Watching You

'Declan! Hi. I'm running late - the tube is down, so I had to walk back from my class.'

'Oh. Hi.' I'd actually lost track of time. I look up and she's standing at the gate, looking flushed. 'I, er, I hadn't realised what time it is,' I'm stuttering at her.

'Ah. Ok, well I won't be too long, I just need to take a shower, and then I'll be ready.'

I stay mute, not trusting myself to speak for fear I'll be begging her not to take that shower. I rather like a bit of sweat. My ex had thought it was disgusting and had spent a great deal of time and money on smelling like the ground floor of Selfridges, much to my disappointment.

But my treacherous mind switches to imagining Margot taking a shower, a powerful image I attempt to shake off by carrying the remainder of the junk from my back garden around the front and loading it into my car. I'm not helped by the fact that I can hear the water running from her bathroom into the drains between our flats. And when that shuts off, I'm assaulted by images of her drying herself, getting dressed.

'Hi again.' She's standing on her back steps, in jeans, a big sweatshirt, her hair tied back as usual.

'Hi. Better?' I ask.

She nods. 'Much. This is the stuff I want to get rid of.'

I have to step closer to the fence to see what she's pointing at. It's mostly old paint cans, a pile of sheets that look like they've been used to cover the floors when decorating, and old vacuum cleaner. That sort of thing.

'Ok, that'll all fit in the car. Great.'

We shove it in the boot.

It's quiet on the drive there. She looks out of the window, her head turned away from me. I sneak sideways looks at her neck, the way some of her hair has escaped the knot and trails downwards.

I have to brake suddenly to avoid a cretin in a BMW cutting across me to turn right. I swear loudly and we both pitch forwards, then back.

'Sorry about that,' I mutter.

She exhales. 'London drivers,' and smiles at me, which feels good.

'What kind of class were you at this morning?' I ask, flicking on the indicator, swinging the wheel.

'I take ballet classes,' she replies, a hint of challenge in her voice.

If she thinks I'm going to make fun of her, she is mistaken. I grew up with five sisters, all of whom wanted to be gymnasts or dancers until they got too tall. As the youngest kid, I got dragged along to their classes, their competitions and performances, admired the posters they had on their bedroom walls too.

Obviously, the nature of my admiration evolved along with my age. What can I say? Plump pouting page three models have nothing on the slim muscular form of a working gymnast. Not for me, anyway.

The recycling plant is busy. We're directed to a bay and as I'm reversing the car in, I catch her shoulder with my hand as I twist, putting my arm along the back of the seats to look out of the back window. I picture being able to touch her bare skin there.

'Sorry.'

But she hasn't even flinched. I try to think of a reason for me to leave my hand there, but there isn't one. Aside from the obvious. But I'm not sure if that's where we've got to. I mean, we're sitting with a carful of junk in the council recycling plant. It's not a seductive location. And - we're just neighbours. The whole idea is fanciful.

We both fling armfuls of rubbish into the container. The paint has to be disposed of elsewhere, so we drive over to that area, and again, I have to reverse the car into the space. I thought my aim was more careful, but am surprised that I seem to make contact with even more of her shoulder and neck than last time, and I wonder if she's moved closer to me in her seat.

We're delayed on the drive back, the traffic at a complete standstill for nearly ten minutes (that's a lifetime for London) until we're filtered into one lane and past two cars, one latched onto the back of the other, both drivers looking dejected.

'Did you grow up here in London?' I ask her. I'd looked for her online but the only mention had been a brief sentence at the end of her father's obituary. 'Survived by his two daughters, Margot and Elizabeth.' Nothing else. Not a trace.

'No. No, I grew up in Gloucestershire. Went to one of those dreadfully well-thought-of boarding schools for girls. Escaped to London as soon as I could.'

'To university?'

'Yes.'

'What did you study?'

'Languages,' she says, lightly.

'Oh? Which ones?'

'Ah - Russian. To begin with, anyway.'

'And then?'

She shrugs. A sort of enthralling ripple through her torso. 'Lots. Turned out I was good at them. Where did you study medicine?'

'Here actually. But moved up north once I was qualified.'

'And now you're back?'

'Now I'm back,' I agree.

'Do you go home much?'

'Home?'

'Derry, I'm guessing. Am I right?' And her grey eyes are smiling at me as I look at her in surprise.

'Yes, that's right.'

'I'm good at accents too,' she smiles more widely.

'Have you lived over there?'

'Oh no,' she replies, quickly. I know she's lying again. And now I know for sure she's never going to tell me what she does for a living.

She returns to her flat, to pick up a bottle of wine, she says. I'm still not sure she's really going to sit in my kitchen and eat at my table. It doesn't seem credible. I'm allowing myself the pleasure of reliving the feel of her neck at my fingertips when she raps on the glass of my back door. I slide it open and she steps into my kitchen. She gives it the same once over that I gave hers, looking for the similarities and the differences.

'They put a new kitchen in just before you moved in. You knew that, did you?'

I'm staring at her, imagining how her spine would flex and undulate underneath me.

'Mmm. Yes, the agents said that. Do you know the owners?'

'Not really. They live overseas. Spain, maybe? But the builders they used were very good. Polish. Hard workers. Looks as though they did a nice job.' She raises the wine bottle. 'I don't know if it's too early to drink, but this is lovely wine.'

I uncork it.

'I only have these,' I say, holding out two tumblers. If I drink, it's usually whiskey. I'd left the wine glasses behind for the ex. She doesn't object, so I pour, hand her one of the glasses, watch her take a sip and swallow. Now that she's here in my kitchen it's getting harder to concentrate on anything except how gorgeous she looks.

'Uh, I didn't think to ask what you eat, if there's anything you don't eat ...'

She peers into the pot on top of the cooker.

'It smells bloody delicious, whatever it is. I'm not a fussy eater. Boarding school,' she offers by way of explanation.

'Is that why you don't cook?'

She takes my teasing well. 'I grew up with a mother who believed that one employed a cook, and ate out at a restaurant on her day off.'

I laugh. 'Oh right.'

'Who taught you to cook?'

'My mother. I'm the youngest of six. And the other five are girls, so - there was an awful lot of baking and cooking, amongst other things.'

'Six of you? What else did they make you do, all those sisters?'

'They were mad into gymnastics and dancing, and I had to go to their classes until I got old enough to be left to my own devices at home.'

'Aha. And what else?'

I'm enjoying the look she's giving me, her eyes lit up, the corners of her mouth turned up.

'Well, I suffered a lot of hair brushing and curling,' I laugh at the memory of it now.

'I'll bet you did, with this hair. I don't suppose your mother ever wanted to cut it?'

And she's reaching up and dragging her hand through my hair. Just like that. I'm astonished, and know for sure my mouth has dropped open this time. She's had to raise herself up onto her toes to reach. It's a bewitching sight.

'Sorry.' And just as suddenly, her arm's dropped away and down to her side.

'Uh. No. Don't be.'

I'm pulling her towards me, towards one of the chairs, where I sit down and draw her into me. It makes the height difference less of an issue. I'm still expecting that she'll pull back, but she doesn't. No, she's letting me hold her hands, edging closer to me until she's standing inbetween my legs. She looks down, shuffling, and I wonder what she's doing, but then realise she's shucking her shoes off, moving her feet until they are covering mine.

'I like a man in bare feet,' she releases one of those throaty laughs and I am already lost.

I pull at her waist and she bends a little, pushing my legs together, lifting hers over me until she lowers herself onto my lap. Her eyes flicker as she settles herself, rolling her hips over me, feeling me, how I'm already getting hard. Desperate as I am to kiss her neck and face and lips, I'm spellbound by the way she's undulating her hips, the wonderful look on her face, and I sit still while she moves herself slowly round and round.

'Why don't you ever wear this down?' I stroke her hair.

'What?' It's like I've broken into her trance.

'This,' I pull at the knot now.

She reaches up but I push her hands away.

'No. Let me do it,' and I pull the hairband away and release her wild hair. It's thick and wavy and looks fucking gorgeous around her face, down her neck and over her shoulders. I'm pulling my fingers through it.

'There you are,' I murmur, tugging at it, pulling her face to mine.

'Wait,' she sits up. 'Wait.' Breathing in, then out. 'Look, before we go too far with this -,' she pauses, looking uncertain now. Nervous. Her legs trembling against mine.

I wait, interested in what she's going to say next, letting my hands rest on her shoulders.

'I'm much older than you, so, uh -'

'And what?' I manage to say.

She looks stuck for words.

'Ok. I'm thirty nine,' I offer, and watch her eyebrows rise. 'Older than you thought I was?'

She nods, quickly.

'It's the hair. No grey. Not yet anyway.'

She coughs (a delicious sensation as it jerks her sharply downwards onto my crotch).

'I was thinking more that your body doesn't look thirty nine,' and then releases another beautiful throaty chuckle.

'You were, were you? So - does the age gap matter now?'

She tips her head to one side, exposing more neck, and I drag the flat of my hand along it, not caring a damn how old she is.

'I'm fifty,' she sighs. 'It's not a good age for a woman.'

'I couldn't disagree more,' and I finally pull her face close enough to kiss her mouth. She opens her lips to mine, her tongue diving into my mouth, bold, and very sexy. I trace a finger down her spine just the length of her neck, and she shudders so hard she breaks away from the kiss.

'Sorry,' she smiles. 'It's been rather a long time since -'

'Ok, that's enough with the apologising now. No more, alright?'

She pulls away to look into my face, serious.

'Ok?' I grin at her. 'This is making my year, so you've not a thing to apologise for.'

She's trembling again. I drop my hands to her waist and push them underneath the sweatshirt. She watches me, watches my hands lifting her clothes. She's not wearing a bra, but a dark red fitted vest top.

I press my thumbs against her nipples through the fabric, look up into her eyes at her sharp intake of breath, circle around them and press again, feeling her jump and twitch, enjoying the way she's starting to really grind herself on me. I pull at the sweatshirt. She raises her arms above her head and we remove it altogether. Looking at her, I rather wish she'd leave her arms like that, stretched up and out.

I run my hands around her torso. She has a narrow waist, a little rise to her belly, small breasts that I want to take in my mouth one at a time. I rub my thumb over her nipple again, pinch it lightly, then roll it, liking the way the fabric slips and catches over her flesh. She must like that too because she's lifting my head to hers and pressing her lips to mine, her tongue darting and pushing its way into my mouth.

I run my hand down to the hem of her top and slip my hand underneath it. Her skin is warm and soft. I keep pushing upwards until I reach the curved underside of her breast, then halt.

The anticipation is delicious. Tantalising. She moves, perhaps impatiently, so I continue to hold still on her ribcage, gently bite down on her lower lip. She moans into my mouth and I think I might come there and then.

I release her, look into her eyes. They look a little wild. I grin, move one hand to hold her safely as I push her backwards. The increased pressure on my cock is almost too good and I pause, but adjust to it, and resume, leaning her back until I can capture her breast in my open mouth. She jerks and again I gasp as her crotch dives down onto mine.

I'm going to have to change position, or it'll be game over too soon, but I want to suck and kiss her breasts so much I decide to stay like this for now. Having her stretched out in front of me, her head dropped back, it's a beautiful sight.

I move my mouth from one breast to the other and back again, dragging my tongue around her nipples, around the undersides, taking as much of each breast into my mouth as I can. She tastes absolutely delicious. Not a trace of perfume. She's stopped moving her hips on me, which is just as well. Seems mesmerised, panting now, a slight wheezing noise coming from her throat. I straighten both of us up, move both my hands to the vest to take it off.

'The neighbours,' she whispers.

'I think the nosiest are right here,' I joke, but she lifts her chin towards the window.

'The neighbours upstairs.'

I glance back, realise that indeed her upstairs neighbours would have a ringside view of us if they looked out of their kitchen window right now. And I've taken that bloody old blind down from my window, so we're either going to have to move elsewhere, or stop. I look back at her.

'I took the blind down -'

'I know. I saw you,' she interrupts me. And then; 'I was watching you, you and your body,' and laughs at the expression I imagine is on my face right now.

I think back to that morning. I was making coffee, fresh out of bed, jeans on and not much else, when I'd got it into my head that taking the blind down would improve my mood. I'd climbed up onto the counter and pulled it off the window frame, legs awkwardly braced over the sink below.

'Huh. I see.'

I reach across to turn the heat off, tip the lid over the pot on the hob, then stand up, holding her tight to my hips, appreciating her reaction as I carry her down the hall and into the bedroom. I set her down on her feet, after considering just dumping her straight onto the bed, figuring I'd give her some leeway, to see what she wants to do next.

She's pushing me back and down towards the bed until I'm sitting on the edge of the mattress, a little smile playing over her mouth. Crosses her arms over and pulls the vest top up over her head, drops it to the floor behind her, then begins to unzip her jeans, uses one arm to balance herself against me as she pulls them down and off her legs.

I'm reaching for her but she shakes her head and reaches out to tug at my t-shirt. I lift my arms up and she pulls it off, dropping it onto the bed. And now she lets me draw her in. I sweep my eyes over her beautiful body. Her underwear, the same dark red colour, sits low on her hips.

'Appendectomy?' I murmur into her skin, my lips grazing the scar tissue, feeling her muscles contract.

'Mmm.'

I slip my hand between her thighs where it's warm and wet, press my thumb to her, making her jolt, gasp, shudder. I repeat it, expecting her reaction to mellow, but it doesn't. Each time I touch her clit through her knickers, she's jumping and gasping, almost hissing.

I'm already drunk on her scent.

'Take these off,' I drag at the knickers.

She helps me, shimmying her thighs so that they slip down her legs onto the floor, lifts one foot free of them, places it back on the floor, feet now a little further apart than before. My hands go back to her waist. They look big against her narrow body. I skim my palms down to hold her round little bottom, sit back slightly, wanting to look at her again. Her head is hanging down, her eyes on mine, her hair exploding around her face and around her elegant neck. I exhale loudly.

'You are very beautiful,' I say, pressing my lips to her belly, appreciating the way her muscles tense and contract.

I lick her skin, moving lower, feeling her muscles and her breathing, sensing that she's nervous again. And as I look more closely, I see it. A long white line, low, right across her abdomen, older than the appendectomy scar. A Caesarean-section, then. A long time ago. I sense that she's holding her breath, waiting for me to say something.

I think about the complete absence of photographs in her kitchen. Perhaps they are elsewhere in her flat? But I doubt it. I think this scar - what it represents - is all about loss.

I slide my mouth along the entire length of it, one way, then the other, trying to soothe her quivering skin. Her hands grab my head and tug at my hair. I grunt and squeeze my hands around her bottom, causing her to exclaim out loud, and stumble against me.

'Sorry,' I mumble, and we both laugh, separate, her trying to regain her balance, me trying to regain some control over my cock. 'Uh, if you pull my hair like that again -' I stop, swallowing.

Her eyes are full of laughter, as if she knows fine well what tugging my hair will do to me.

'Lie down.'

And just in case I was in any doubt about what she wants, she gives my shoulders a good shove. I move up the bed and lie back, tight with the anticipation of what she's going to do next. She crawls up the bed on all fours until she's kneeling over me, hands level with my head, knees somewhere either side of my chest.

'Just how tall, I mean small, are you?'

'Let's just say I estimate there's a little over a foot between us,' she smiles. Bends down to kiss me, her hair tickling my face. I grunt, running out of willpower, wanting to grab her, pin her down, sink into her, my desire elevating to critical when she lowers herself onto my stomach. My hips kick up at the feel of her wet heat settling on my skin, the little shimmy of her hips, rubbing herself on me.

'Mmmm, this does feel good, doesn't it?' she's whispering, gripping my wrists, pulling my arms up over my head. She raises her body again, leaving me conflicted between feeling the heat and damp of her arousal cool on my skin, or taking in the sight of her lovely breasts as she leans over me, kissing the length of my arms as she holds them back on the pillow, working her way to my armpits, neck and shoulders.

'I love your smell,' she whispers.

I'm lost for words.

And trapped underneath this tiny woman.

I lift my head, wanting to reach her, to kiss any part of her body I can find, but she arches herself away from me. I grunt in frustration, and hear her exhale, perhaps even laugh a little. She's working her way downwards and eventually has to release her hold on my arms. I grab the back of her head, sinking my fingers into her hair and push her down to my mouth. Nothing gentle about it, pure hunger.

She moans into my mouth again. It's enough to send a man into the asylum.

I slide my other arm between us. The way she's kneeling over me, her legs braced across my chest, she's wide open to my fingers. At my first touch she moans more loudly, bucks her hips, blows air out of her nose, trying to control it. I release her hair, moving that hand down along her spine to her bottom, thinking it might help me hold her in place.

I try again, sliding a finger inbetween her wet lips. Her hips still rise up, but not so violently this time, so I carry on, feeling her open out for me as I explore her.

She breaks away from my mouth, a little breathless now, pressing herself down onto my hand. I stroke her hair away from her eyes so I can see her face more clearly. Run my thumb along her mouth.