Sara Graves sat in a darkened booth in a bar in New York, nursing a Sapphire Sin and getting ready to make the first mistake of her life.

She had always been the one to make the smart choice, the mature choice. In high school, she'd won the attendance award. In college, she'd never missed an assignment. She always wore her seatbelt, never smoked, dated the nice boys, flossed. She married a nice boy. Had a baby with the nice boy. Quit her job to stay home with the nice boy's baby.

And then Sara found out that the nice boy wasn't so nice, and had a habit of sleeping with bad girls. So she divorced the nice boy and got an overnight sitter and found herself at the bar, looking at the men and trying to decide who she should make her mistake with.

She thought maybe she'd decided. He was standing over by the pool tables, a cue held lightly in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. He was a big man, with curly black hair and skin the color of hot chocolate. His large shoulders filled up his leather jacket, stretching it tight over his back when he set down his beer and lined up a shot. He moved smoothly, gracefully, as if every motion were a dance. He wandered around to the near side of the table, then leaned over to aim, and Sara found herself squinting through the smoky air, staring at the outline of his buttocks through his tight dress pants. Sara heard the sharp clack and the muffled clump of a ball sinking into the pocket.

All at once, the man turned around and looked straight at Sara. Catching her eye, he smiled broadly at her with large, white teeth. Sara flushed and looked down, swirling the ice in her drink. Idiot. What was she doing? She forced herself to look up again. The man was still watching her. He held her gaze a moment longer, then returned to his game.

Sara raised her glass to her lips, trying to keep her hand from shaking, and when she put it down, she realized that she'd hardly tasted her drink at all. Easy, Sara. Easy. She took a deep breath, then opened her purse, pulled out her pocket mirror and checked her makeup. The red of her lipstick surprised her. It was a deeper shade than she'd worn in a while. She'd put on more eyeliner than usual, too, and the dark outline made her blue eyes sparkle like jewels against black velvet.

Sara turned and looked at the man again. Was she really going to do this? She watched him at the pool table, saw the way that his chest pushed out against his black turtleneck, thought of her ex-husband crouched over that dirtbag mistress of his. Hell yes she was going to.

Sara eased her way out of the booth and stood. All right. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. She'd go to the women's room and make sure she was looking good and sexy, then she'd come back and let him have it. The restroom lay just on the other side of the pool area, so she'd have to walk past him to get to it. Well, then. So much the better. She could give him a little preview, go and get sexied up, and then come back to give him the main course.

Her heart pounded as she walked toward him. She put a little more curve in her step, a little more bounce, stuck her chest forward and let her back sway out just a bit. He was facing away as she approached, so she steeled herself, reached out a hand, and let it trail across his buttocks as she passed. They were firm and round and strong under the smooth fabric of his pants. At her touch they tensed as if flinching, but then relaxed again. Sara let her fingers slip off into air, then continued onward, looking over her shoulder at the man. She smiled, tossed her hair, and then pushed the door open and walked into the bathroom.

As soon as the door closed, she leaned against the wall, her heart pounding, filled with a mix of fear and exhilaration and excitement. Yes. She'd done it. It had felt good. And it was just going to feel better. Sara walked to the mirror and regarded herself. She unbuttoned another button on her blouse and adjusted her breasts in their black, lacy cups, then admired the deep crease between them. She looked in the mirror for a second longer. What the hell. If she was going to do this, she might as well do it for real. She reached a hand down, pulled her short skirt up, and pulled her panties down, then off around her heels. She balled them up and tossed them into the trash. She took one last, long look in the mirror. She liked what she saw.