The Plus One | NEON LIT

Derek catches me at the coffee machine.

"Hey, Kyle. Quick favor?"

Derek is my senior by a decade, a VP of Something Important, and the kind of guy who makes favors sound like opportunities. I've learned to be wary.

"What's up?"

"The Christmas party Saturday. Michelle's coming, but you know how these things are—I'll be working the room, talking shop with the partners." He gives me that smile, the one that's gotten him where he is. "Would you mind keeping her company? Make sure she's not bored?"

Michelle. His wife.

"Sure," I hear myself say. "No problem."

"Great. She'll appreciate having someone to talk to who isn't trying to network." He claps me on the shoulder. "You're a lifesaver."

He walks away, and I stare at my coffee, wondering what I just agreed to.

I've met Michelle twice.

Once at the summer picnic, where she wore a sundress that made my brain short-circuit. Once at the fall mixer, where she laughed at something I said and I thought about that laugh for a week.

She's forty-five to my twenty-seven. Married to my coworker for eighteen years. Completely, absolutely off-limits.

And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

Not magazine beautiful. Real beautiful. Full-figured in a way that demands attention, with curves that her expensive clothes frame rather than hide. Dark hair with gray streaks she doesn't bother to color. Eyes that see too much and give nothing away.

I've thought about her more than I should.

I've thought about her a lot.

Saturday Night

The party is at the Hadley Hotel, a restored ballroom dripping with crystal and pretension. I arrive early, find the bar, order a whiskey I don't really want.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

I turn, and my heart stops.

Michelle is wearing a deep burgundy dress that clings to every curve. It's elegant, expensive, and absolutely devastating. Her breasts swell above the neckline, her hips curve generous and proud, and when she moves toward me, everything sways in a way that makes me forget how to breathe.

"Mrs. Harrison."

"Michelle." She signals the bartender. "If we're going to survive this together, we should at least be on a first-name basis."

"Michelle," I repeat. The name feels intimate on my tongue.

"Better." She accepts her wine, takes a sip, studies me over the rim. "So. Derek's assigned you babysitting duty?"

"He said—"

"I know what he said." Her smile is wry. "Keep the wife entertained so he can play politics. It's fine. I've been to enough of these to know the game." She looks out at the crowd—executives and their partners, everyone performing. "What I don't know is why you agreed."

I should have a smooth answer. I don't.

"I like talking to you."

She raises an eyebrow. "We've talked twice."

"It was enough."

Something flickers in her eyes. Something that looks like interest. "Careful, Kyle. That almost sounds like flirting."

"Does it?"

She holds my gaze for a moment too long, then looks away. "Come on. Let's find somewhere to sit where we can mock the decorations."

Two Hours Later

The party swirls around us, but we've carved out our own world.

A corner booth, empty wine glasses multiplying, conversation flowing easier with each one. She's funny in a dry, observant way. She notices everything—the CEO's too-tight smile, the marketing director's nervous laugh, the way the younger wives cluster together like a support group.

"That was me, once," she says, gesturing toward them. "Twenty-five, terrified, trying to say the right things to the right people."

"And now?"

"Now I'm too old to care." She drains her glass. "I've earned the right to sit in corners with handsome younger men and say whatever I want."

"Handsome?"

"Don't fish." But she's smiling. "You know what you look like."

I laugh, and she laughs too, and our knees touch under the table. Neither of us moves away.

The band starts playing something slow.

"Dance with me," she says, and it's not a request.

The dance floor is scattered with couples—Derek somewhere among them, working his angles. Michelle takes my hand and leads me to a quiet corner.

We come together, and she fits against me like a key in a lock.

"You're good at this," she murmurs, her head near my shoulder.

"My grandmother made me take lessons."

"Smart woman."

We sway, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact. Her hand in mine. Her arm on my shoulder. Her breasts pressed against my chest, soft and warm even through layers of fabric. Her hip beneath my palm, generous and full.

"Kyle."

"Yeah?"

"People are going to talk."

I look around. A few glances coming our way. Speculation brewing.

"Do you care?"

She's quiet for a moment. "I should."

"That's not an answer."

"No," she says slowly. "It isn't."

The song ends. Another begins. We don't stop dancing.

By the third dance, I can feel her heart beating.

By the fourth, my hand has drifted to the small of her back, thumb tracing circles on the fabric.

By the fifth, she pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are dark, dangerous, decided.

"I need some air."

"I'll come with you."

"Kyle—"

"I'll come with you."

She doesn't argue.

The hotel has a garden terrace, string lights glittering in the cold December air. We're the only ones stupid enough to brave it.

"This is a bad idea," she says, breath fogging in the cold.

"I know."

"I'm married. To your coworker."

"I know."

"You're young enough to be my—well. Not quite my son. But close enough."

"I know."

She laughs, frustrated. "Do you say anything other than 'I know'?"

I step closer. She doesn't step back.

"I know all the reasons we shouldn't," I say quietly. "I know the math. I know the optics. I know the consequences." I reach out, brush a strand of hair from her face, feel her shiver. "I also know I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for six months."

"Kyle..."

"Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel this. And I'll walk away right now, go back inside, and spend the rest of the night being appropriately professional." I meet her eyes. "Tell me."

She doesn't tell me.

She kisses me instead.

Her mouth is wine-warm and desperate. She kisses like she's breaking a rule she's wanted to break for years, like she's finally giving herself permission. Her hands fist in my jacket, pulling me closer, and I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her slightly off the ground just to feel her gasp against my lips.

"Not here," she breathes when we finally surface. "Someone could see."

"Where?"

She pulls back, looks at me with those dark, decisive eyes. Then she takes my hand and leads me back into the hotel—through a side door, down a quiet hallway, into an elevator I didn't know existed.

She presses the button for the top floor.

"Derek always books a suite," she says as she slides the keycard. "In case he wants to stay over for... networking."

The suite is enormous—living room, bedroom, bathroom bigger than my apartment. She doesn't turn on the lights.

"He won't come looking?"

"He won't come looking." She's silhouetted against the city lights from the window. "He hasn't looked at me in years."

I cross to her. Cup her face in my hands.

"I'm looking at you."

"I know." Her voice breaks, just slightly. "That's why I can't—why I had to—" She takes a breath. "I haven't felt wanted in so long. And then you show up, and you look at me like I'm something worth seeing, and I..."

"You are worth seeing." I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "Let me show you."

I undress her slowly, reverently.

The zipper at the back of her dress slides down to reveal a black lace bra doing heroic work to contain her breasts. Her stomach is soft, rounded, impossibly inviting. Her hips curve out generous and wide, her thighs thick and strong.

"I'm not twenty anymore," she says, arms moving to cover herself.

I catch her wrists gently. "I don't want twenty."

I trace my lips down her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her chest. I unclasp her bra and let it fall, cupping her breasts in my hands—heavy, warm, spilling over my palms. Her nipples harden under my thumbs and she inhales sharply.

"Kyle—"

"Shh." I kiss between her breasts, feel her heart pounding. "Let me take care of you."

I guide her to the bed, lay her down, spend long minutes learning the geography of her body. Every curve, every fold, every soft place that makes her sigh. When I finally slide her underwear down and settle between her thighs, she's already trembling.

"You don't—we don't have to—"

"I want to." I look up at her. "I want to taste you. I want to feel you come apart. Is that okay?"

Her answer is a whispered "please."

She's sensitive, responsive, making small sounds that grow louder as I find my rhythm. Her thighs bracket my head, soft and strong, and I lose myself in the taste of her, the sound of her, the way she moves against my mouth.

When she comes, it's with my name on her lips—not a moan but a declaration, like she's claiming something she wasn't sure she could have.

I don't give her time to recover. I kiss my way up her body, fumble with my clothes, and when I finally sink into her she arches off the bed like she's being electrified.

"Oh God. Oh God."

"Good?"

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

I don't stop.

We make love—there's no other word for it—with the city glittering below us and the party continuing floors beneath. We're slow then fast then slow again, learning each other, memorizing each other.

She comes twice more before I finally let go, burying myself deep and feeling her hold me through it.

After, we lie tangled in hotel sheets, her head on my chest, my hand tracing her spine.

"We should go back," she says. "Before someone notices."

"Probably."

Neither of us moves.

"What happens now?" she asks. "Tomorrow. Monday. All the days after?"

"I don't know." I kiss her hair. "But I know I don't want this to be a one-time thing."

"Kyle. Derek—my marriage—it's complicated."

"I know."

"Do you? Because this isn't just an affair. If we do this, really do this, lives change. Things break."

"Maybe some things need to break." I tilt her face up to mine. "Or maybe we take it slow. Figure it out as we go. All I know is I've spent six months pretending I don't think about you constantly. I don't want to pretend anymore."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then she kisses me, soft and lingering.

"Slow," she says. "We take it slow. And we're careful."

"And then?"

She smiles, something new in her eyes. Something like hope.

"And then we see what happens."

Three Months Later

Derek files for divorce, citing "irreconcilable differences."

What he doesn't cite: the way his wife looks at the junior analyst in meetings. The text messages that made her smile. The weekend trips where she "visited her sister."

I'm there when she signs the papers. I'm there when she walks out of their house for the last time. I'm there when she moves into her own place—a place with room for two, if someone wanted to stay.

"No regrets?" I ask, helping her unpack boxes.

She looks at me—this woman who took a chance, who broke rules, who chose herself for once.

"Not a single one."

I kiss her in her new kitchen, with cardboard boxes stacked around us and a future we get to build together.

Some things are worth the trouble.

She definitely is.