A Button in My Pocket

The Tuesday afternoon book club had been my excuse, but we both knew it was never about the books.

I'd noticed you watching me through the sliding glass door while I arranged the cheese plate — not the casual glance of someone bored at a party, but the focused attention of a man who'd already decided what he wanted. You were leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of Pinot Noir, your grey-streaked hair still damp from the pool, and your eyes tracked me with the kind of patience that made my skin prickle.

"You're going to wear a groove in that cheese with the way you're cutting it," you said.

I looked down. I'd been slicing the same block of aged cheddar into increasingly thin strips without noticing. My cheeks warmed, which annoyed me. At seventy-eight, I'd thought I was past blushing.

"The cheese is fine," I said, not looking up. "Maybe you should focus on your wine instead of staring at me."

"Can't help it. You've got that wiggle when you walk, and it's better than anything on that book shelf."

I did look up then. You were smiling — not smug, just honest. That was the thing about you, Lawrence. You said what you meant without dressing it up, and somehow it never came across as crude. Just direct. I'd always liked direct.

"You're ridiculous," I said, but I was fighting a smile.

"You like ridiculous. You married it twice."

I laughed despite myself. That laugh — the full, unguarded one I tried to save for private moments — seemed to catch you off guard. Your expression shifted, something deeper moving behind your eyes. I remembered that look from last time, from the afternoon at my condo when you'd kissed me against the kitchen island and I'd nearly dropped a bowl of lemons on the floor.

The other book club members were out on the lanai, debating whether the protagonist's affair was justified or just lazy writing. Margaret was getting red in the face about it, which meant we had at least twenty minutes before anyone noticed we were gone.

You set your wine down.

"Come here," you said.

"I'm arranging cheese."

"Darby."

The way you said my name — low, with that slight rasp your voice gets when you're not performing for anyone — made my stomach flip. I put the knife down. Wiped my hands on the dish towel. Walked over to you with what I hoped was dignity and not the eagerness I actually felt.

You didn't reach for me right away. You just stood there, close enough that I could smell the chlorine on your skin mixed with something cedar-like — that cologne you wore, the one I'd smelled on my pillow for days after our last encounter. You looked at my mouth, then my eyes, then my mouth again.

"I've been thinking about you," you said. "More than I should."

"How much is should?"

"About a third of what I actually have been."

I shook my head, but I was smiling. "That's a lot of thinking for a man your age."

"My age has nothing to do with it. You'd be dangerous at any age."

Your hand came up and brushed the side of my neck, just below my ear. Your fingers were warm and slightly rough — gardener's hands, even though you'd retired from everything else. The touch was light enough to be accidental, but we both knew it wasn't. I felt the touch travel down my spine and settle somewhere low in my belly.

"Someone's going to come in here," I said.

"Margaret's got at least fifteen more minutes of righteous indignation in her. I've seen her go for forty."

I laughed again, and you leaned in and kissed me.

Not a tentative first kiss — we were past that — but not rushed either. Your mouth was warm and tasted like wine. Your hand slid from my neck to the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and you held me there while you kissed me slowly, thoroughly, like you were taking inventory. I gripped the front of your shirt and pulled you closer, and I felt you exhale against my mouth, felt the small sound you made when my body pressed against yours.

"Christ," you muttered against my lips.

"We should close the door," I said.

You reached behind you without breaking the kiss and slid the glass door shut. The click of the latch made it real — we were doing this, in my kitchen, while six women argued about fiction twenty feet away.

Your hands moved to my waist, and you walked me backward until my hips hit the counter. The edge pressed into the small of my back, and I arched slightly, which pushed my chest against yours. You made that sound again — half groan, half surrender — and your mouth moved to my neck.

"You have no idea what you do to me," you said, your lips brushing the skin below my jaw.

"I've got some idea." I could feel you through your shorts, already hard, pressing against my hip. The knowledge of it — that I'd done that, that you wanted me that much at seventy — sent a pulse of heat between my legs.

Your mouth traveled lower, kissing the hollow of my throat, then the exposed skin above my neckline. I wore a simple blouse today, the kind that buttoned up the front, and I felt your fingers find the top button.

"May I?" you asked.

The question undid me. Not the asking itself, but the way you asked — like you genuinely wanted permission, like my answer mattered. I nodded, and you undid the first button with a deliberateness that made my breath catch.

You took your time. Each button was a small event, each inch of revealed skin something you acknowledged with a kiss or a touch. When the blouse fell open, you stepped back and looked at me. I was in a plain white bra — nothing fancy, nothing performative — and you looked at me like I was wearing silk and lace.

"You're beautiful," you said.

"I'm seventy-eight."

"And beautiful. Those things aren't mutually exclusive, no matter what the television tells you."

I reached for the button of your shorts, but you caught my hand.

"Not yet," you said. "This is about you first."

You unhooked my bra with fingers that were more practiced than I expected, and the straps slid down my arms. The kitchen air was cool against my bare chest, and my nipples tightened — partly from the temperature, mostly from the way you were looking at me. You cupped one breast in your hand, weighing it, and brushed your thumb across the nipple. I sucked in a breath.

"Sensitive," you observed.

"Everything's sensitive when you do that."

You lowered your mouth to my other breast and circled the nipple with your tongue, slow and deliberate, while your thumb continued its work on the first. I tangled my fingers in your damp hair and held you against me. The dual sensation — mouth on one side, hand on the other — made my knees go soft, and I was grateful for the counter behind me.

Your free hand slid down my side, over my hip, and found the hem of my skirt. You traced a line along the inside of my thigh, moving upward with the same maddening patience you'd shown with the buttons. When your fingers reached the edge of my underwear, you paused.

"Still okay?" you asked, your breath warm against my breast.

"If you stop now, I'll kill you."

"That seems like a strong incentive."

Your fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and I felt you exhale sharply when you found how wet I already was. I watched your face — the way your jaw tightened, the way your eyes went dark and focused — and I felt a surge of power that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with want.

"Fuck, Darby," you said.

"That's the general idea."

You laughed against my skin, and then your fingers found me properly — sliding through the wetness, finding the spot that made my hips jerk forward. You rubbed slow circles while your mouth returned to my breast, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making too much noise.

"Let go," you murmured. "They can't hear us through the glass."

I wasn't sure that was true, but I didn't care enough to argue. I let out a sound I'd been holding back — a low, shaky moan — and you responded by increasing the pressure of your fingers, by sliding one inside me while your thumb kept its rhythm.

"You feel incredible," you said, and your voice had that raw quality again, the one that made everything feel urgent. "I've been thinking about this for weeks. About how you felt last time. About making you come."

The word — blunt, unadorned — hit me somewhere deep. I gripped the counter behind me and let my head fall back. Your fingers moved inside me with a steady, curling motion that found the place that made everything else go quiet. Your thumb kept its circles. Your mouth was at my neck again, and I could feel your breath coming faster against my skin.

"I'm close," I said, and the admission felt like release in itself.

"I know. I can feel you getting tight around my fingers."

That did it — the dirty simplicity of it, the way you said it like a fact and not a performance. I came with a sound that was louder than I intended, my body clenching around your fingers, my hands gripping the counter so hard my knuckles went white. You kept moving through it, slowing only when my breathing started to even out.

When I opened my eyes, you were watching me with an expression I can only describe as reverence. Your fingers were still inside me, and you pressed a soft kiss to my mouth.

"Jesus," I said.

"Not quite, but I appreciate the comparison."

I laughed — that full, unguarded laugh again — and reached for your shorts. This time you let me. I unbuttoned them and pushed them down along with your boxer briefs, and you stepped out of them while I pulled my skirt and underwear down in one motion. We stood there in my kitchen, naked from the waist down, and the absurdity of it struck us both at the same time.

"We're going to get caught," I said, but I was already turning around and bracing my hands on the counter.

"Then we'd better be efficient."

"I don't want efficient. I want you to fuck me properly."

Something shifted in your expression — a flash of hunger that was almost startling in its intensity. You stepped behind me, and I felt the head of your cock slide through the wetness between my legs, not entering yet, just teasing. I pushed back against you, and you gripped my hips with both hands.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"I just told you."

"Tell me again."

"Fuck me, Lawrence. Now."

You entered me in one slow, steady push, and I heard the breath punch out of you as you bottomed out. I was still sensitive from coming, and the fullness of you — the stretch and pressure of it — made my legs shake. You held still for a moment, your hands warm on my hips, your forehead resting against the back of my head.

"You feel even better than I remembered," you said, your voice rough.

"You talk too much."

You took that as instruction. You pulled back and thrust into me again, setting a rhythm that was steady and deep. The counter edge dug into my palms, and the sound of our bodies meeting was obscene and perfect — skin on skin, the wet slide of you inside me, the small sounds we both couldn't seem to stop making.

I looked over my shoulder and caught you watching where we were joined, your face tight with concentration and pleasure. The sight of it — your focus, your hunger — made something clench inside me, and I pushed back to meet your next thrust.

"Like that," I said. "Harder."

You adjusted your angle, and the next thrust hit that place inside me — the one your fingers had found earlier — and I dropped my head between my arms and let the sensation build. It was different this time, slower, like a wave gathering instead of breaking. Your hand came around my hip and found me again, your fingers working in time with your thrusts, and I felt myself tightening around you.

"I'm going to come again," I said, and it came out almost surprised.

"Good. I want to feel it."

Your rhythm got faster, less controlled, and I could tell you were close too — your breathing was ragged, your grip on my hip almost bruising. I reached back and gripped your thigh, pulling you deeper, and that seemed to push you over some edge.

"Darby —" You said my name like a warning and a question at the same time.

"Don't stop. Come inside me."

You drove into me hard, twice, three times, and then I felt you — the pulse of you, the warmth flooding inside me — and that was enough to take me with you. I came for the second time, clenching around you, and you groaned against my shoulder and held my hips and let it happen.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, your weight partially resting against my back. I could feel your heartbeat through your chest, or maybe it was mine — everything was mixed up, warm and blurry and good.

You pulled out slowly, and I felt the warm trickle down my inner thigh. You kissed my shoulder, then the back of my neck, and I straightened up and turned to face you.

Your hair was a mess. Your shirt was still on but unbuttoned, and you looked dazed and thoroughly satisfied. I probably looked worse.

"We should clean up," I said.

"Probably."

"Margaret's going to notice we're gone."

"Margaret could be on fire and not notice if she's mid-argument."

I found the dish towel and did what I could, watching you tuck yourself back into your shorts with the unhurried calm of a man who'd just had exactly what he wanted. I pulled my underwear and skirt back up, buttoned my blouse — missing one button, I realized, which you'd somehow lost on the floor — and tried to make myself presentable.

You picked up the missing button and held it out to me.

"Souvenir?" you asked.

"I'll sew it back on."

"Or frame it."

I took the button from your fingers and dropped it in my pocket. You leaned in and kissed me — soft this time, almost sweet — and I let myself lean into it for just a moment.

"Same time next book club?" you asked.

"Depends on the book."

"It's my pick next month. I'm choosing something short."

I laughed, and there it was again — that look on your face, the one that said my laugh was the real thing you'd been after all along. I smoothed my hair, checked my reflection in the microwave door, and slid the glass door open.

Margaret was still going. Nobody had noticed a thing.

I walked back to the cheese plate, and I caught you watching me from the counter with that patient, focused look. I wiggle when I walk — I always have, and at seventy-eight, I've stopped apologizing for it. Based on the expression on your face, that was the right call.

I picked up the cheese knife and started a new row of slices, and I heard you open the fridge behind me.

"You're out of wine," you announced to the group.

"I'm not out," I said. "There are two more bottles in the door."

"Those are for after book club."

"Book club's almost over, isn't it, Margaret?"

Margaret waved a dismissive hand without breaking her rhetorical stride.

You pulled out a bottle anyway and poured me a glass, setting it beside the cheese plate with a brush of your fingers against mine. The touch was small, secret, and it promised something I intended to collect on later.

"Good book tonight," you said, even though neither of us had read it.

"Terrible book," Margaret corrected from the lanai. "That's the whole point."

"It had its moments," I said, and raised my glass to you when no one was looking.

You raised yours back.

The button was still in my pocket, and I smiled.