Cute jeans. The cheesy nickname he called you from the moment he met you—at that party he shouldn't have even gone to, with those people he didn't even really like.

Your jeans were the first thing he noticed, the way they clung to your body and highlighted each of your perfect curves that his eyes couldn't ignore—he couldn't think properly about anything when his mind could only see you.

Nathan was a few years older, with a son and almost a career, but no Mrs. Or rather, he had one, but not now, and if it were up to you, he wouldn't have one again.

And, oh, he had a sports car.

He was trying to live his life, the two lives he carried within himself: the responsible father of a little boy and the guy who spent his weekends doing a lot more than falling asleep on his couch. Well, he did sleep, but not alone and sometimes, not even in his house.

The place might change, but the person he was with would always be the same. You.

The music in the bar was so loud that he had to lean in close to you to talk close to your ear—and that left very little for the mind, especially when he was wearing that black shirt that made you imagine even more nonsense.

One, two, three drinks and the ecstasy only rose, his hand trailing down to your hip, giving it a light squeeze every time he saw someone looking you up and down. “You have some fans everywhere, don't you?” His whisper was right behind your ear, making you look back for a moment before giving him a small smirk.

Not that you had a long-term relationship, but you had something and he was living up to it. “Well, cute jeans...” Nathan spoke again, his fingers moving up to your waist and stroking against the fabric of your clothes. “How 'bout we go to my car?”

Not that this suggestion was anything new—was his favorite thing, actually. In the alley, in the back, with the windows rolled down... Or on the corner of your bed, maybe on the beach, you wouldn't mind if he wanted to do it on his own while looking at you.