I’m sat at my desk eating lunch, it’s lasagne for the fourth time this week, and I’m absolutely sick of it. I can’t seem to get out of the habit of cooking a family-sized dinner every night, even though I no longer need to. Something twangs low in my gut at this thought, but before I can begin ruminating, I’m interrupted. My phone rings loudly, the vibration causing it to slide erratically around the desk. It’s an unknown number. I glance around the office apologetically as I press the button to take the call, slipping out into the corridor.
“Hello?”
“Ah, hello there,” the caller clears his throat loudly before continuing. “Is this Mrs Parsons?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Great, um, Mrs Parsons, this is Daniel from the dental practice, your new dentist.”
Daniel. His eyes flash in my mind, and my heart skips a little.
“Oh yes, hello Daniel, can I help you?” I say coolly.
“Um, yes, so I’m just calling because you left something behind at your appointment last week.”
“Oh, did I?” I say with feigned surprise.
“Yes, um, your book, you left your book. On the floor. Anyway, so I wondered if I could return it to you?” He sounds flustered, and I wonder if I should try testing him a little bit.
“Oh, what an idiot, of course I did. I could swing by and pick it up on my way home from work later today?”
“Oh, um, well, you live in Little Hard-on, right?”
“Haddon,” I correct, smirking to myself. I really hope that was a Freudian slip.
“Oh, yeah, Haddon, sorry, that’s what I meant.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” He must have looked me up on their system, and I wonder, surely that is overstepping the line of professional conduct? I kind of love it if it is.
“Ah, great, well, it’s right on my way home from the surgery, I could swing by later and drop it off? If you will be at home, that is, if you are, later?”
Jesus, he’s really not good on the phone, perhaps it’s a Gen Z thing, they never call, do they? Or maybe he’s just nervous? I really hope it’s because he’s nervous. I consider pushing him a little more, but is it cruel?
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out, honestly, it’s no bother to me coming to the practice to get it. I’m sure you are a busy man.’
“Oh no, I’m not. I mean, it’s no bother at all, for me, to bring it, the book, to you. I’d love to.” I hear him wince. OK, enough torturing.
“Oh well, if you are sure, that would be great,” I say brightly. “I’ll be home around 5 pm. Do you need my full address?”
“That’s not a problem. I can get that off the computer here, I mean, I can if that’s OK, with you, for me to check, that is, check your address?”
Busted.
“Sure, that’s fine, I’ll see you later?”
“Yes, great. See you later. Bye.”
The phone suddenly goes silent, and I hover in the corridor for a moment, my stomach now doing somersaults. Shit, what have I just agreed to? I mean, nothing really, I could just grab the book and brush him off if I wanted to. But then, if I’m really honest with myself, I know I don’t want to. My memory circles around to our brief, but incredibly steamy encounter; there was a heat between us that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. I wonder still if I’m reading too much into it; perhaps I’m too vulnerable to be making these decisions? My boss walks past, breaking my internal circling, and we nod cordially. I guess that’s my cue to get back to my desk, an afternoon of work ahead of me. At the thought of seeing him again, a knot twists in the pit of my stomach. I’m not sure how I’m going to stop myself from spending the entire afternoon daydreaming about someone I probably shouldn’t pursue.
…
I manage to slip out of work a little early and race home, thankfully avoiding the worst of the traffic. Whilst I drive, I consider how I want to play this. On the face of it, this is insane; he’s so young, so inappropriate, and not only that; he’s also my dentist. But then, the memory of those lips, and the weight of his body pushed against me, obliterates every rational argument as I try, and fail, to dissuade myself from doing the thing I probably shouldn’t. As I step through the front door, I’m still no clearer on my playbook. A faint musty smell of stale air fills my nostrils as I wander through the house, flinging open a few windows and lighting a scented candle.
Everything was left in a bit of a state this morning in my rush to get out of the house. I glance up at the clock, 4.45 pm. I suddenly launch into a cleaning frenzy; all I know is I’ve got 15 minutes to do some damage limitation. I whip dirty crockery into the dishwasher, straighten up the sofas in the living room and thrust the ever-growing pile of clean laundry into a cupboard. I’m still not ready to admit to myself why I suddenly care so much about how the house looks. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror, red-faced and flustered, hastily dabbing a little powder onto my cheeks just as the doorbell dings. I close my eyes and take a couple of breaths as I walk into the porch, trying to calm my nervous system as the bell rings a second time. I slowly pull on the handle, desperately hoping my face now looks more composed, and he steps back hastily, bowing his head.
“Oh. Hi there,” he says, “sorry about the second ring, I wasn’t sure if you had heard it.”
“No problem,” I reply, trying to smile warmly.
He hesitates, and so do I. I feel like I should know what to say, but I’m floundering. I must have at least fifteen years more small talk experience than he does, and yet, suddenly, I’m completely lost for words. I just stare and smile, like a shy little schoolgirl with her first crush. Thankfully, he takes the lead.
“So I’ve got this for you,” he pulls my book out from behind his back and hands it over. I take it slowly, hoping our fingers might graze, that an electric spark might fly between us, like we’re in a meet-cute. But as my fingers clasp around the cover, his fall away, and the disappointment stings.
“Thanks,” I say shyly, first looking down at the book, as if checking it’s real, and then back up at him.
He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a thin navy sweater that hugs his athletic build. I wondered on my drive home if maybe I had morphed his appearance in my memory into a more idealised form, but no, he is just as handsome as I remembered, more so now I can see him fully with no mask concealing his perfect lips. They are like two blush petals set upon the immaculate tan surface of his face. I’m mesmerised by his beauty, stunned and stupefied by it.
His head bows again, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
“So, also, I wanted to come over to apologise about what happened,” he tilts his head up a little to catch my eye, “between us.”
I hold his gaze, mute, but not shying away from his admission.
“When we… you know. Because, I know…” he hesitates and clears his throat.
“Do you want to come in, and we can talk?” I hold his eyes and linger over the final word.
“Oh yeah, talk, sure,” he smiles broadly, it’s a warm boyish grin, a little mischief dancing in his eyes.
I pull the door open wider to invite him in, watching as he slips his shoes off, kicking the back heel against the floor.
“Drink?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“What do you fancy? I think I’ve got some orange juice, or tea, coffee, urm I might have some wine? Or water?”
“Water’s good, better for your teeth,” he flashes me a little grin.
“Ha, well of course.”
I grab a couple of glasses as the tap runs cold, and as I lean in to fill them, I manage to graze the edge of the glass against the stream of water, splashing it all over the kitchen counter.
“Oh shit,” I curse under my breath.
“Here,” he says, chucking a teatowel in my direction.
“Thanks, I’ve always been a bit of a calamity.”
As I silently clean up the mess, I take a moment to study him as he takes a few sips of water. He has an odd demeanour. It’s somehow confident, and yet also shy, all in the same moment. He stands straight, with his chest puffed out, but his hands give him away, as they tap nervously on the glass in between sips. I’m used to men of my own age who have lost every trace of youthful, wide-eyed uncertainty; I find it charming, like stepping into a nostalgic memory.
“So, you wanted to say something to me?” I question.
“Oh, um, yeah,” he clears his throat again, and places the glass gently down on the counter. He looks at the glass for a moment, hesitating, turning to face me. “So, basically, urm, I just wanted to apologise. In the surgery, I overstepped the line, well, leapt over it, really. There was just such a vibe between us and, I dunno, I just went with it. But after I felt really awful about it. I mean, that was not professional conduct, and I didn’t even ask if you wanted to, you know, kiss me; so then I just kept thinking, thinking, I needed to come and apologise. For, like, kissing you. And not asking.”
The stream of consciousness ends. He is so different here in my house. In the dental surgery, he was so in control and professional, but a lack of life experience betrays him here, here in my home, where there is no set behavioural script.
“Oh,” I say, “well, I see what you mean about the line, but it was partly my fault too. I could have stopped it, I didn’t, and to answer your question, yes, I did want to kiss you. So, no need to feel bad or apologise,” I flash him a little grin, “quite the opposite in fact.”
Hi face relaxes, and I observe his shoulders gently drop. “That’s OK then,” he exhales, smiling broadly, and I reply with a little wink.
He takes a moment to glance around the kitchen. Up until now, I’m not sure he’s really taken in any of his surroundings. His gaze lands on the sideboard, where I have a collection of photo frames. He steps over and peers at them. They are mostly family snaps, trips away, school photos; all the bumpf signalling a happy family home. Not that I could describe my home as altogether happy.
“You got kids?” he questions.
“Oh, yeah, Alfie and Toby.”
He peers in a bit closer, examining the posed photo we had taken in a studio last winter. Me, Robert and the kids, wearing stiff clothes we would never choose, and posing with fake smiles. I remember that day so clearly. Robert insisting we get some pictures taken for his parents, yet another way for him to show off his perfect life. His version of perfection, anyway.
He straightens up, a little alarm in his eyes. “You’re married?” he looks down at my hands, clearly scanning for the ring he’s sure he must have missed.
“Not for much longer,” I explain, and I wince without meaning to. He catches it.
“He hurt you.” It’s not a question, more of a statement.
Tears prick in my eyes, and I suddenly become very interested in a pattern on the damp teatowel. Shit. I haven’t cried in weeks now, but clearly I have less emotional control over this than I thought.
“Jesus,” he seems to breathe out the word in a long gasp of disbelief, taking a step toward me and grasping one of my hands, forcing me to look at him. “What a fool,” he reaches up to brush my damp cheek, gazing intensely into my eyes. I shift uncomfortably and break away from his hand.
“Sorry,“ he says, “I know I can be a bit intense. My ex, well, she hated it too.”
I look at him, this puzzling creature. He is such a juxtaposition of features, the likes of which I have never encountered in a man. Strong and yet gentle, in this moment a little nervous, and yet also commanding, challenging, but emotionally intuitive, and now also signs of insecurity. I feel my body tingle all over. What is this? What is happening to me?
“What?” he asks, “have I said something?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m a bit of a mess. This divorce talk, it’s got me rattled, it’s still all very fresh. I thought I was more in control than this; maybe I’m still not really in a great place to be doing this right now. You are lovely… it’s not you… it’s just… just me.”
“That sounds like a brush off,” he says, looking disappointed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’ve not been with anyone other than my husband… ex-husband… for over a decade. I thought I was ready for something new, but now, now I suddenly feel way in over my head, if you know what I mean.”
“Understandable,” he replies, “but allow me to argue my case.”
His comment takes me by surprise, and I manage to stutter, “hah, OK then.”
“OK, well, first, you are feeling a little alone right now, correct?” I nod.
“And sad. You want to feel better? To be able to relax, you need a distraction, and something to take all this heavy stuff off your mind for a while?”
“I suppose,” I say cautiously.
“Well,” he fans his hands down from his chest to his thighs, “distraction.”
I snort, “I mean, you certainly are distracting.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” he challenges, and I feel a flutter low in my gut.
He steps forward, gently lacing his fingers through mine and leaning into my neck, brushing a light kiss against my skin. My body betrays me as I involuntarily let out a soft moan.
“More?” he asks.
I mean to say no, I know I should untangle myself, push away. But I don’t. I lean my head a little to expose more of my neck. He obliges, lips littering soft kisses as they dance over my skin.
“What do you like?” he questions.
“This.”
“Yes, but what else?” he gently pushes.
Nerves bubble in my stomach; it’s my turn to feel unsure. Robert never asked me anything about what I liked, and I’m not totally sure I even know.
“Urm, I like it soft, like this.”
“I can do soft.”
His hand trails down my body and snakes up my thigh.
“Is this OK?” he whispers. I moan in reply.
“Do you want to go further?” he asks.
I tilt my head back up so I can meet his eyes. They are soft and wanting. The sensible part of my brain, the place where I am a mother and a respectable, middle-aged woman, that part is trying to disuade me, telling me that this is ridiculous. But the fire burning in my groin is louder.
“Yes.”
I take his hand and lead him upstairs.
As we walk into the bedroom, his hand slips from mine and twists around my waist, pulling me close into his body. His lips meet mine, tender and soft, and as the kiss deepens, I sink a little, his strong arm supporting my weight. My heart pounds faster as he reaches under my shirt and cups my breast. I try to quiet my mind, try to stay in the moment, but my control is failing. I feel the clutter gathering in my head, twittering doubt and anxiety, insecurity seeping in like a leech. His lips break from mine.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes… I’m just…”
His hand slips back out from under my shirt and rests on my arm.
“What’s going on in there?” he peers into my face, as if he’s trying to look behind my eyes.
I place a palm over my face.
“I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this. I’ve usually got my shit together, I promise.”
“It’s fine, you don’t need to have it all together.”
I lower my hand and stare at him, more in wonder than anything else.
“What?” he questions, with a nervous laugh.
“Just you, this, I’m not used to this, a man with emotional intelligence.”
“You’re just too used to dinosaurs,” he laughs. “We can stop, it’s fine, if you’re not ready.”
“I really want to, it’s just my head is full of all this, this stuff. It’s distracting.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“You’re just so young and I’m so, well, older. Is this a good idea? Am I, well…” I look down at the floor.
“You are everything I want right now.”
I look back up, to the fire in his eyes, and press my hand against his trousers, feeling the same heat in his groin. I reach up to touch his face, and his fingers grasp my hips, pinching the skin. My mind goes quiet.
I lean in to his lips, grasping his shirt, and desperately tugging him closer, my mouth crashing into his. I feel the pang growing low in my groin, expanding outwards, pulsing with an unbearable pressure. I’m suddenly frantic with desire as his hands move like snakes around my body; the feel is electric.
My hand travels down, lowering his zipper, and as I slide it inside to grip his shaft, he takes a sharp gasp of air. I move my hand, slowly at first, sliding, pulsing, listening to the way his breath hitches with every stroke. Then, lowering my knees, I release him, wrapping my lips around his girth.
“Oh God,” he hisses, placing a hand on the back of my head.
I let him guide the pace, drinking in the sound of him panting and the feel of him swelling in my mouth. I reach a hand up his shirt, letting my fingers glide over the clammy sweat-soaked skin on his chest. I suck harder, move my mouth a little faster, and he groans loudly, before suddenly, he is unable to hold back. I feel his legs lock as he looks up, eyes scrunching hard, and his fingers fist my hair.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck.”
His body bucks and a warmth oozes across my tongue, the familiar sour salty tang filling my mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he exhales, looking down at me, and stroking the top of my head.
I lever myself to stand as he zips himself up. Once I’m halfway to standing, he hooks his hand under my armpit to help me. His eyes once again find mine, that intense stare, full of fire, and lighting me up. He leads me to the bed, lowering me slowly to sit on its edge before kneeling in front of me. The low light of the room casts a dark shadow under his angular jaw as he parts my legs, fingers slowly gliding up my calves and along my thighs, gripping my skirt and panties. In one tug, he slips them down to my ankles, whipping them under my feet, before tossing both to the side of the room. His lips purse, and without a word, he leans in, his tongue gliding along the side of my thigh, finding my lips. I gasp at the feel of his mouth cupping around me.
His tongue pushes against me where I’m already burning. I sigh as he slowly pulsates, somehow both sucking and licking in the same moment. He groans, and the vibration pulsates through me in the most glorious wave. I grind myself into him, and my head spins as I lean back on the bed, closing my eyes, forgetting where we are, sucked into the vortex of this pleasure. I’m caught in a fog of bliss as this glorious being pours himself over me, feeling myself rise higher and higher into the dazzling light, blinded by my incandescent desire. The pressure builds low at first, but as he pushes into me faster and harder, the wave reaches out across my body, like tentacles creeping up my spine and down my legs, the thumping ache blurring at the edges until it suddenly pulls inward. Like a collapsing black hole, the feeling is sucked into a pinprick of light, before exploding outward, emerging as a blinding, searing hot ball of flame which rips through me. Crashing through every nerve, tightening my lungs as it races through my chest, and up into my throat, before falling away, leaving me reeling, blissed out, and completely silent
