One Night

"So. No significant other in your life?"

"Ah." I pick up my glass but it's empty. I fiddle with the stem. "Not now. Married once. We're still on good terms. Most of the time."

"Kids?"

"No. He -" I pause. "We didn't want them. Until I did. But by that point, I wanted to get out of the marriage more, so - we divorced. And that was four, no, almost five, years ago now."

"And no one now?"

He raises his eyebrows as if the possibility seems unfeasible.

"No. Goodness, no. I'm an obsessive academic of a certain age who's probably too dull and set in her ways to be of interest."

"I'll beg to differ on that, like."

A few beats pass.

"I'm being honest here, Arella, so don't go second-guessing me in that brain a yours. I think you're a wee fine thing."

Trust me, those words sound so much better in that accent of his.

He chases the last of his food around his plate with bread. I think I've forgotten the allure of a man at such ease with his healthy appetite. He catches my gaze, just as he had earlier in the pub. Although this time - a little more heat in it.

"Liking what you see?"

I open and shut my mouth. Because, yes. I'm really liking what I see. It's one thing to admit it to myself, and quite another to say it to him. My fears still feel heavier than my desires.

"Arella, there's something here with us, isn't there? I felt it at the bar and I think you did too, otherwise we wouldn't be here, now, would we?" He flicks his hand to indicate the table; the restaurant; us. "Would we?" he repeats, a lick of impatience, perhaps, sliding over his face.

"No, we wouldn't," I agree, keeping my voice as quiet as possible.

But agreeing with him, nevertheless. Opening the door to - well, to whatever this is we've started. And just then, entire vistas of possibilities crack open, as if they've been in the wings waiting for me to admit them. Sean licking my breast; us kissing on a street corner, holding hands; feeding him in my sunny kitchen at home. That last one should be a sharp smack of reality but instead it stokes something visceral and needy in me.

"I haven't an idea what's going on in that head a yours, but I like what it's doing to ye."

His grin is wide, his confidence writ large now. He leans forward, setting his forearms onto the table as though claiming territory. "So are ye inviting me back to wherever it is you're staying, or not?"

Pure pleasure rushes down my body, curling even my toes tight. I nod; a fierce thing.

"Say yes, if that's what you mean, Arella."

The soft, rolling sound of his voice is a balm to my overheated skin.

"Yes. Yes, ok?"

His chest shifts, which is when I understand how tensed up he'd been, and that gives me something else to think about. That it's not just me who might be nervous.

"Do you do this a lot?" tumbles out before I really think.

"Not often, no. Only when I'm moved to."

"Moved to?" I allow my scepticism to filter into my voice.

"Aye."

His hand takes hold of mine possessively. I nearly flinch because this is the first time we've properly touched. A touch for its own sake. In all of this time - hours only, but which feel far longer - I may have been imagining how his touch might feel on my skin. But this. This is much more. Like an infusion of energy.

"Well, I've never done anything like this," I confess.

"That makes me feel ten feet tall, so it does." His eyes flash. I'm charmed through and through.

We split the bill and I wait while he uses the bathroom, sitting on my hands to stop my arms from shaking, once again hyper-aware of the other diners around us, wondering about - fearing -what they think they see.

Some of the horrible tension drops away when his face brightens as he comes back to our table. He waits for me to put my coat on, his hand ghosting the small of my back as he follows me out of the restaurant, and I can't help but like his old-fashioned manners. The rain, however, is an unpleasant re-entry to the world outside, and he halts at the corner of the street.

"Look, I need to buy me some smokes, so how about I meet you at your hotel, save you walking around in this rain?"

Something like disappointment slithers into my stomach. Is this his kind attempt at a brush-off? "Oh, well, if you're sure?"

He studies me for a moment. "I'm not running out on ye."

"Ok."

"Your hotel lets in non-guests, do they?"

"Oh right, yes. There's no doorman. And, actually, the lifts are at the top of the stairs as you enter the lobby, out of view from the desk." I bite my lip, feeling completely exposed. Did that sound desperate?

"And your room number is -?"

"Sixty one."

He repeats the number, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smug grin, and my faith in him rights itself. It's not as though we've been lacking for conversation through dinner. The opposite, in fact. It's felt easier - and more enjoyable - than many dinners with friends of my own age. And even if he's made teasing reference to our age difference now and then, it's never come across as sleazy.

"Trust me, a stor, I'll come for you," his voice suddenly lower as he dips to kiss my cheek.

He doesn't give me time to react - to turn into his kiss - setting off down the street in the opposite direction to me. Back towards the city centre. I watch him for a few seconds, the rain seeping into my bones, my shoulders and feet already feeling wet. But I want to watch him; his long, rangy legs, the slight hunch of his upper body against the rain, the shifting of his bag just above his waistline. And his bum, because now it's dark all around me, safe from anyone else's eyes and judgement, I can admit to really enjoying the sight of his narrow hips and neat backside. And with that thought, and the mortifyingly abrupt burst of body heat it provokes, I set off in the opposite direction, head down.

+

I take my time, almost dawdling by the time I'm in sight of the hotel. It's down by the river, even though this is one of those cities that has, by and large, turned its back on its river; the legacy of an industrial past where rivers were for running mills, washing dyes or disposing of chemical waste. But there have been recent attempts at regeneration, some of which Sean had talked about over dinner. He'd even known that my hotel is in the original headquarters building for the City Tramway, giving me quite the lecture on local Victorian architects and municipal leaders. His runaway enthusiasm had given me something to tease him with, and I'm smiling to myself at the memory as I draw up at the hotel entrance.

For the first time since checking in here, I look upwards. It's an impressive, red-brick building, the entrance across the corner of it, and although it's been adapted, it still retains a certain amount of grace and elegance. What had Sean called it? A 'sympathetic' conversion. I brush the rain from my hair and the tops of my shoulders as I wait at the lift, and again once I'm inside my room.

I'd been upgraded to a 'Superior Double' or 'Deluxe Double', or something of that nature, capital letters very much present in the way the receptionist had said them. At the time, I'd been grateful for the additional luxury as a buffer against being back in my home city after so many years. Casting my eyes around it now, I'm more appreciative of other qualities. The king-size bed, for one. The décor is dark, almost masculine in taste, and because the hotel doesn't have much of a view, the curtains are heavy, insulating the room to create a cosy haven.

I kick off my shoes, hang up my coat, dump the contents of my bag out onto the desk in a messy pile, recognising the flurry of nerves and doing my best to busy them into submission. Whilst washing my hands in the bathroom, I lean in to the mirror and decide to clean my face too. I don't wear much make-up and, rather like ripping off a plaster, it's surely best to show my real self to Sean sooner rather than later. He either likes what he sees, or he doesn't, and I'd rather know that before any clothes have come off.

It's not until I hear sounds of someone talking outside in the corridor, followed by a sure tap on my door, that I come out of my trance. I take one last look in the bathroom mirror. Brown eyes made darker by tiredness. High cheekbones. Lines at the corner of my eyes and mouth. Nothing to be done about any of that now.

His height feels more imposing inside the room. He swings his gaze around, tucking his phone into a back pocket before shucking bag and coat to the floor in one careless movement.

"Sorry about that. My mate Alasdair's locked and it's difficult to get him to shut up when the beer's talking for him."

"Oh?"

"Aye. Seems like they've gone on a right tear since we left them in the bar."

"Oh - the people you were with this evening? Are they friends or work colleagues or -?"

"Bit of both. Dunno what's brought this on, though. He sounds a right state."

'Shtate.' That accent is going to be my undoing. "Did he want to know where you'd got to?"

He's been inspecting the room in the manner of an animal on the prowl, pulling the curtains back and dipping his head into the bathroom then out again, but he turns to face me now.

"Mmm, I gave him some oul shite about getting an early night."

We smile at each other, the shared conspiracy thick between us. He steps closer.

"I'm just stoked I'm not standing outside some stranger's door like a fucking eejit with my tongue hanging out, you know?"

Oh, and well, I've been so obsessed by my own insecurities, I've managed to ignore the possibility he'd have his own. Or that I could even have fed him an incorrect room number.

I give a big shrug. "That would've been rather cruel."

He doesn't reply, instead holding out his arm towards me. I step into it, heart hammering.

"So, we're really doing this, are we?" his voice dropping to a murmur.

My spine crawls with anticipation.

"Don't be shy, now. I've been wanting to touch you like this since standing next to you at the bar."

He pulls me to him, his hand big around the back of my head, his lips soft and still a little cool from the night air. I suck in a breath just as he presses us together and surprises me with how lightly he kisses. Lips grazing, sometimes nudging, but the barest of touches. It's so maddening, laughter at how needy it makes me bubbles up and over.

"Funny, is it?"

His eyes have darkened, a small line between his eyebrows that clears at whatever he sees in my expression, before he advances again. He stays longer this time. Presses a little harder. My lips part of their own accord and I feel his body shift against mine, tightening. A satisfied sort of sound escapes his chest and he lifts me, enough to force me to my toes and bring the rest of my body flush to his.

No-one's treated me like this; like a woman who wants to feel exactly how desirable she is. My ex-husband had grown up in a family more conservative than my own and I'd been the one to encourage some loosening up. I don't think I've known quite how much I've wanted to feel this sort of hard-edged desire before now.

He lets me down with a big exhale, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and angles his chin towards the bed. "Wanna do some damage to that, now?"

Before I've had time to reply, he's already discarding his boots in a well-practised manoeuvre before climbing onto it himself.

"No, wait!" my voice suddenly in full lecture mode as I rush to his side and start pulling at the bedspread. "Don't you know how filthy these are? Never ever sleep with them still on the bed."

His laugh is open and infectious. "Sure thing, Doctor Epidemiology," he teases. "Here, let me help you."

We bundle the offending thing onto the floor and before I've regained my balance, he yanks me unceremoniously to the bed, giving me no chance to protest before planting his mouth over mine. This kiss is - glorious. The overture. Warm, tight and deliberate. I luxuriate in the feel of the soft bedding beneath me and the harder feel of his thigh as he angles himself a little above me, propped up on one arm; in the subtle tilt of his hips when he slides his tongue into my mouth. A noise climbs up and out of my throat.

"Yeah? Good?"

We both take a deep breath. He runs his fingers over my hair until they reach the clip at the back. He tugs.

"You gonna take this down for me?"

That 'for me' - it lands like a hot stone in my chest. I sit up to unclip it, twisting around to put the clip onto one of the bedside tables, temporarily confused at the fact we're lying sideways on the bed. And doesn't that make me sound like the inexperienced matron I am?

"Look at all a this," as he strokes my hair, still slightly heavy from the rain. "Wow, your hair's something else."

If I wasn't so breathless at being horizontal with this man, I'd be outright amused at the worship in his tone. "It's just hair."

"Oh no. This isn't 'just hair'", he scoffs. "It's like - like chestnuts when they're fresh off the tree."

And then he uses his hold of it to tug me back to his mouth. This kiss is dirtier - wonderfully so. I shuffle closer until we're pressed against each other, head to toe, again. He doesn't rush, settling our bodies together with small touches and adjustments. An engineer's mind at work, maybe.

His ringtone makes for a horribly loud interruption.

"Ach, fuck. Sorry -," as he plunges his hand into his back pocket. He stares at the screen before flicking the sound off and slinging the phone onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed. "Dumb bastards."

"Maybe they didn't believe your early-to-bed story?"

"More like he can't remember calling me earlier." He eyes me. "And anyway, it's not a complete lie, is it? Barely ten o'clock and I'm at least lying on top of a bed."

And that wink. It ought to be cheap, but it's not.

I lie back, disappointed to see him clamber off the bed. When he comes back into view, backpack in hand, he bends his head to rifle around inside it after something or other and I watch his black hair flopping over his forehead, wavier than earlier perhaps because, like mine, it curls up in the rain. His hand emerges with several items which he proceeds to drop onto the end of the bed. A toothbrush, a bottle of something, and a box of - oh - of condoms. A receipt flits out too, but he crumples that up before shoving it back into the bag.

Of course. His shopping trip.

He grins, some uncertainty in there too, but crawls up the bed towards me, a sight that's likely to stay with me for the rest of my conscious life. If not for the sheer aliveness of it, it's the bunching muscles of his shoulders and the cant of his hips. I inhale, as if to embed the moment deep into my body.

"You didn't buy only cigarettes, I see?"

"What? You think I'm that kind of a player, do ye? Condoms in every pocket and one in the wallet for good luck?" the shake of his head admonishing me.

"Well no, but I -,"

"Well, no," he mimics. "For shame, Arella." He drops down next to me again. "Anyway, lucky there's at least one responsible adult between us."

"Oh, how dare you," I growl, even as his dig at our age difference strikes my funny bone.

"I really like that laugh of yours."

Which brings me back to my senses in a snap. "Do you?" I wince at the longing in my question.

"I do. That, and your savage brain, and this buttoned-up teacher look you've got going." He gives me another kiss. Shorter, this time. "Hope you don't think any of that," a sweep of his hand to the goods arrayed at the end of the bed, "is too presumptuous, but I hate not cleaning my teeth before bed," another exasperatingly cheeky wink, "and there's really only one brand of condoms I trust, so."

"What's the bottle?"

He reaches down and returns with the condoms and the bottle, setting them down between us. Extra Strong condoms in a blue box. I eye the bottle, none the wiser.

"It's lube." He rolls the bottle back and forth on the bedcovers.

"Oh!" and that's when I blush in a furious sweep of heat and embarrassment. "Why?" And how I don't want to hear his answer if it's anything at all to do with my age, because I'm vain and silly and not actually menopausal. Not yet.

"I like how it feels, and think you will too."

"Oh," a sound made softer for his kindness. And that 'tink'.

"You're not allergic to anything, are ye? This should be -" but I stop his words with a kiss of my own, which must take him by surprise, because he grunts, eyes momentarily widening until he accepts it and lets me in. He strokes into my mouth with his hungry tongue, his big hands moving over my body as far as he can reach, measuring and testing each plane and curve. It's an all-encompassing experience and I hitch myself deeper into his hold.

We surface only when his hands are pulling too hard at my suit jacket. I sit up, wondering if my hair's gone all Castaway yet, and pull the jacket down my arms, thinking it's just as well I don't need to wear it tomorrow because it must look like a paper bag by now. He caresses the sleeves of my blouse, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Look at you," his murmur barely loud enough to reach my ears.

I shiver, simultaneously thinking I like his compliments and even more, that he's still giving them when it must be clear he's already won me over.

We undress each other in an inefficient manner, sometimes in a flurry of kissing and excitement, other times, slowing down to obsess over some detail that's caught our attention. Unbuttoning his shirt reveals slender gold rings through both of his nipples. He laughs at the expression on my face.

"Go on. Touch them."

"Do they hurt?"

He doesn't reply, except for a dry laugh which dies when I twist one of the rings back and forth, engrossed in the action, in his puckering skin and quickening breath. I rub the nipple with a fingertip, increasing the pressure the more he fidgets, looping my finger inside the ring and pulling a little. His body's restless shifting enthrals me as much as the interplay of solid metal and tender skin. Without thought, I lean in to lick the neglected nipple, giving the other a stronger tug. He groans.

"Dia. If this is what you're like with these, I'm in big trouble."

His Irish cursing makes me smile. I push my tongue into the hoop, pulling harder than intended when he cups the back of my head. My cheeks heat with awareness. Kissing a man's nipple rings? An utterly laughable notion just hours ago. And now? I don't want to relinquish the power of it. And I don't until Sean's almost too restless to keep up with, and coaxes my head away. He flops to the bed, looking flushed, pulling me with him.

"Jesus," he pants, mouth curved into a smile. "That was really something. Now c'mere."

"I'm already here," I point out.

He grunts before rolling me onto my back. A rough, upwards shove to my bra is all he does before curving his hands hotly around my breasts. My hips press forwards in a sort of shocked delight, meeting his in a rush of pleasure. His hips reciprocate, pressing back until the outline of his cock is unmistakable. I reach for him. He cants backward to give me space, then presses into my palm.

"Feels nice, that," he mutters, before resuming his exploration of my breasts.

His touch is tender; then less so. A dance between the two. When he rolls one of my nipples in a tight pinch, my grip over his crotch involuntarily tightens too. It's as though that snaps his patience, because he dives a smooth hand into the back of my trousers, straight to skin, long fingers reaching between my cheeks. My mind goes still as he gives me some deliberate and slow strokes that awaken sensations I haven't felt in years. The delicious crawl of nerve endings that follows the path of his touch like a slave, then unfurls like a blooming rose. And a second, perhaps more powerful, awareness of how much I've missed - craved - human touch. The realisation of how hollow I've been without it. Years of living around a void.