Usually, standing in front of the wall of windows of my apartment soothes me. There is something about the twinkling lights that stretch the city's landscape and reflect across the bay like a net of Christmas lights, that makes me exhale a long breath of relief. It started raining an hour ago, which has distorted the view, like a reminder that even the simplicities of life are less enjoyable when I'm standing here alone drinking. A fifty-year-old man, with no wife, and no kids. Just a bachelor with only my work to keep me company.

What is the point of all of this if I can't share it with someone?

Perhaps I was naive thinking it would be Mara, but watching her bicker with her sister, made me realize it's not possible, and it doesn't matter that I'm in love with her. I cooked up a fantasy in my head of a future where we could live happily, and raise children. But what was I thinking? Me, becoming a father for the first time at fifty? I would be a walking joke.

I choke down what's left of my cognac, wipe my mouth, and grip the glass so hard my knuckles turn white. 

The glass shatters.

"Fuck!"

Pieces fall to the floor, and there's a sudden sharp burning across my palm.

"Fuck."

Blood oozes from a giant gash, and I have to catch the red droplets with my other hand before they hit the carpet. I march over to the kitchen sink to run the water, which stings as soon as it hits my exposed skin, but I welcome the pain with a grimace. 

I deserve this for being an imbecile, thinking I could have a future with a beautiful, twenty-four-year-old woman who dances like the gentle caress of wind across my cheek—graceful, alluring, and soft. I've been a fool prancing around with her on my arm like the typical middle-aged man going through a life crisis. What was I thinking offering to pay her money to be my date? How could I cheapen her into being some Sugar Baby? 

It was wrong from the start, and her sister is right for assuming the worst about me. 

Hell, if I was the father of a beautiful daughter like Mara, and a man my age came around, I'd beat his ass. So, I don't blame Lucas for being a protective older brother, since their father can't.

"Fuck me..." I turn off the faucet, wrap my hand with a towel, and lean against the kitchen counter with eyes closed. "I should have signed up for Tinder. Not become whatever this is."

I inhale and exhale deep breaths while listening to the drumming of rain against the windows. Maybe I should go stand in it and cry at the sky to complete my self-pity. However, tomorrow is a new day. I can lick my wounds while burying them in work. Sighing, I run my hand back and forth through my hair, disheveling it, but a knock at the door startles me with a jolt, and my eyes fly open. 

It's midnight. 

No one visits me this late. 

The hairs on my arms electrify. I push away from the counter and tiptoe toward the door, my eyes flashing to the entry table. There's a handgun in there. Not that I need it, but you never know. I take a deep breath, then look through the peephole. 

My lungs freeze mid inhale.

It's Mara. She's standing there with rain dripping down her hair, and makeup smudged across her creamy, tan skin. I unlock the bolt and open the door, but before I can ask questions, she barges in, her shoulder bumping mine. 

"Hu... Hi," I stutter, and it comes out more like a question as I close the door.

Mara paces in front of the entry table, hands on her hips, rain rolling off her jacket and onto the floor. She stops and looks at me.

"So is that it?"

"Is what, it?"

She motions between us. "You and me?" 

"No, Mara. I—"

"Then why did you walk away?"

"I told you—"

"I know what you said!" she shouts, then brings her hands to her temples, and closes her eyes with a shake of her head. "Was any of it real? Because in Vegas it felt like we were becoming a real thing. It felt like... like..."

She continues pacing, so I go to her and place my hands on her waist to stop her. Her eyes flash to mine, and tears are accumulating like slick glass across those gorgeous brown irises of hers. 

"Please tell me I'm not crazy," she says. "Please tell me I'm not alone in my feelings." 

"You're not alone..." I whisper, and she reaches for my face in a way that feels desperate.

"You feel what I feel?" Her watery eyes search mine, her hands cupping my cheeks as if she's clinging to hope. 

I nod and she releases a relieved breath, her mouth crashing to mine.

It catches me off guard, but having her lips against mine is welcoming and intoxicating. Her skin is cold, but her tongue is warm like honey in tea. So, I weave my arms tightly around her and savor her sweet taste as her hands migrate to my chest to grip my shirt. We get lost in the kiss, but I need to feel Mara all around me, and slide my hands down to her bottom, squeeze, then scoop her up. Her legs instinctively pretzel around me, and I pivot toward the entry table to rest her on it. She reaches back to shove items out of the way, and I don't give one single damn when they crash to the ground. 

Instead, I'm too busy pushing her dress up to her waist so I can tug her panties aside, and slide in. Mara doesn't waste time either as she yanks the string on my sweats to loosen the waist and drags them down as far as she can with her feet. I push them to my ankles for her but abandon any attempt at kicking them off when Mara's eager hands grab my erection.

"I need you, Enzo. I need you," she says breathlessly between kisses while guiding me to the precipice I want to dive into. "I need you."

"Yes, ma'am." I push myself inside her, and we inhale a sharp breath when our bodies connect. 

It doesn't matter how many times we had sex in Las Vegas, it's still a delicious shock to my nervous system to feel her wet warmth all around me. She pulls me in closer with her legs when I thrust, and I swallow her first moan with a deep kiss. There's something about being inside her mouth and between her legs simultaneously that will forever be the most erotic experience. Her mouth tears away from mine with another moan that goes right into my ear like music notes. I need to hear more of it, but I also need to see her beautiful face. So, I pull back just enough to watch the pleasure ripple across her face in waves as I thrust and thrust while stealing kisses.

Mara holds onto the table to anchor herself as she meets my hips with her own ravenous movements. The orgasm builds and builds, her fingers digging into the back of my neck with her other hand, our eyes staring deeply into one another's almost like a challenge for who will finish first. When we finally reach the apex, her head falls back with a soft thud against the picture on the wall, and she releases one final crescendo of a moan.

But it isn't an explosion of incoherent, satisfied noise. 

No, I hear her loud and clear.

"I LOVE YOU," she says.

Fuck.

I love her, too.

So, much.

But I don't say it.

Instead, I spill my love into her with my face buried in her neck as her chest expands and contracts while she catches her breath. Her heart is racing. So is mine. I lift my head, kiss her soft lips, and gently slide out of her. It's quiet between us as she steps down from the entry table, and adjusts her dress. But I'm not ready for her to go, so I take her hand.

"I want you to stay here tonight. Will you stay?"

"Yes." She nods.

This is a terrible idea. A relationship will never work. I ruined that possibility from the start. I know this now. Yet I step in the direction of my bedroom anyway. I should let Mara go, and allow her to move on, but I don't know how to do that.

She's my tiny dancer, after all.