Midnight Resolution

The champagne is cheap but the company is expensive.

That's what I keep telling myself as I climb the stairs to Mrs. Nakamura's apartment on the fourth floor, a bottle of Andre in one hand and a sad little grocery store cheese platter in the other. My New Year's Eve plans fell through—Megan finally admitted she'd been fucking her coworker for three months, and I found out via Instagram story at approximately 6:47 PM tonight—so when my landlady knocked on my door an hour ago and invited me to her "intimate gathering," I said yes before I could think better of it.

Her door is already cracked open. Warm light spills into the hallway, along with the smell of something cooking—garlic, butter, something rich.

"Elliot? Come in, come in!"

I push through the door and stop.

She's alone.

No intimate gathering. No other guests. Just Patricia Nakamura in a black velvet dress that hugs every single one of her curves, standing in a kitchen full of food meant for a party that isn't happening.

"Mrs. Nakamura—"

"Patricia, please. You've been renting from me for two years." She takes the champagne from my hands, examines the label, doesn't flinch. "And don't look so panicked. I didn't lie to you. I did plan a party. But..." She gestures at the empty apartment. "My friends are in their fifties. Half of them are asleep by nine, and the other half decided Times Square on TV was too depressing."

"So it's just us?"

"Is that a problem?" She turns to put the champagne in the fridge, and her dress shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the back of her thighs—thick, dimpled, pale against the black velvet. "You're welcome to leave if you're uncomfortable."

I'm not uncomfortable.

That's the problem.

Patricia Nakamura is fifty-three years old. A retired nurse. Widow of eighteen years. And the most dangerously attractive woman I've ever had the misfortune of renting an apartment from.

She's easily two-forty, maybe two-fifty—all of it distributed in ways that make my brain short-circuit. Heavy breasts that strain against every blouse she wears. A belly that's round and soft and pushes against her dresses when she bends. Hips so wide she has to turn sideways in the narrow hallways of this pre-war building. And an ass that I've watched climb these stairs for two years, hypnotized, hating myself for looking.

She's Japanese-American, second generation, with silver-streaked black hair she usually wears in a bun. Tonight it's down. Flowing over her shoulders. Making her look younger. Softer.

More dangerous.

"Sit," she says, pointing at her kitchen table. "I made enough food for twelve people. You're going to help me eat it."

I sit. She serves. And for the next two hours, we eat and drink and talk like we never have before.

She tells me about her husband. How he died of a heart attack at forty-one, leaving her alone with two kids and a building full of tenants. How she raised her daughters, sold her house, moved into the top floor apartment "because someone has to keep an eye on things." How she hasn't dated in almost two decades because—

"Because men my age want women half theirs." She refills my wine glass. We switched from champagne an hour ago. "And men half my age want women their own. There's no market for a fat Japanese widow in her fifties."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" She looks at me over her glass. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black. "When's the last time you looked at a woman like me and thought 'I want that'?"

I open my mouth. Close it.

Because the truth is: every time I see her.

"That's what I thought," she says softly.

But she's wrong. She's reading my silence as agreement when it's actually terror. Terror that she'll see through me. That she'll know I've been fantasizing about her since the day I moved in. That every time she bends over to pick up a package in the lobby, I imagine burying my face in that ass. That I've jerked off thinking about those breasts more times than I can count.

I should say something. Clear this up. Tell her—

"It's almost midnight," she says, standing. "Come. We'll watch the ball drop."

Her living room has a window that faces west, toward the river. You can't see Times Square from here, but you can see the glow of it, the distant sparkle of a city preparing to turn over another year.

She sits on the couch. Pats the space beside her.

I sit closer than I need to.

The TV murmurs countdown statistics. Celebrities I don't recognize pretend to be cold. And Patricia Nakamura's thigh is warm against mine through the velvet of her dress.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks quietly.

"Anything."

"I didn't cancel my party." She's not looking at me. Watching the window, the glow. "I never invited anyone except you."

"What?"

"I've been trying to get you alone for months. But you're always working, or with that girl—the one who just broke your heart." She turns, finally, and her eyes are bright with something that might be wine or might be courage. "I told myself this was the year. New Year's resolution. Tell Elliot how I feel or stop feeling it."

"How you... feel?"

"Don't make me say it." Her voice is almost a whisper. "I'm fifty-three years old. You're what—twenty-eight? This is humiliating enough without—"

I kiss her.

I don't plan it. Don't think about it. One second she's talking, the next my mouth is on hers, and she tastes like wine and possibility and finally.

She freezes. Just for a moment. Then her hand comes up to cup my face, and she's kissing me back, and the sound she makes—this desperate little moan—goes straight to my cock.

"Elliot—" She pulls back, breathing hard. "We can't—I'm your landlady—"

"I don't care."

"I'm old enough to be your mother—"

"I don't care." I cup her face in my hands, make her look at me. "Do you know how long I've wanted this? How many nights I've lain awake imagining—"

"Imagining what?"

"You." I slide my hand down her neck, her shoulder, the swell of her breast. She shivers. "All of you. Every curve. Every inch. I've wanted to touch you since the day I signed my lease."

"You're drunk."

"I'm honest. There's a difference."

In the distance, I hear cheering. The ball must have dropped. Midnight. New year.

"Happy New Year," I whisper.

And I kiss her again.

This time, she doesn't pull away.

She leans into me, her weight shifting, her body pressing against mine. I feel her breasts crush against my chest—heavy, soft, overwhelming. My hands find her hips, grip the velvet, pull her closer.

"Bedroom," she gasps against my mouth. "Now."

I follow her.

Her bedroom is simple. Queen-sized bed. White sheets. A lamp that casts everything in warm gold. She stops at the foot of the bed, turns to face me, and for a moment she looks uncertain.

"The lights—"

"Stay on." I move toward her. "I want to see you."

"Elliot, I'm not... I don't look like..."

"You look like everything I want." I reach for the zipper at the back of her dress. "Let me prove it."

The zipper slides down.

The dress falls.

She's wearing plain cotton underwear. White bra, white panties, nothing fancy. But she might as well be in the most expensive lingerie in the world because the sight of her—all of her—makes me forget how to breathe.

Her breasts are massive, spilling over the cups of her bra, soft and heavy and real. Her belly is round, pillowy, marked with faint stretch marks that I want to trace with my tongue. Her thighs are thick and dimpled, pressing together, and the white cotton of her panties is...

Wet.

"Christ," I breathe.

"Too much?"

"Not enough." I close the distance between us. Unhook her bra. Let it fall. "Never enough."

Her breasts swing free, and I cup them immediately—one in each hand, overflowing, nipples already hard against my palms. She gasps when I squeeze. Moans when I lower my mouth to one dark peak and suck.

"Elliot—God—it's been so long—"

"How long?"

"Since Kenji died. Eighteen years. I haven't—no one's touched me in—"

I silence her with another kiss. Guide her backward until her knees hit the bed. Lower her down.

She spreads beneath me like a feast.

I take my time.

I kiss every inch of her. Her neck. Her shoulders. The heavy swell of her breasts, lingering on nipples that harden further under my tongue. Her belly—round and soft, quivering when I press my lips to her navel. Her hips. Her thighs.

When I hook my fingers in her panties, she lifts her hips without being asked.

The cotton slides away, and she's bare.

"Beautiful," I murmur.

"You don't have to—"

I lower my mouth to her cunt and lick.

She screams.

Eighteen years of hunger. That's what I taste when my tongue slides through her folds. Eighteen years of loneliness and wanting and being invisible. She's so wet I'm drowning, and when I find her clit and suck, her thighs clamp around my head like she's afraid I'll leave.

I'm not going anywhere.

I eat her like she's the only meal I'll ever have. Long, slow licks. Quick flicks against her clit. Two fingers sliding inside, curling, finding that spot that makes her curse in Japanese. She pulls my hair. Grinds against my face. Uses me.

"I'm going to—Elliot—I can't—"

She comes so hard she almost suffocates me.

Her thighs squeeze. Her back arches. Her voice breaks on something that might be my name or might be prayer. And I don't stop—licking her through it, drawing it out, making her shake until she's pushing me away, sobbing.

"Too much—too sensitive—please—"

I pull back. Wipe my face. Look up at her.

She's glowing. Ruined. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Get up here," she whispers. "Now."

I strip while she watches.

My shirt. My pants. My boxers, and my cock springs free—harder than I've ever been, aching. Her eyes go wide.

"That's... that's going to..."

"Fit." I climb onto the bed, over her. "I promise."

She reaches down. Wraps her fingers around me. Strokes once, twice, and I have to grab her wrist or I'll come before I'm inside her.

"I need you," I tell her. "Now. Please."

She guides me to her entrance. Positions me. And I push.

Tight.

That's my first thought. Impossibly, wonderfully, incredibly tight. Eighteen years of no one, and her body has forgotten what this feels like. She gasps as I slide in. Whimpers. Her nails dig into my shoulders.

"Okay?" I freeze, only halfway inside.

"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"

I push deeper. She takes all of me. And when I'm finally buried to the hilt, I stay there, letting her adjust, feeling her pulse around me.

"Move," she whispers. "Fuck me, Elliot. Fuck me."

I move.

Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make her gasp with each one. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. I watch them—hypnotized—and reach down to cup one, to squeeze, to feel that impossible softness while I'm buried inside her.

"Harder," she begs. "I won't break—harder—"

I give her harder.

The bed slams against the wall. She screams. I fuck her like I've been wanting to for two years—like she's everything I've ever craved and I'll die if I don't have her. Her legs wrap around my waist. Her heels dig into my ass. And when she comes again—clenching around me, pulling me deeper—I lose control.

"Patricia—fuck—I'm going to—"

"Inside me. Inside. I want to feel—"

I come.

Buried deep, pulsing, filling her while she holds me so tight I can't tell where I end and she begins. The orgasm rips through me. Whiteout. Oblivion. And when it's finally over, I collapse onto her—into her—and she catches me.

Soft.

Safe.

Home.

We lie tangled together.

Her weight beneath me. My weight on top of her. Sweat cooling on skin. Heartbeats gradually slowing.

"That was—" She laughs, breathless. "I forgot. I forgot what it felt like to—"

"To what?"

"To be wanted." She strokes my hair. "To be touched like I matter."

"You matter." I lift my head. Look at her. "You've always mattered. I've just been too afraid to say it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm saying it." I kiss her softly. "I want you. Not just tonight. Not just because it's New Year's. I want this. Us. Whatever you'll give me."

She's quiet for a long moment.

"I'm old enough to be your mother," she says again. But this time, it's not a protest. It's a test.

"I know."

"People will talk."

"Let them."

"My daughters will think I've lost my mind."

"Have you?"

She smiles. Slow. Beautiful. Like dawn breaking.

"Maybe." She pulls me down, kisses me deep. "But if this is madness, I don't want to be sane."

Outside, fireworks are still going off. The first morning of the new year, and the city is celebrating.

But in this bedroom, on this bed, with this woman wrapped around me—

I've already found everything I want the next twelve months to bring.

"Happy New Year, Elliot," she murmurs against my chest.

"Happy New Year, Patricia."

And for the first time in my life, I think it actually will be.