Undulate: A Hot Age Gap, Single Dad Romance (Alchemy)

‘Did I tell you today how much I appreciate your dress?’ Zach whispers as I bend over to grab some plates from the drawer beneath his kitchen counter. He smooths a hand over my bottom, taking advantage of the empty kitchen while Nancy and Stella show Belle and Rafe something in their bedroom.

I laugh. ‘If I remember rightly, you showed me how much you appreciated it. And we both know actions speak louder than words.’

I’m wearing a fitted forest-green cashmere sweater-dress today. It hits at mid-thigh, the space between its hem and the top of my boots showing a sliver of leg. The tan boots match my chunky belt perfectly. It’s one of my favourite autumnal looks, and it seems I’m not the only one who enjoys the overall effect.

Zach cornered me at work earlier and had me come perch on his desk again. Everyone else was out at lunch, so he boldly spread my legs, holding them open with his thighs clamped between them, and finger-fucked me slowly, languorously, until I came. Unsurprisingly, he got himself in such a state that we ended up banging up against a wall in one of the bedrooms.

He grins, pleased with his earlier performance. ‘Show, don’t tell, right? That’s what the girls get told in creative writing camp.’

I straighten up so my back is flush against his chest. ‘Exactly,’ I whisper seductively over my shoulder.

He groans and plants a smacker on my cheek. ‘Utility room. Come on.’ And with his hands on my hips, he frog-marches me across the kitchen.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting when he shuts us both in the immaculate and very grownup utility room. Probably something dirty, even though we can’t have more than a couple of minutes left before the others return.

It’s not having him gently guide me back against the closed door. Nor is it him raking his hands through my hair and scooping it off my shoulders. Nor cupping my face in his hands and gazing down at me, his blue eyes filled less with desire and more with emotion. Nor is it being kissed so softly, so intentionally, that I’m in fear of losing my own mind as it melts down to an unbecoming puddle on the floor, along with my lady parts and the rest of me.

It’s a beautiful, serious, grownup kiss from a beautiful, serious, grownup man.

I kiss him back the same way. It’s almost as if I needed him to grant me permission to be anything other than plain dirty when we enjoy each other’s bodies. In this moment we have no agenda. Our kiss isn’t foreplay. And so I let my mind go quiet and appreciate every sensation.

The light tug of my lower lip between his teeth.

The flicker of his tongue against mine.

The way his neck feels as I slide my hand around it.

The extraordinary sense of safety I have standing here as his body cages me in and his hands cup my jaw.

Not just safety.

Peace.

I feel more at peace with him here, in this warm, quiet, laundry-scented corner of his home than I’ve felt at any other time except immediately after an orgasm.

He’s everything. The thought floats unbidden to the surface of my consciousness and hovers there. He’s just so… perfect. Intelligent and compassionate and witty and beautiful. He has so much gravitas, and that sets him apart from every other guy I’ve been with.

Not apart from.

Above.

Legions above the charming, sparkly, superficial playboys I usually go for.

Zach is as memorable as they are forgettable. I can’t even recall any of their faces right now, but I already know my chances of forgetting this man’s face anytime soon are zero.

This face.

It’s such a dear, dear face. I use my hands to move his head back so I can take it in. His eyes are so blue, and seeing that cloud of disquiet leave them when he’s with me is my absolute favourite thing. His face is classically handsome, but it has character.

A slightly crooked nose (rugby breakage, probably).

Bags under his eyes that are more violet-hued than they should be.

A mouth that’s full and delicious and capable of wicked, wicked things.

I should know.

I trace his cupid’s bow with a fingertip. He smiles under my touch.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

‘Enjoying you,’ I answer. Drinking you in, more like.

He grabs my fingertip and kisses it. His eyes are less a fire and more a smoulder, but I can’t look away. ‘You’re extraordinary, you know?’ he murmurs. ‘I should tell you more often.’

‘You show me, remember?’ I say. I mean it as a joke, a way of laughing off a moment that just got pretty serious, but he shrugs.

‘I should tell you, too. It’s important to say these things when we have the chance. That’s something I learnt the hard way. You, Mads, are an incredible human being.’

An incredible human being.

That’s so much more than being told I’m an incredible woman, which I often am. Usually by someone who’s just had the best head of their life.

But Zach’s looking beyond all that. Beyond the kinky sex and the pretty face and glossy exterior. Beyond the figure I work hard to maintain.

It sounds like he’s complimenting my actual soul, and I have no idea what to do with that.

Our gazes are locked. I’m speechless, my heart in my throat as I consider all the things he must wish he’d taken the chance to say to his wife, and how much more poignant, more precious, that backdrop makes his compliment in this moment.

‘So, so extraordinary,’ he repeats. ‘You’re an angel. You really are.’

I’m saved from responding by the thunderous, uneven thud of canine and small human footsteps on the stairs overhead.

ZACH

I feel the quietest possible version of Claire’s presence tonight as a rowdy, happy scene plays out around our kitchen island. She’s here, but she’s hanging back, allowing the hilarity to unfold.

The kitchen feels full in the best possible way: full of joy, and levity, and humanity. I have the pizza oven fired up in the garden and a veritable production line of adult and child labour on the case with the pizzas themselves.

Rafe’s rolling out the dough that Ruth made this morning and left to prove. He’s knocking back far too much of my excellent Brunello as he sprinkles semolina over each paddle and adds the pizza base on top.

Maddy’s spreading tomato sauce over each base and doing an admirable job of keeping it where it should be, but, just in case, she’s wearing one of our old aprons to protect her sexy dress from the inevitable splats. It’s not chauvinism that has me sneaking wistful glances at her as she stands here, apron-clad, in my kitchen, spreading the sauce evenly with a spatula and laughing with the others.

Belle’s job is adding the grated mozzarella, while Stel and Nance are on toppings duty. They grabbed the most fun role. Obviously.

And, constant as the stars above, Norm has planted himself next to Nance in the hope of her dropping or bequeathing some rogue pepperoni pieces.

Who am I kidding? He’ll settle for anything. We’re talking about a dog who once underwent surgery to remove not one but two golf balls from his digestive tract.

‘Olives, please,’ Nancy shouts above the dulcet tones of our obligatory Taylor Swift playlist, her lisp in full swing. She holds out a hand.

‘Whose pizza are you doing?’ Belle asks as she slides the bowl of pitted black olives across the island in her direction.

‘Mine,’ Nance says, gathering up a too-large handful. Norm’s nose twitches enviously next to her.

‘Nance.’ I jerk my head at the dog. ‘Don’t let him have any of those.’ Undigested olives are not what I need to find on the utility room floor tomorrow morning.

Maddy wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist. ‘That’s one fancy pizza. You guys are super fancy when it comes to pizza.’

‘We’re a fancy family,’ Stella says in all seriousness, and I spit out a laugh.

‘Er, I think pizza is the only time we’re fancy. We’re pretty basic in most other ways. Nance has always had a thing for olives, though,’ I tell Mads. ‘She loves tapenade.’

Maddy raises an eyebrow. ‘Tapenade? Told you. Super fancy. Slay, queen.’

‘Slay,’ the other three females at the table agree. Rafe and I exchange a we’re too old to understand look.

‘I’m going to maketh Maddy’s,’ Stel announces.

Nance spins her head in her sister’s direction so fast she must have given herself whiplash. ‘No. I’m making Maddy’s.’

‘Girls,’ I warn.

‘You’re still making yours,’ Stella points out. ‘It’s not-eth my fault you’re slow.’

‘Girls.’ I amp up the warning factor in my tone, but neither of them gives a flying fuck.

‘Nancy?’ Belle asks. ‘Any chance you could make my pizza, please? I like a lot of olives.’ She smiles sweetly at Nance, who simultaneously seems to melt and preen at having this honour bestowed upon her.

I shoot Belle a look of intense gratitude.

‘Of course,’ Nancy says with an imperious hair toss. I don’t miss her sneaking a couple of slices of pepperoni to Norm, who opens his jaws for them like a baby penguin feeding from its mother’s beak before instantly resuming his vibrating, high-alert state.

Jesus Christ. Dogs are exhausting. Women are exhausting. Though if my two grow up anywhere near as impressive as Mads and Belle, I’ll allow myself a moment of extreme smugness.

‘What’s with all the Old English, Stel?’ Rafe wants to know.

I sigh.

‘Liz Truss did a reading at the Queen’s funeral,’ Stella tells him.

He frowns at her mention of our most flash-in-the-pan Prime Minister ever. ‘Yeah. And?’

‘And when she read it, she said eth at the end of every word.’

Understanding dawns on Rafe and Belle’s faces. ‘Ahh,’ they say in unison.

Rafe and I exchange another look. This one’s a kids are so fucking weird look. Even weirder is that she’s been doing it on and off since June and I’ve pretty much stopped noticing.

I shrug. ‘It makes everything sound fancier, doesn’t it, Stel?’

‘Yeah,’ she agrees.

‘Definitely the fanciest family ever,’ Rafe mutters, and we all laugh.

‘Methinketh it’s slay,’ Maddy announces, holding up a hand for Stella to high-five.’

’Slay-eth,’ Stel corrects her as their palms connect.

‘Exactly! I love a little linguistic embellishment,’ Mads tells her. ‘Um, you need a lot more ham on my pizza, girl. I am all about the ham and pineapple.’

I mock-glare at her. ‘You’re a fruit-out-of-context fan? Get out of my house.’

She sticks out that little pink tongue I took great pleasure in sucking on earlier this evening, and I involuntarily lick my lips. She notices and smirks before lowering her face to her wineglass and hiding her smile behind a curtain of hair.

Not too long after Claire died, Rafe pulled me aside. ‘For some reason, women are drawn to widowers,’ he’d said. ‘Especially wealthy, good-looking twats like you. The word is they’re like bees to a honey pot. So just watch your back, okay?’

I’ve unfortunately had ample evidence of this over the past eighteen months. Gen explained it as the heady combination of women’s saviour complexes being alerted as well as my wife’s death serving as proof that I am both available and an affirmed family man, apparently making me a unicorn.

I’m sorry to say Gen and Rafe were right. I’ve been beating them off with a stick since, which is one of the many reasons I socialise so little. I’ve been hit on by too many women to count at cancer fundraisers, by both teachers and parents at the girls’ school, and even by a couple of our divorced friends at Claire’s fucking funeral, for God’s sake.

There’s only one woman not trying to slip a replacement ring on my finger, and she’s standing right in front of me, so beautiful, and dazzling, and light-filled she takes my breath away.

She’s not interested in Zach French, wealthy widower, single dad and theoretically eligible. Nor is she interested in faking a relationship with my daughters in the hope that they’re the gateway to my heart.

Because she’s not after my heart.

The only part of me she’s interested in getting her hands on is my dick, and I should be giving thanks to the Lord that I have the world’s most gorgeous twenty-three-year-old wanting to ride my cock every chance she gets instead of trying to ‘ensnare’ me.

Instead, I’m standing here, watching her guffawing with genuine hilarity at something Belle said while Nance and Stel gaze at her like she’s Taylor Swift herself. Her energy is as entrancing, as addictive to them as it is to me. And while I know she cares about me, feels our connection, in her eyes it’s mainly physical.

In my eyes, it’s becoming far more.

We haven’t discussed my little I wish I could spend the night with you outburst. But tonight, I’d give anything to stop her strutting out of here without a backwards glance.

I’d give anything to keep her here with me. On what terms, I have no fucking clue. I haven’t dared to analyse my feelings to that extent.

I get a small window of opportunity to kiss her again before she leaves. The girls are out cold in bed, and Rafe and Belle are washing up at their insistence. Their easy companionship at the kitchen sink gives me another pang, and I tell myself it’s loneliness. This is my and Claire’s kitchen. We used to stand there and do exactly that.

It’s only human to mourn what my wife and I had.

Not that it stops me from kissing Mads most thoroughly on her pretty pink mouth after dragging her into the living room and away from the lovebirds.

‘Can you come to the club this week?’ she asks me, her big grey-green eyes gratifyingly clouded with desire.

‘I’d far rather come to yours,’ I tell her in a slightly more forceful tone than I’d intended, but come on. I don’t want every time with her to be surrounded by sex-obsessed Alchemy members. ‘I want you all to myself,’ I add, and her breath hitches.

‘Okay—that’s—that’s good,’ she says dazedly, and I nod approvingly.

‘That’s my girl.’ I snag her bottom lip between my teeth and run my hands over the perfect globes of her arse.

Right now, I’ll take her any way I can get her. If she only wants to give me her body, I’ll enjoy every second of it and worry about the threat to my heart later. Meanwhile, if I can’t have her here with me tonight, I’ll need to find another way.

I release her lip and give her a little spank. ‘FaceTime me when you get home, okay? I want to watch you get undressed.’