This is the first chapter in what's turning out to be a long, intense story. If you're looking for a quick stroke story, this ain't it. But if you enjoy getting to know characters, then give this a try. In this first chapter, I'll warn you, no sex takes place, but sharing of some fantasies does. Take that for what it's worth. The steamier scenes are coming in Chapter 2 and onward.
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Chapter 1
It was a relatively calm evening. No major revelations, no new prayer requests, no earth-shattering confessions. This week's Bible study wound down on time, which wasn't often the case as one person or another always seemed to have a crisis in their life.
Not this week. I was relieved for that.
I'm no pastor, elder, or anything else, really. Just an ordinary man who offers his home as a meeting place. Sometimes I lead the study, but most of the time I merely meld into the backdrop. Ever since my wife of 20 years passed, that's been more than fine with me.
I said goodnight to the other attendees, many of whom had been coming to this for years. Many of whom still treated me with kid gloves. The women were the worst; their eyes offering endless sympathy and their words, well, their words often failed them when saying goodbye. I was growing weary of it. Eight months had helped to dull some of the pain, but it was those looks that kept ripping open the wounds.
I wanted to move past it.
And, truth be told, I wanted some quiet time with my favorite guest: Brianna Miller. Somewhere in her late thirties, she had the face of a woman ten years younger and the body of one just as youthful. Short, slender, with wonderful curves she rarely highlighted, her long dark brown hair always seemed to be perfect, even if we sat outside in a blowing wind.
She had a small, rounded nose and two piercing brown eyes. Her smile, though, with those bright white teeth and sensual red lips... they were the inspiration for too many lonely nights as I lie awake in bed, alone, missing the touch of my wife, and then eventually any woman, listening to the sounds of a world that plugged along, as though her life never really mattered.
It had mattered, though. Very much. We had a child, a daughter and she just turned 18 last summer, a month before she said goodbye and 'I love you' to her mother the last time. She was now off to college. She said she'd stay home this year if I needed her to, but I said 'No way, absolutely not.' She had a life to live and I wanted her to embrace it.
So, I spent most days and nights alone. These studies were about all the company I received, and when Brianna showed up -which was most weeks- it brought the brightest gleam of sunshine into my world.
This evening was no different.
She started coming four years ago. I immediately struggled to keep from looking at her too often, or too long. She was shy, opening up only after several years, and especially once my wife and I admitted she only had months left.
My wife Rachel told me -no, I'd say implored me- to consider getting closer to her, but I couldn't. Not only was I afraid of appearing unfaithful to my wife, but also because I was old enough to be her father. Sure, while 60 and 40 don't seem too significant in the grand scheme of things, Brianna had three girls, so she had different needs and focuses on her attention. Besides, though I wouldn't say I'm ugly, I'm not young anymore.
I keep myself in decent physical shape, still have a fair amount of hair on my head, and stand just shy of six feet tall. I got rid of the pot belly that latched onto me in my early fifties and enjoyed some passing, lingering glances from the female persuasion, and I've been known to have some women who occasionally drifted in and out of our study flirt with me. I'd be oblivious to it, but not my wife; she noticed everything and would tease me from time to time, especially after several weeks passed since the woman had last visited one of our gatherings.
After Rachel passed, I mourned. For a while. Even though you know it's coming, the loss is still tough to handle. Even though you believe she's truly in a better place, the void is real. It's tangible. It's awful.
Someone else hosted the meetings those first few months. I barely crawled out to them; I preferred to weep and wail in private. There were plenty of visitors that initial month, but Brianna made herself scarce. I noticed. I couldn't understand it, and I missed seeing her, if not for her smile, then for her smell; she had the most exquisite perfume that always stirred my imagination (and forced me to cover my tracks so as to not get caught staring just a little too long).
When February rolled into March and the temps outside ramped up and I started hosting again, I started seeing Brianna more often again. And I started to feel alive again, if only in brief snippets.
Once these regular meetings started returning to my place, she waited around until everyone left. She didn't offer continuing consolation. Her brief hugs goodnight were firm but abbreviated. It wasn't confusing, but it didn't stem the rising floodwaters of inappropriate thoughts.
By late June, in the growing heat of early summer, our alone time grew longer, conversations more personal, and it seemed like we were good together. Yet I never considered it could be a possibility.
Then Brianna leaned forward in the chair across from me in my living room, a glass of ice water cradled in her hands, looked to me, and then asked, "Are you... are you moving on?"
The question was both direct and resolved. There was no sympathy in it. No hint of empathy. Here was a person who'd seen the finale of a marriage and the feeble attempt I'd made to rebuild from the ashes. This question was a firm kick in the backside... or the nether regions.
Was I moving on?
I sighed. Deep. Long. How could I know? But I did know. I wanted to. I simply didn't know how.
"You mean, am I dating?"
She nodded. In the warm summer evening, her blouse was thin and buttoned up. Just the top button undone. Whatever bra encased her breasts was smooth; I never got a hint of nipples pressing through the fabric that was so wont these days as women more often seemed to crave the attention that simple sight brought. I caught myself staring at those soft, round mounds and tore away. Back to her beautiful face.
"I guess."
She knew the answer.
I sighed again. "I want to. I just don't want to deal with the nonsense."
"What nonsense? It would be good for you," she replied.
If I needed more closure on the faint dream of having her in my arms or something intimate, this was it.
"I can't stand the thought of dating for weeks, maybe even months, tiptoeing around the things that are actually important to me, and then learning that no, they aren't interested."
"What do you mean the things that are actually important to you?"
Did I really just stumble into this conversation? Was I honestly going to go down this road? This kind, sweet, shy, innocent woman was scratching an itch that would easily overwhelm her. If she knew what was in my head, she'd turn and bolt out the door, screaming as she sprinted for the safety of her car, and then her home. And I'd never see her again.
Don't misunderstand me; I'm not sadistic. I'm not a sexual deviant; at least I don't think so. I'm merely a man approaching the twilight of his life who'd been in a nearly sexless marriage for 20 years and I missed so many things and developed a number of other fantasies that morphed into some fetishes. Things I had no intention of admitting to my Bible study friends, especially this unique, gorgeous woman.
I shook my head, common sense straining to take control. "I shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what? Mike? What?"
"I can't go down this road with you."
"You don't trust me?"
