Best Man
"He's in town for his best friend's wedding, staying at the family house. His friend's mom has been divorced for years — and he's grown up nicely."
"You're staying with my mom, right?"
Danny asks this like it's nothing. Like his mother isn't the reason I've thought about MILFs since I was sixteen.
"Yeah. She insisted."
"Good. She's lonely since the divorce. Keep her company."
If he only knew.
Mrs. Hartley — "Call me Diane, you're not in high school anymore" — picks me up from the airport.
She's fifty-two now. Still blonde, still curvy, still devastating. The years have only made her more beautiful. Fuller. Softer in places that make my mouth water.
"Look at you," she says, pulling me into a hug. Her breasts press against my chest. She smells like vanilla and something floral. "All grown up."
"Look at you," I counter. "Haven't aged a day."
"Flatterer." She swats my arm but she's pleased. "Come on. Let's get you home."
The Hartley house hasn't changed much.
Same colonial in the suburbs. Same photos on the walls — Danny at various ages, his sister at her wedding, family vacations from years past. But Mr. Hartley's photos are gone, replaced by Diane's art.
She's alone here now. Has been for three years.
"Guest room's all made up," she says, leading me upstairs. "Same one you always used."
Same room where I jerked off thinking about her when I was seventeen. Fun times.
"Thanks, Diane."
"Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."
Dinner is torture.
She's changed into a dress — casual, flowing, but it clings when she moves. Every time she leans across the table, I get a view down her neckline. Every time she laughs, her whole body shakes.
"So," she says over wine, "no girlfriend? Handsome guy like you?"
"Haven't found the right one."
"High standards. I respect that." She sips her wine. "Danny says you work too hard. No time for romance."
"Danny talks too much."
"Danny talks exactly enough." Her eyes hold mine. "He also says you were always sweet to me. Even when his friends were obnoxious teenagers, you were polite."
"You were always nice to me. Least I could do."
"Was that the only reason?"
The question hangs between us.
"No," I admit. "Not the only reason."
After dinner, we sit on the porch.
The night is warm. Crickets chirp. Somewhere down the block, someone's playing music.
"Can I ask you something?" Diane says.
"Sure."
"Did you have a crush on me? When you were a kid?"
I should lie. Should laugh it off.
"Yes."
She nods like she expected it. "I knew."
"You knew?"
"You weren't subtle." She smiles. "The staring. The blushing. The way you'd volunteer to help with anything I was doing."
"I was seventeen. Subtlety wasn't my strength."
"It was sweet." She sets down her wine glass. "I used to think about it, sometimes. Whether it was wrong that I was flattered."
"Was it?"
"Probably." Her eyes find mine. "You're not seventeen anymore."
"No. I'm not."
"And I'm not married anymore."
The words settle between us. Heavy. Charged.
"Diane—"
"I'm just stating facts." She stands. "I'm going to bed. Your room is across from mine. If you need anything..."
She lets the sentence trail off.
Then she goes inside.
I lie in the dark for an hour.
Thinking about her. About what she said. About what she didn't say.
If you need anything.
I need something, all right.
Her door is open.
A crack of light from the hallway. Enough to see.
She's on her bed, propped against pillows, reading. Silk nightgown. Glasses perched on her nose.
"Can't sleep?" she asks without looking up.
"No."
"Neither can I." She sets down the book. Removes the glasses. "Something on your mind?"
"You know what's on my mind."
"Do I?"
I step into the room. "You left your door open."
"Old habit. House gets stuffy."
"You told me where your room was."
"In case you needed something."
"What could I possibly need at midnight?"
She smiles. "Why don't you tell me?"
I cross to the bed.
She watches me come. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"This is a bad idea," I say.
"Terrible," she agrees.
"Danny would kill me."
"He'd kill us both."
"So we shouldn't."
"Definitely not." She reaches up, touches my jaw. "But you've been staring at me since you were sixteen years old. And I've been curious for almost as long."
"Curious about what?"
"Whether you'd live up to the fantasy."
"What fantasy?"
She pulls me down onto the bed.
"The one where my son's best friend finally stops being polite and takes what he wants."
She's soft everywhere.
I knew she would be. But knowing and feeling are different things. Her body is a landscape of curves — breasts that overflow my hands, belly that gives beneath my touch, thighs that wrap around me like they belong there.
"God," she breathes as I kiss down her neck. "I've wanted this for so long."
"How long?"
"Years." She arches into my touch. "Since you came back from college with shoulders and stubble. I had to leave the room."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You were Danny's friend. It was inappropriate." She gasps as I pull down her nightgown, bare her breasts. "It's still inappropriate."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Don't you dare."
I worship her.
Every inch. Every curve. Every soft, giving place. I tell her she's beautiful and she cries a little because her ex-husband never said it, never touched her like she was precious.
"You're gorgeous," I say against her skin. "Perfect. I've thought about you for half my life."
"Flatterer."
"Truth." I part her thighs. "Let me show you."
I go down on her like I've dreamed of doing since I was seventeen.
She comes twice before she pulls me up.
"Inside me," she demands. "Now."
I push into her and we both groan.
She's tight. Wet. Hot. Her body welcomes me like it's been waiting.
"Fuck," she whispers. "Oh fuck, you feel—"
"I know." I start moving. "I know."
We find a rhythm. Deep and slow at first, then faster. Her nails rake my back. Her moans fill the room.
"Harder," she begs. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."
I don't. I fuck her like I've been waiting for this as long as she has. Like every fantasy I ever had is coming true in one night.
When she comes, she screams my name.
When I come, I bury myself deep and give her everything.
After, we lie tangled together.
"That was..." She shakes her head. "Better than the fantasy."
"Same."
"Danny can never know."
"Obviously."
"This probably shouldn't happen again."
"Probably not."
She props herself up on one elbow. Her breasts sway. Her eyes are warm.
"But the wedding isn't until Saturday. You're here until Sunday."
"That's five more nights."
"It is." She traces a finger down my chest. "Seems a waste to stop now."
"Wouldn't want to waste an opportunity."
"Very practical." She kisses me soft. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
The wedding is beautiful.
Danny marries the love of his life. I stand next to him, hand him the rings, give a speech about friendship and forever.
Diane watches from the front row. Every time our eyes meet, I remember the night before. The night before that. All five nights.
At the reception, Danny finds me.
"Thanks for staying with Mom," he says. "She seems happier. Less lonely."
"She's great company."
"She says you've been really helpful around the house."
"Happy to help."
He hugs me. "You're the best, man."
The irony isn't lost on me.
Sunday morning.
Diane drives me to the airport. We don't talk about what happens next.
At the curb, she hugs me tight.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For everything."
"Thank you."
"Will you come back? For Christmas, maybe?"
"If I'm invited."
"You're always invited." She pulls back. Smiles. "Danny's friend is always welcome at his mother's house."
"His mother's friend too?"
"Especially him."
She kisses my cheek. Lingers a moment too long.
I board the plane with the taste of her still on my lips.
A month later, Danny calls.
"Mom's been weird lately."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know. Happier. She's humming around the house. Going to yoga. Bought new clothes."
"That's bad?"
"No, it's just... different. Like she's got a secret or something."
I think about the texts she's been sending me. The photos. The plans for Christmas.
"Maybe she's just living her life."
"Maybe." Danny pauses. "Hey, you're coming for the holidays, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Cool. Mom keeps asking about you. Says you're welcome to stay at the house again."
"Sounds good."
"Perfect. It'll be just like old times."
Not quite, I think.
But I don't say that.
"Yeah," I say instead. "Just like old times."