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EROTICA | CHEATING | MARRIED | OLDER MAN | FORBIDDEN TENSION | CARPENTER | INTIMATE KISS | RISKY ATTRACTION

The Old House Needed Fixing — And So Did I — 4

His rough hands on my waist and that slow, deep kiss in the dusty library made it impossible to deny how badly I needed more.

PART 3

It was then that Tom looked at me.

Really looked.

He scanned my face, my throat, the line of my sundress, I began wearing it for the heat, and perhaps for something else, and I felt his gaze like a hand on my skin.

"Young woman like you," he said finally, "shouldn’t be holed up in a place like this."

I'm not a young man anymore.

"Young enough."

"I’m thirty-four."

"I’m fifty-six."

The number dropped in between us like a stone in still water.

I knew he meant it, I said.

A warning, maybe.

Or a test.

I said, “Age is just a number,” and I felt silly.

Tom snorted.

Those who say that are typically young.

“Not so young.”

His mouth curved.

This time a real smile, but short and unmistakable.

No, I suppose you're not.

---

There was a change after that talk.

There was something in the air between us that wasn't there before.

For two weeks we had been going around each other in polite professional circles, but now there was an acknowledgment.

An awareness.

In the morning, he began to bring me coffee.

You make lousy coffee," he said, handing me a thermos cup.

“Well, I thought I would save us both.”

I laughed.

Actually laughed, for the first time in longer than I can remember.

I began to sit on the steps of the back porch and have lunch with him while he leaned against the railing.

He explained to me other houses he had worked on, one Victorian in the next county, another farmhouse that had been in the same hands for 6 generations.

I told him about Graham, in bits.

So much so that he could read between the lines.

Once, Tom said, "Man who ignores a woman like you, isn't worth the ink on the marriage license.

“Perhaps I don't matter.”

He looked at me.

Long.

Slow.

"I doubt that."

The third week was record hot.

There was no air conditioning in the house and even with the windows open the air was heavy and still.

Now Tom was in a tank top and I saw the whole geography of his arms for the first time.

Muscular.

Scarred in places.

An old tattoo on his left bicep that I couldn't read.

I’d taken to wearing as little as possible.

Sundresses.

Tank tops.

No need for a bra, as everything was sticking and chafing with the heat.

I said to myself it was sensible.

I said to myself many things.

---

The first time it happened—the first time the tension broke—was aThursday afternoon.

I was in the library, a little room off the parlor where I had been doing some cleaning all week.

The books that Great-Aunt Eleanor had left on the shelves were still there, most of them musty and foxed, but I had discovered a few treasures: leather-bound first editions that might be worth something.

I was standing on a step stool to reach a book on the top shelf when the stool wobbled.

I didn’t fall.

But I gasped, clutching at the shelf to hold myself steady, and Tom was there before I could even process the sound of his boots on the floorboards.

He wrapped his hands around my waist.

“Careful,” he said, his voice so close to my ear.

I could feel all the fingers of my dress through the thin cotton of my dress.

His hands were rough, calloused, and hot on my skin.

He picked me up off the stool, as if I were nothing, and placed me on the ground, but he didn't drop me.

I gave him my hand.

Looked up at him.

“You're shaking,” he said.

"I’m fine."

"You scared yourself."

"A little."

His hands were still on my waist.

I felt the heat of him through his shirt, I could smell sawdust, sweat and something underneath that was just him.

I said, “You can let go,” but I didn't step back.

"I know."

We both remained still.

The moment stretched.

Tightened.

The library was an electric, thick atmosphere, as if before a storm.

I could see the pulse in his throat, the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes had darkened.

"Margaret."

Just my name.

Just that.

"Tom."

His name back, equally weighted.

His thumb was rubbing my hip.

Once.

Deliberate.

A question.

I responded by standing up on my toes.

The kiss was—slow.

At first.

Just his mouth against mine, dry and warm and careful, like he's giving me every chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

I leaned into him, my hands reaching out to his shoulders, and the kiss grew deeper.

His mouth opened.

Mine did too.

His tongue licked my lower lip and I made a noise I couldn't identify – it was a gasp and a whimper.

He withdrew first.

"Margaret."

Again.

Rougher now.

"Don’t stop."

"I’m working."

"I don’t care."

"You’re married."

That did land.

I flinched, but not very much, and he noticed.

His hands loosened on my waist.

I said sorry, I'm sorry.

"I shouldn’t have"

The word was a no.

“Please don't apologise, but I want you to be sure.”

"Sure of what?"

“Well, it's not like you're lonely.

Or bored.

Or seeking revenge on your husband.”

His eyes held mine.

I don't want to be a revenge fuck, sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It affected me somehow.

Felt something burning in my heart.

No, it's not that," I said.

"It’s not about him.

It’s about—"

I gestured between us.

"Whatever this is."

"And what is this?"

"I don’t know yet."

I swallowed.

"But I’d like to find out."

Tom looked at me for a long time.

Then he withdrew, letting me go completely, and I felt his hands like a cold wind.

He said, "Consider it.

Tonight, tomorrow, as long as you need, I will be here.

"And if I’m sure?"

If you know where to find me, then you know.

I stood there in the dusty light, shaking, my lips still on my lips from his kiss, as he walked out of the library, boots pounding the floorboards.

I thought about it.

Did I think about it, God.

PART 5

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