Fingers Deep in Heat

After my breakup a few months back, I’d thrown myself into a new chapter — moved into a creaky, high-ceilinged apartment in the city, landed a gig that paid better than I’d hoped, and swore I’d stop moping and start living.

Some friends, Jake and Emily, were throwing a housewarming party at their new place. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk, but they’d insisted I come and crash there after, so I figured a night of free booze might shake me out of my funk.

The scene was predictable: couples tangled up in each other, laughing too loud, while I hovered near the kitchen island, nursing a whiskey sour. I was halfway through my third when Emily dragged me over to meet Lauren.

Lauren was a knockout in a way that hit you slow and then all at once — 43, recently divorced, a single mom with a teenage son, standing about 5’10” in her low heels. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves just past her collarbone, framing a face with sharp cheekbones and hazel eyes that caught the light. She had this easy confidence, a body that curved in all the right places — full hips, a soft waist, and a chest that strained against her deep green blouse, probably a solid 38D. Her skin had a warm, olive glow, and though she was 15 years older than me, the age gap only made her more magnetic.

The party buzzed on, but everyone else seemed too busy with their own flirtations to notice us. So, Lauren and I fell into conversation — first about the terrible playlist, then about her ex’s midlife crisis motorcycle phase. The whiskey sours kept coming, and soon we were leaning closer, trading stories and sly smiles. By 2 a.m., the crowd had thinned, and she tipped her glass back, laughing. “No way I’m driving home after this.”

“Stay here with me,” I said, half-teasing, expecting her to brush it off. But she met my eyes, smirked, and said, “Why not?”

The guest room was small, just a lumpy futon and a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. Once the house went quiet, we slipped under the covers, and the air between us thickened. Her hand brushed my arm first, tentative, testing. I slid mine along her side, tracing the dip of her waist, and she shifted closer, her breath warm against my neck.

Lauren’s blouse was already unbuttoned from earlier, and when I peeled it back, her breasts spilled free — heavy and firm, with dusky pink nipples that tightened under my touch. I cupped one, feeling its weight, and rolled my thumb over the peak. She arched into me, a low hum escaping her throat. I dipped my head, catching her other nipple between my lips, sucking gently at first, then harder, letting my teeth graze the sensitive skin. She gasped, her fingers digging into my shoulder, and when I tugged with a slow, deliberate pull, her whole body shuddered, a sharp moan breaking the silence.

“Too much?” I murmured, pulling back, but she shook her head, eyes glinting. “I like it when it stings a little.”

That flipped a switch in me. I pinched her nipple between my fingers, twisting just enough to make her squirm, and she threw her head back, biting her lip to stifle the sound. Her skin flushed pink down her chest, and I couldn’t resist — I slid out from under the quilt, pulling her with me.

I turned her around, pressing her hips against the edge of the futon so she had to brace herself on her elbows. Her jeans were tight, but I worked them down, taking her lace underwear with them, until she was bare from the waist down. She stepped out of the pile of fabric, and I nudged her thighs apart with my knee, exposing her completely. Her skin glistened faintly in the dim light, her folds already slick and swollen, begging for attention.

I ran my fingers along her inner thigh, teasing, then traced the length of her slit, parting her gently. She was soaked, her heat radiating against my hand. I tugged at her outer lips, pulling them down and out, stretching her open, and she groaned, pushing back against me. “More,” she mumbled, voice thick, so I grabbed a spare pillowcase from the futon, balled it up, and pressed it to her lips. She opened her mouth, letting me stuff it in, her eyes wide and wild.

With her muffled, I sank two fingers into her, slow at first, feeling her clench around me. She was tight but yielding, and I twisted my hand, curling my fingers to hit that spot inside her. Her hips bucked, a choked cry vibrating into the fabric. I added a third finger, then a fourth, stretching her wider with each thrust, my palm slick with her arousal. She rocked against me, desperate, and I went deeper, working my whole hand inside her, fisting her with a steady rhythm. Her walls pulsed around me, hot and wet, and I could feel every tremor as she climbed higher.

My other hand roamed her chest, pinching one nipple until it was red and stiff, then switching to the other, pulling it long and letting it snap back. Lauren’s muffled moans turned into ragged whimpers, her body trembling under the onslaught. I kept going, relentless, until she seized up, her thighs quaking as she came undone, a flood of warmth coating my hand. She slumped forward, panting into the pillowcase, and I eased out of her, watching her twitch with aftershocks.