Page 3 of Midlife Crisis

“Are you drunk?”

“Don’t drink.” His voice is husky like his size.

“Never?” I blink.

“Not in a long time.” He watches me a moment as if gauging my reaction. When it seems he’s decided on something, he says, “You have beautiful eyes.”

His compliment startles me, and I blush, thankful the dimness of the room hides my heated cheeks. My eyes tend to shift color. In this low light, they glow with flecks of gold among the deeper brown tone. I don’t have a chance to thank him before his hands grasp my shoulders, massaging them. Thick thumbs press into the back of my neck. Shit, his fingers feel good.

“Take a breath,” he suggests. “Breathe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I do as he says and inhale. He continues to stroke the side of my neck, then whispers, “Close your eyes.” A smoker sound resonates from his voice, gravelly and gruff, and I like the robustness of it. Something sounding strangely like a purr rumbles from me. And then I do the unthinkable.

I lean.

“Feel good, little lady?” A tender kiss greets my neck. My eyelids flip open, and I stand straighter, embarrassed for swaying. He still crowds my space. He isn’t fat. He’s broad—solid—and the feel of his chest against my back has me relaxing into him. I nod in response because, honestly, words escape me. He’s touching me as if he cares about me, as if he wants to take my stress. Uncontrollably, I melt into the sensation.

“I could make you feel good in other ways.” The suggestion causes me to stiffen, and he chuckles. “Relax, lady.” His raspy voice right at my ear sends shivers skittering over my skin. With a boldness I’ve never felt before, I speak.

“How?”

“How to relax or how to feel good?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. There’s a mischief to the color I know is gray but sparkles like steel in the reflection.

“Wouldn’t they be one and the same?” His lip crooks in the corner at my question. His eyes twinkle with mirth, and he chuckles, lazy and low, causing my skin to goose bump. With his hands stroking my shoulders, the white peasant blouse I wear stretches, slipping off over the curves.

“Hmm…” He moans as thick fingertips rub my cool skin. “I think I’d start with a nip to this neck.” I watch the roll of his Adam’s apple, and my throat clogs. My mouth waters. “I’d suck right here.” He presses into the apex of my shoulder and neck with the tip of a callused finger. I imagine the deep suction on my sweet spot, and my knees buckle. My lids flutter closed a moment. Another gravelly guffaw sounds by my ear, and I open my eyes to find him watching me in the mirror.

“I think next I’d go for a breast. Lick around your nipple before tugging at the tip.”

Holy. Shit. I’m instantly wet, and my thighs clench. He’s observant, so he doesn’t miss the squeeze of my legs. His hands drift from my shoulders to my hips, and ever so gently, he tugs me back against him. With one slow pump, the unmistakably firm length of him hits my lower back.

“You’re a tiny thing.” He huffs, spreading his fingers and then tightening them on my hips. “But I’d still fit.” The thought brings up my head, my eyes searching for his again in the reflective glass; only he’s looking down, over my shoulder, focusing on the swell of my breasts peeking out of my bra. I didn’t realize my shirt slid down so far.

“I’d definitely need a taste between those thighs.” A rush of liquid leaves me as a flock of seagulls ripple up my abdomen. If words could cause an orgasm, I’m certain he could give me one. The smoky tone. The brash intention. The silver stare reflected in the mirror. “You like the thought.”

It isn’t a question. He’s reading me, and he’s right. If he put his scruff between my thighs, I’d come in an instant. The image makes me rub my legs together once more, and I reach for the countertop, needing stability before I purposely lean into him again.

“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, uncertain what I’m admitting, and what I’m suggesting. He’s a stranger to me, but do I want him to take me against the counter? Hell yes, I do. Do I think I could follow through on the actual act? Actually no, I don’t.

“I’m here for you,” he groans, pressing into me again. Our heights don’t lend to aligning body parts, but I’m well aware of what he packs in those jeans, and he can’t miss the subtle squirm of my thighs.

“Mmm, Hank,” I purr. “Yes.” The word escapes, the hiss lingering as my sex pulses. My hips roll back. My backside hits him. “I think I’m—”

“About to come, baby? Let me get you there.” Can you orgasm from the sound of a voice? Who am I kidding? Just listen to Jamie Dornan or Sam Heughan—an accent does it all the time. I won’t admit I am close, but the tenor of his tone…

A sharp pounding on the door startles me, and I stiffen.

“Hanky, you in there still?” The singsong squeal of a female spins my head back to focus on his face in the mirror. For some reason, tears instantly prickle my eyes.

“Oh, God,” I whimper, horrified at what I was doing, at what I’d almost done, with a perfect stranger. Pushing back on the counter, I press into him, forcing him away from me. His touch lingers as I reach for the doorknob, shoving open the door and rushing past a woman I hardly see. Riled up and embarrassed, I race for an exit and an end to my evening.

2

Eyes in the mirror

[Hank]

“What the fuck did you do?” The sharp Southern drawl of my old friend catches me as I stumble from the bathroom and into the hallway. “Did you just get it on in my bathroom?”