Wine Night
"She opens a bottle to take the edge off. Then another. By the third, she's telling him things she swore she'd never say. By the fourth, she's showing him."
"Join me."
She holds up the bottle. A nice red—the expensive stuff she saves for when Dad's out of town.
"I don't really drink."
"Learn." She pours a second glass. Sets it across from her at the kitchen island. "I hate drinking alone."
I sit. Take the glass. She's already on her second pour, and there's a flush in her cheeks that tells me she started before I came downstairs.
"Dad's not back until when?"
"Thursday." She takes a long drink. "Three days. Three days alone in this house."
"I'm here."
"Yes." She looks at me over her glass. "You are."
Something in her voice makes my skin prickle.
Brenda is fifty-two, Irish, and the softest woman I've ever known. Not just her body—though that's soft too, all three hundred pounds of it—but her voice, her laugh, her hands. She moves through the world like everything might break if she's not careful.
Right now, she doesn't look careful. She looks tired. Hungry. Something else I can't name.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
She laughs, bitter. "How would you know?"
"Because you're drinking alone on a Tuesday, and you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when Dad forgets your anniversary. Or your birthday. Or any of the hundred times he's chosen work over you."
She stares at me. Sets down her glass.
"You notice too much," she says quietly.
"You deserve better."
"Do I?" She pours another glass. Third now. "I'm not so sure anymore."
By the fourth glass, she's talking.
"He doesn't touch me," she says. Not slurring, but loose. Unguarded. "Hasn't in two years. Says he's tired. Says the pressure at work. Says later, always later."
"I'm sorry."
"I used to think it was me. Too old. Too fat. Too..." She waves her hand vaguely. "Too much."
"You're not too much."
"Easy for you to say." She takes another drink. "You're twenty-four. You don't know what it's like to be invisible."
"You're not invisible."
"Aren't I?" She laughs. "Your father looks right through me. His colleagues look right through me. Everyone—"
"I don't."
She goes quiet.
"What?"
"I don't look through you." My heart is pounding now, but the wine has loosened something in me too. "I see you, Brenda. Every day. More than I should."
"What does that mean?"
"It means—" I stop. Take a breath. "It means I watch you walk across a room and forget what I was doing. It means I hear you laugh and feel it in my chest. It means I lie awake at night thinking about what it would be like to—"
"Stop."
"—to touch you. To hold you. To show you that you're not invisible."
She's staring at me. The glass is frozen halfway to her lips.
"You're drunk," she says.
"I've had one glass."
"Then I'm drunk."
"Probably."
"And you're saying these things because—"
"Because they're true." I reach across the island. Take her hand. "Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
She doesn't let go of my hand.
For a long moment, we just sit there. Her breathing is fast. Her cheeks are flushed from more than wine now.
"This is wrong," she whispers.
"I know."
"Your father—"
"Doesn't see you. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't deserve you."
"And you do?"
I stand. Walk around the island. She turns on her stool to face me, and now I'm between her thighs—thick, soft thighs in thin pajama pants—looking down at her.
"Let me show you," I say.
"Aiden—"
"One night. Just tonight. Let me show you that you're not invisible."
She looks up at me. Her eyes are wet. Not crying—something deeper. Something raw.
"I haven't been touched in two years," she says.
"I know."
"I don't even know if I remember how to—"
I kiss her.
She tastes like wine and something sweeter.
She freezes for a second—just a second—and then she melts. Her hands find my shirt, bunch the fabric, pull me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, and I lick into her like I'm dying of thirst.
"God," she gasps when we break apart. "I forgot—I forgot what that felt like—"
"I'm just getting started."
I drop to my knees. She makes a confused sound, and then I'm tugging her pajama pants down, and she's not wearing underwear, and—
"Aiden, you don't have to—"
I bury my face between her thighs.
She screams.
Her cunt is hot and wet and sweeter than the wine. I lick her like she's the last thing I'll ever taste, my tongue finding her clit, circling it, sucking it while she grabs my hair and loses her mind.
"Oh fuck—oh God—I'm—"
She comes in under a minute. Two years without being touched, and she shatters on my tongue like glass. I don't stop—I push my fingers inside her and lick her through the aftershocks until she's begging.
"Please—I need—inside me—please—"
I stand. Unzip my jeans. Her eyes go wide.
"You're—that's—"
"Two years without this," I say, pressing the head of my cock against her entrance. "Let me make up for lost time."
I push into her.
She comes again before I'm all the way inside.
Just the stretch of me filling her—her body clenching, her head thrown back, her moans filling the kitchen. I give her a moment. Then I start to move.
"Yes—don't stop—fuck—"
I fuck her on the kitchen stool where my father eats breakfast. I grab her hips, soft and wide and perfect, and pull her onto me with every thrust. Her breasts bounce beneath her shirt. Her belly ripples. She's everything I've ever wanted.
"Tell me you're not invisible," I growl.
"I'm not—fuck—I'm not invisible—"
"Tell me you feel me."
"I feel you—God—I feel everything—"
"Tell me you want more."
"I want more—please—more—"
I pull her off the stool. Spin her around. Bend her over the island.
"Every night he's gone," I tell her, thrusting back into her. "Every night for the rest of the week. This is what you deserve."
"Yes—yes—"
I fuck her until she comes twice more. Until her legs give out. Until I finally let go and fill her with everything I have.
Afterward, we lie on the kitchen floor. Naked. Spent. The wine bottle is empty.
"That was..." She laughs, breathless. "I don't have words."
"We have two more nights."
"Three." She rolls onto her side, looks at me. "Thursday he gets home in the evening. Morning's still ours."
"Then three."
She climbs on top of me. Her body is heavy and warm and exactly right.
"And after that?"
"After that, we figure out how to steal more time." I pull her down for a kiss. "Because I'm not going back to watching you feel invisible."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She smiles—real, bright, alive—and sinks down onto me again.
We don't make it upstairs until sunrise.