Sometimes, even in a ménage à trois, three is one too many.

Enjoy..

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She was a redhead with a complexion so pale I could see her veins, blue beneath her smooth, ivory skin. She might have been a marble statue—or an ivory one—come to life. She was thirty, if that. Her diaphanous red dress (it matched her ruby lips) suggested, rather than revealed, her feminine curves.

She took a stool near mine, glanced at me, smiling, and ordered a mimosa. As she sipped the concoction, she gave me another sideways glance.

"The stool between us isn't occupied," I advised her.

"So I see." She didn't change seats, though. She...