At five, I’m tipsy enough I convince myself to put on the blue lingerie I bought myself last week during my blatantly obvious make-Jay-jealous makeover.
Now, with soft Christmas jazz playing through the speaker and the fading glow of sunset spilling through the window, I’m staring at scraps of blue lace that cover very little of my skin in my reflection in the mirror.
Looking down the barrel of forty, my body hasn’t completely jumped ship. I eat the seemingly million grams of protein a woman my age is expected to consume and march around with my weighted vest like every other midlife militant fighting against the effects of time. Any extra weight I carried since my last pregnancy melted off—for better or worse—in the stress of the divorce.
I angle my head at my reflection, spin to the side. Hips, ass, and side boob all in plain view. Without overthinking, I grab my makeup bag. I have one tube of red lipstick. I use it. Along with a thick cat-eyed line of eyeliner and three coats of mascara.
“What are you doing, Hollis?” I whisper to myself, biting my lip as I run my fingers through my newly highlighted hair to make it look like sex.
I wonder if Jay would like how this looks. Wonder what he would look like if I was underneath him.
Or him underneath me.
Another slow twirl, and I decide I’m either sexy as hell or drunk as a skunk. I laugh—loud and long. This is utterly ridiculous. Wineglass in hand overhead, I sway my hips, watching my mostly-naked self in the mirror. All I can think: I’d do me.
It could be the wine, my curiosity, or the fact a week later I still taste Jay on my tongue, but what if I sent him a picture? Or a video?
I go still as a statue at the notion, my mind doing a mental tug-of-war between thinking this is the best idea I’ve ever had or the absolute worst.
He point-blank said he’d like one. He was joking.Was he joking?
He was.
Maybe.
I take a big enough sip of wine it burns my throat before warming my belly like a hot spring of liquid courage. I don’t think; I prop my phone against the lamp of the nightstand and push the red button. Even alone—that simple action makes everything feel a bit charged. Filthy, even.
I swallow too many times then force myself to the edge of the bed. Seated. Eyes closed. Letting my mind and hands take over.
Jay’s mouth on mine.
I drag my hand down my hip.
His big hands in my hair.
To my thigh. Higher.
“I’ve been waiting for this.”
I bite my lip.
His mustache drags against my skin.
The music plays.
I lift his shirt over his head. Trace a line into his jeans.
One hand finds my breast, massaging.
I ache, everywhere.
His mouth is on me. His lips. His tongue.
One hand is at the scrap of fabric between my thighs.
“I can’t wait to be inside you,” he says, solid arms wrapping around me.
The first moan escapes my lips. As does Jay’s name.
