Cinq A’ Sept

by Mj Fields

  His eyes descend to toes and slowly move up my legs, then follow the curve of my hips even slower. They stall on my breasts, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Then he slowly licks his full lips before raking his bottom lip between perfect teeth as his eyes, that I believe are brown, run up my neck and finally settle on mine.

  I open my mouth to tell him I don’t appreciate the way he just took me in, caressing my body with just a look. However, that would be a blatant lie.

  It takes but a moment to allow reality to dissolve the feeling of desire, and it crashes like the evening waves only a few feet away. I’m a female, alone on a beach, and the look in his eyes come with an intent as clear as the cloudless moonlit sky.

  Without a word, I force myself to choose logic over lust as I lift my chin, turn on my bare feet, and march toward another bar, just a few yards away. That choice should earn me an Olympic medal in restraint.

  I feel a chill flow up my spine to the back of my neck, causing my hair to stand on end and making me all too curious to look back and see if he’s still watching me. In spite of this, I know better than to throw caution to the wind when the breeze could easily turn, and then I could end up in a situation worse than sand in my face, or perhaps a situation that would include sand in my panties.

  I lift my head higher, beckoning the breeze with pure, raw need to cool my heated face. My steps quicken as I near the safety that comes in numbers.

  Walking up the sand-covered steps of the vinyl decking, I take a few, deep breaths, and only then do I realize there is music playing.

  No Rain by Blind Melon reminds me of the drought I have been experiencing over the past several months and just how easily I could quench the thirst if I just let myself succumb to my want.

  No! the logical side of my brain, the one that has won nearly every argument against raw and carnal need over the past ten years, screams. But God, I have never felt that kind of attraction to a man in my entire life, and I work in the fashion industry, surrounded by beautiful faces and hot bodies.

  I seek an anchor, something to ground myself, and finally release a held breath. Then I hear a familiar laugh and look up, my eyes falling upon the head of HR, Emilia, another recent divorcee.

  She waves me over, and I hold up a finger, telling her one moment.

  I look around in search of a restroom, a place to splash water on my warmed face, a place to see if I appear as worked up as I feel, a place to just breathe.

  I walk out of the bathroom stall after the group of twenty-something women, who were laughing and discussing the band members and the men they would like to hook up with tonight, leave. I feel a tinge of jealousy as I look away from my hands that I am running under the water and into the mirror.

  I watch as the redness fades, the traces of desire disappearing, and the reality sinks in that my twenties have long ended. They cannot be called back, and by choice, I will be alone. I could not imagine sharing my life with a man like those I work with, and I would rather be alone than feel lonely with someone.

  I look at the lines starting to form around my mouth.

  Laugh lines.

  I think of Natasha and all the joy she’s brought to my life over the years, no doubt causing some, if not every one, of those lines. Tracing them with my fingertip, I smile and watch them deepen, quickly realizing how much I love those lines.

  It’s the damn frown lines that can go to hell.

  Walking out of the bathroom, I see Emilia laughing as she and a group of men seated and standing around a high-top table sing along to Good Riddance by Green Day. I can’t help silently laugh while thinking they may not even be old enough to know the song. Heck, some don’t even appear to have been born at the time the song was released.

  Her eyes light up when she spots me, and then she yells, “Get over here!”

  As I walk toward the table, a tall, blonde waitress sets a tray full of shots on it. She’s beautiful, all tight legs, perky breasts, and gorgeous, thick hair. My guess is she’s closer in age to the young men than Emilia and I.

  What strikes me as odd is that more than half of them don’t even give her a second glance, too focused on each other and Emilia.

  Emilia is without a doubt beautiful, and in office chit-chat, I have learned that she’s had some work done. Botox and fillers have slowed the aging process. Add to that a nip here and a tuck there, along with daily visits to the gym, have kept her curvy in only the desired places.

  I applaud her for taking the time to work on the most worthwhile project a woman can work on—herself.

  “Shots!” she exclaims, standing up and handing me one, nearly spilling it on me.

  “Easy, sexy,” one of the young men reaches out and grips her curved hips to stop her from falling over.

  Her glassy eyes sparkle, and then she laughs as she looks at me. “I love being single.” She leans back against the young man in salmon shorts and a white Polo, who is a good six inches taller than her, and raises her glass. “To being single!”

  “Hell yes!” The young man behind her laughs, lifting his shot. “To being single.”

  I see a shimmer dance on his finger and hone in on it.

  He’s wearing a wedding ring. I wonder if she’s seen it.

  I make a mental note to point it out to her, knowing she wouldn’t allow herself to have a fling with a married man. After all, her husband cheated on her, and she has been very vocal about how she feels about cheating on someone you profess to love.

  We all do a shot of Grey Goose, even though I know it’s a bad idea to mix too many glasses of champagne with any amount of vodka, but I do it anyway.

  Why not enjoy the time I have certainly earned to let my hair down and enjoy myself?

  Another round of shots comes to the table, and I again partake. I enjoy watching Emilia let loose. Heck, her hair is in a tight bun atop her head daily, so this is the first time I have seen it down. I wouldn’t have even recognized her had I not heard her laugh.

  After a few more shots, it’s not just my face that’s flushed; my entire body is a mass of warmth and tingles.

  “Let’s dance!” Emilia exclaims, throwing a fist in the air as she leans out of the younger man’s grip then grabbing me as she kicks off her heels that drops her at least four inches in height. She pulls me behind her onto the floating dance floor covered in sand. The dance floor where we are the lone occupants.

  I glance around, not recognizing a single person, other than her, and decide to heed the advice I gave to Natasha when she was younger. Dance like no one is watching, because life is too short to allow yourself to let others’ judgement impede on your joy.

  We are not alone on the dance floor for more than a moment as Emilia’s table mates come quickly bearing gifts in one-ounce form. They also have slices of lemons and a salt shaker.

  Body shots.

  “Oh, dear God.” I laugh as I watch Salmon shorts lick her neck.

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!” She laughs as he sprinkles salt on it and licks it again. Then he shoots down the vodka and bites the lemon.

  As if the universe is trying to push me to let loose, the band begins to play one of my all-time favorite songs, Two Princes by Spin Doctors.

  Feeling something sticky beneath my foot, I look down and realize my feet are bare. Crap, I have no idea where I left my brand-new pair of Louboutins.

  I scan the area, thinking it’s possible I kicked them off when Emilia did, but I can’t possibly be that drunk.

  I look up when I feel my hair being pushed away, exposing my neck, and see one of the men, the one who looks most like a Ken doll, lean in.

  I lean back, and he smiles. “Name’s Ken.”

  “Of course it is,” escapes my lips.

  He looks confused but, like most men who have an overabundance of confidence, he quickly recovers and holds up a shot glass. “Body shot?”

  I lean away and tell Ken, “I lost my shoes. I need to find them.”

  He chuck
les while looking past me. “Are they red?”

  “They are,” I say as I turn to see where he spotted them.

  Sitting on a wooden bar stool, the man from the beach holds his hand up. Hanging from one thick finger are my red Louboutins.

  I watch as he raises his glass and, with a slight nod, takes a drink. When he licks his lips, I feel heat pooling between my legs.

  I don’t look away from him. I stare into his eyes as I feel the caress of a wet tongue run up neck.

  When his eyes narrow disapprovingly, I feel like I have betrayed the man holding my shoes, the man I don’t even know.

  Chapter Two

  I don’t know how long I stand there staring, but when the song changes and another blast from the past hits me in the ears and heart simultaneously, he looks up again, his eyes narrowed in an unspoken question. I take in a deep breath while flattening my palm over my lower abdomen, trying to still the butterfly social inside.

  As Tesla’s epic instrumental intro plays, I look down at my bare feet and kick at the sand, trying to muster up the courage to walk over to him. Then, taking a deep breath of ocean air, I look up to find him standing in front of me, red heels dangling from his finger. His eyes are definitely brown, a striking shade of dark chocolate with levels of depth I can’t wrap my alcohol-saturated brain around.

  My heart is beating fiercely, so fiercely that I fear it will jump out of my chest, and my panties are … soaked.

  “I’m drunk,” I confess.

  He bites his lower lip and nods slightly as he looks down.

  I wonder if he can actually see it, my beating heart. Then I feel an ache that tells me he’s not looking at my heart. He’s looking at my nipples that are painfully and desperately trying to show him that they would love nothing more than to have his attention.

  He leans forward and, in a deep, husky voice, whispers, “Don’t blame it on the alcohol,” as his minty fresh breath caresses my face.

  I realize my eyes are closed and force them to meet his. I hear music, see shadows dancing behind him, but the only thing I truly see is a man, a younger man, a stunningly gorgeous young man who looks like he hasn’t anything in the world to do, but … me.

  “You’re fucking beautiful.”

  Dear God, how long has it been since I have not only heard those words, but felt them to my core? I realize never.

  But this man could wreck me during this fragile and uncertain time in my life, and I won’t ever let a man bring me to my knees, so I tell him, “I’m much older than you.”

  His lips twitch upward slightly at the corners as he grips my hip with one hand and pulls me closer to him, clearly not hearing what I need him to hear. I’m not even sure I’m hearing what I need to hear, or saying what I need to say because, when he grips my hip with his other hand and I feel my heels hit my ass, I moan and my body betrays me by curving against his.

  Feeling his hard, warm, muscular body against mine as he pulls me even closer, I close my eyes. Then I feel his breath at my ear as he rasps, “I like my women older.”

  “I’ll ruin you,” I sigh out.

  I have no idea why those words came out of my mouth, but they did. And what does he do? He chuckles.

  I look up at him, seeing his eyes sparkle and a grin, a panty disintegrating grin, a youthful and beautiful grin, a carefree grin, covers his face.

  Looking down, I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh, and when I’m confident I won’t, I explain, “That’s supposed to be a warning.”

  He silently chuckles then says, “And here I took it as a challenge.”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and look back up at his face. His happy, dancing, chocolate pools of light turn dark.

  “I’ll take her back.”

  It’s Ken.

  “You licked her while she was looking at me.”

  “She was looking at her shoes,” Ken huffs.

  “Walk away,” he demands, eyes narrowing. “In three, two—”

  “Dude, chill the fuck out.” Ken laughs.

  “Piss off,” dark and dreamy snaps.

  “How about you let her—”

  “She’s made her choice,” he cuts him off, looking down at me and studying my eyes, and when they receive the answer to the question he sought, yet already knew, he looks back at Ken and nods to the left. “Your type is over there.” He looks back down at me as he tells him with a smile in his voice, “This one would ruin you.”

  “Whatever,” Ken says, and then I see him walk past us.

  Once I know Ken is gone, I close my eyes. “Women in their twenties and thirties are surrounding you—”

  “And yet, all I’ve seen since you walked by me tonight is you.”

  “They’re more your …”

  I stop when he grips my hips a bit harder, possessively, not painfully.

  “There are a million ways I have already pleased you in my mind.”

  “Hookups are not—”

  “When you wake up in the morning, I’ll still be face-down between your legs.”

  Holy crap! screams inside my head.

  He sees it. I know he does.

  He shocks me when he twirls me around and pulls my back tightly against his chest then wraps his arms around my waist as we face the ocean. “That railing right there; you’d be bent over it right now as I licked you from front to back until you came all over my face. You’d be so wet that you’d almost not even realize how much bigger my cock was than what you’re used to.” He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Almost.”

  I’m not sure if I’m turned on or disgusted by his admission that he wants to lick my ass … Scratch that, I’m definitely turned on.

  “I’m not a whore,” I tell him, unsure if I’m trying to deter him or remind myself.

  “I’ll treat you like a queen,” he counters, twirling me back around to face him.

  So hot, so incredibly hot, and his eyes, layers upon layers of emotions exude from them.

  Logic? Logic, where are you? I ask myself silently yet know the answer.

  This man … This sexy, hot, and apparently hung younger man has seduced her, too.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I pull myself out of his grip.

  Taking several steps to put distance between us, I look back, hoping to see something I can fixate on that makes him less tempting. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he lifts up his finger, my heels still dangling from them.

  I blow out a breath and watch as his stance becomes even more powerful. Then I watch him walk over to the table where Emilia is making out with salmon shorts. He sits next to Ken then places my shoes in front of him as he looks over at him with an arrogant, cocky, conceited, and sexy as hell look on his face.

  Screwed. I am so screwed.

  I turn away and rush to the bathroom with all intentions of climbing out a window and running barefoot to my hotel room.

  I use the toilet then stand in front of the mirror again, this time next to some of the same, much-younger women who I hid from last time I was in here … barefoot.

  Looking in the mirror, something strange happens. His words replay in my head.

  You’re fucking beautiful … All I’ve seen since you walked by me tonight is you.

  Those words, coupled by the way he looks at me and the way he makes me feel, are like a cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins to a middle-aged woman’s soul. A dangerous mixture, one that should come with the warning label: You are about to be soul fucked, holding a literal and figurative meaning.

  I think of what Autumn would say if she were here at this moment. I know she would strongly encourage me to throw caution to the wind and enjoy the ride. Emilia isn’t one I bare my soul to, but I also know she would encourage me. I think of how Natasha asked me to date more, because I deserve happiness and companionship. And logic … well, she’s too smitten to even be considered a reliable source of good advice.

  I walk out of the bathroom and see him in deep conversation with Ken and c
rew. Well, part of the crew, since Emilia and salmon shorts are nowhere to be seen. Then I see him look up at me, the corners of his lips turning upward slightly as he points to my shoes.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I flatten my hand on my belly to quiet the circus of butterflies he seems to evoke. Then I walk over, head held high with the purpose of retrieving my shoes then getting the hell out of here with memories of how wonderful this man made me feel. A decision that just took a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn from when I was standing in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. But since I opened the door, I realized I can’t handle the wreckage that I feel he could cause. Not now while everything could come crashing down around me.

  Definitely. Not. Now.

  “Joe here says you and he met on a dating app.” Ken chuckles.

  Joe? His name is Joe? I must have gained his attention when he overheard me use his name outside on the beach.

  “It was the puppy, right?” he jokes as he stands up and pulls a seat out, motioning for me to sit.

  “I guess I need a puppy.” Ken winks.

  The ginger of the group looks right at me and asks, “So, gym pics are a bad idea?”

  I look up at him … Joe.

  “Well …?” He smirks and, for some reason, it entices me to play along.

  “Well, Joe here had a few pictures showing his physique but he had me at—”

  “Six-foot-two in flats,” he interrupts.

  I silently giggle and look at the men around us. “He loves wearing my heels. But that wasn’t the reason. I was more drawn to the statement, ‘my search for boobs and booty has been replaced by emotional availability and independent personality that allows me to pursue my ambitions while you pursue yours.’ ”

  Now he’s holding back a chuckle, and I find myself enjoying not only his looks but his wit and humor.

  The waitress sets a tray of drinks on the table, but before I can decline the shot, he grabs two glasses full of clear liquid and sets one in front of me.