Caught in the Middle

She hadn't been attracted to him at the start. Had barely even noticed him, really. She'd been so focused on her work, on completing her latest portfolio for the gallery, that she hadn't been thinking about anything else. Especially not a guy. And certainly not the guy who had just moved into the apartment across from hers with a young woman about half her age.

But, like art, emotions have a way of creeping up on you. Especially the base ones. The fiery parts that most people try to let die out, or suffocate.

Agnes was guilty of that, she knew. She'd been working so hard for so long she hadn't been giving any thought to anything else for so long. Even when she would find time for herself, and she would end the night in the ways that made her toes curl, her fingers grab at the sheets, she knew it was only half the battle.

She did miss having someone there to help, if nothing else. She was missing the passion of it, even in the nights where she knew it wouldn't be anything beyond the sunrise. Sometimes those were the best, because there wouldn't be any drama after the fact.

It could have been the fact she knew the guy, she didn't even know his name, had gotten into an argument with the young woman a couple of days before and Agnes hadn't seen her since. Or it could have been the fact it had been in a language she didn't recognize, something of a feat considering she had lived within the diaspora of New York City all of her life.

More than anything else, it was his smell.

She had passed him in the hall before, but there hadn't been anything there. Nothing special. But not this time. No, this time her nostrils flared and the back of her throat became dry and something she barely recognized stirred in the pit of her stomach. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

So she could be forgiven when she stopped in that hallway, turned around, and called out to him. She was older than him, by a margin she'd only ever admit to herself and her journal, but she knew she still grabbed the attention of men and women. So it wasn't a surprise when he looked at her, sized her up from head to foot, making it obvious he was looking at her for the first time, too.

She beckoned him with a finger, something she hadn't done in years, something she didn't even see in movies anymore. It worked. He made his way to her and she felt that sensation in her stomach expanding, making her heart race, and a warmth blossom between her legs.

She knew what she was going to do. What she wanted to do. Did he? Would he be thrown off by her aggressiveness? Would he laugh at her, make her conscious of her age despite her natural beauty?

She second guessed hard enough to temper her excitement, both physically and mentally, and she was about to tell him nevermind, to keep walking, she had made a mistake, thought he was someone else.

But then he was there, so close she was enveloped in that aromatic scent, and she lost her breath, her knees weakened, but his hand was there behind her, the palm pressed against the bare flesh through the opening in her dress.

She exhaled and he inhaled, and then his mouth was against hers. Her tongue reached out first, but he was cordial, invited her in, and then she felt his lips wrap around the muscle. His other hand found her hip, lifted her leg, and then she was forced up against the wall. Had she envisioned this before? Had she lived it before? She couldn't tell. Her memories and fantasies and everything in between swirled together.

She blinked, barely caught her breath, and he was behind her. Her heart hammered in her chest and her hands reached behind her, grasping at his hair as his mouth and tongue danced across her neck.

She didn't wait for him. Her hands grabbed at her dress, something expensive enough she almost, almost, had concerns about damaging it, but then she pulled it up and exposed the hip-hugging underwear she rarely wore. It matched the dress and her bra, and she wondered if he wanted to see these things. She wanted him to see these things that, earlier, were not for him. But they were now.

His fingers freed the bra from her chest and his hands slipped within the C-cups, grasping her where she had wanted to be touched longer than she realized until it happened. She arched her back, pressed her thinly-covered buttocks back into him. She could feel him through his pants, and it made her gasp.

She pressed back harder.

She heard his belt, felet his pants fall. He hadn't been wearing any underwear. The smooth skin of him found itself between her legs, pressed up against the part of her that was so warm that moisture seemed impossible, but she could feel it. Something her fingers had grown accustomed to, but what she had wanted to share for some time now.

She felt him there, at her opening, and his fingers spreading her open, and she pressed her chest against the wall to make sure he had the right angle.

The elevator dinged. Even as their movements didn't cease, they both looked up.

And there she was. The woman half her age, even more beautiful now than Agnes remembered, staring at them.

She didn't move.

He didn't move.

But oh god, did she want to.