Time Lovers.
This is your invitation to play, to experiment, to fulfill your deepest, darkest fantasy or get down and dirty—and then walk away.
No regrets, no recriminations, no rules.
We want you to make the rules for your encounter. There are no forms to complete, no wish lists, no compatibility tests. Just jump right in. Part Time Lovers is about hooking up with the right person for right now.
We know your desires change—maybe even from one day to the next—because ours do. We created this website to accommodate every single one of your desires.
This week you might want a quick fuck, next week that high school fantasy or the hot vampire you just read about in your favorite book. Part Time Lovers is the place for you to find your dream lover.
So come on in. Someone is waiting for you.
Mercy and Jules
“Mercy,” he said, savoring her name in his mouth. “Please. Let me offer you some wine. It is very good. I asked the sommelier to chill it a bit, as we often do at home in the summer.”
He poured her a glass of the Rioja he’d ordered and smiled. “Salud,” he said. “I am so happy to see you.”
That was an understatement. It was not that he hadn’t loved other women over the years. He had. In his mind, women were made to be loved, and he did his best to love as many of them and as well as possible. He’d had a few more serious relationships, but he’d always managed to step back before they became permanent.
Rafa knew this trip was more than business, more than sex. He needed to see Mercy, needed to get her out of his head. Out of his blood. Out of his heart. And he needed to be honest with her.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Watching her face, he saw first confusion, then consideration, and finally knowledge.
“Rafa? My Rafa?”
He understood immediately what her words meant, and his heart skipped a beat. He had wondered whether he had imagined her interest in him, if his love—and even all those years ago, even as a hormone-ravaged teenage boy, he’d known exactly what he felt for her—had been returned.
Perhaps, he told himself, she was interested, but maybe not as much as he was in her. It was more than he had yesterday and, for now, it would have to be enough.
“Rafael Alvarez. And yes, your Rafa.”
It was far too early to admit that, he thought, but saying the words felt important, a pledge of some kind. Tears brightened Mercy’s eyes as he met her gaze.
“Querida,” he said to comfort her. “Please. Don’t cry. This is a happy moment.” He hit himself on the forehead. “Ah, I get it. You are crying because you are happy. The women of my family do it all the time. It is often difficult for men to figure out whether these tears are of joy or of sorrow.
Cobblestone Press: http://www.cobblestone-press.com/catalog/author/kateaustin.htm
Kate Austin writes women’s fiction, romance, magic realism, paranormal, and erotica, sometimes short fiction, sometimes poetry, and sometimes novels. She blames her mother and her two grandmothers for her reading and writing obsession. All of them were avid readers, and they passed their books and their obsession on to her.