It’s late by the time I’m walking up to the ticket booth at the small theater, heels clicking loudly enough to echo against the sounds of the New York traffic behind me, busy even at this hour.

The attendant smiles at me, a drugged, lazy stretch of her lips, and she hands me the ticket with chipped nails and red knuckles, taking my cash with her free hand. We don’t acknowledge each other otherwise, and I step around the booth and toward the doors.

The theater is old and worn, smelling faintly of must and metal with the overbearing scent of carpet shampoo, as if the years could be washed away with a chemical promise of ‘clean cotton’ or some other equally misleading label. But I don’t care. I love this place, and I always have.

I walk the familiar hall and to the theater playing Vertigo, pull open the spotty, brass handle and step into the empty theater. I come here weekly to watch the old movies they favor late at night, sit in the creaky chairs that make my ass hurt. I discovered it one night by accident, saw the busted marquis with missing letters, knew that once upon a time it must have been grand. I imagined the beauty of it, the magic of it in its original state, and sort of fell in love. It was a nostalgic pilgrimage I made each week, that glorification of a golden time that I’ve never known but idolize. Collecting old things is a hobby of mine, a vintage enthusiast, my ex used to say.

My heart jerks in my chest at the memory of him.

The final reason he gave me for leaving, when I really broke him down, was that I was a prude. The notion had shocked me then. Even now it does as I walk through the aisle and take a seat, smoothing a hand over my wool circle skirt. I’d never considered it before the moment he’d said it. When we’d first started dating, he’d loved that I let him take control almost as much as he loved the fact that I wore garters and stockings most days to work with my vintage dresses and red lipstick. But I supposed he was right, in a way. He’d wanted more from me, more than I could give. When he brought home a riding crop and a whip with leather straps, I couldn’t. I just … I can’t. A shudder rolls through me at the thought of him slipping the leather through his fingers.

The door squeaks open from behind me, and I jerk my head toward the sound, shocked. I’ve never seen a soul here, and my first thought is sinister. It all of a sudden feels irresponsible to be here alone at night, so late in an empty building.

My eyes meet his as the door swings closed, leaving us in virtual darkness aside from the light of the screen as it flashes occasionally with bad movie trivia. Neither of us moves, seemingly both stunned by the other’s presence, and my eyes roam over him. He looks like James Dean — hair combed back, fiery eyes that could probably see straight through my clothes, strong jaw. His lips lay in a soft pout, sport coat over his shoulder, white shirt cuffed above his elbows, dark suspenders pronouncing the length of his long torso. My bottom lip find its way between my teeth, and I blink, turning my head as my heart clangs against my ribs.

He moves in my periphery to the aisle in front of me, and the tension twists. His eyes are on me — I can feel them. Mine are locked onto the screen where a cartoon popcorn and soda dance in an attempt to convince me to eat them. I sneak a glance and catch him smiling, a crooked curve that somehow said he’d do dirty things to me, if I’d say the word. I bite the inside of my cheek.

He stops in front of me, pauses for a moment as if he’s considering something before deciding to sit directly in front of me, in the seat staggered to the left. My palms are damp, and I press them against my skirt just as the intro credits begin to run.

He has his own gravity. Every nerve feels him. I recross my legs. Imagine him speaking, imagine that his voice is deep and velvety. Imagine him touching me.

I drag in a deep breath and remind myself to pick up batteries on the way home. It’s been too long. Even the thought of my vibrator makes my body clench, thighs tight. I squeeze them together, press my back into the seat, surprised by the fleeting vision of me pulling my skirt up and slipping a hand up my thigh, up to the point where my legs meet, to the hot, slick slit.

I tell myself to stop it, though I smile, wondering what my ex would think of me jacking off in a public place. I almost want to do it just to spite him. Then I realize that I can do much better than that.

My eyes find him again. I can almost see his profile, his long lashes in the brief flickers of light from the credits. I slip my foot out of my heel, careful not to touch the ground in my silk stocking as I slip it between the seats and against his ribs.

He stiffens, though he doesn’t look back, and my heart pumps so hard that it aches. I don’t know what he’ll do for that long moment as I shift, dragging my toes down his ribs, praying to God I’m not making a fool out of myself. My eyes are on his lips, looking for a response. And when he smiles, adrenaline shoots through my body.

His eyes are on the screen as he slips his warm hand around my foot and reaches for the arch, pressing hard enough not to tickle. He traces my toes, runs his fingers down the outside of my foot, up my ankle and around the back. My lips are parted — I’m not sure what to expect next. It can’t be real. But as his hand tightens around my ankle, I know it is real. It’s definitely real.

I press the inside of my foot against his ribs, feeling the hard muscle under his shirt, wishing I could reach more of him. Frustration slips through me. I consider pulling away, getting up, and marching around the aisle to sink into his lap. I imagine his cock pressed against me, feel my body pulse at the thought.

His hand disappears, the cold air a shock against my skin in his absence. He reaches into the seat next to him for his sport coat, and I jerk my foot away when he stands. He doesn’t look back. I’m mortified as I slip my foot into my shoe, my eyes on his back as he walks away. And then I stare at the screen, watching Scotty follow Madeline through San Francisco, seeing nothing as my thoughts explode in my mind, cheeks steaming. I was stupid and brash to proposition him. A stranger in a movie theater. So, so stupid.

I’m so focused on my thoughts that I don’t see him approach, not until he sits next to me. My breath freezes in my lungs, eyes wide, still staring at the screen. I can’t move.

He’s watching me. I can smell him, clean and crisp with a hint of spice, and I feel drunk, gripping the arm rests so hard that my fingers burn.

He’s waiting for my reaction.

I trip over my thoughts as they skitter through my brain. What do I do? I could reach over and touch him. I could stand and leave. I could speak, ask him his name. Did I want to know? I wasn’t sure.

But everything clicked into place, just like that.

I didn’t want him to leave, and he didn’t. I wanted to touch him, and now I can. I’m not afraid, I realize. My body relaxes. I release the breath trapped in my chest and let go of the arm rest, drop my hand to his thigh and drag it up as I turn to meet his eyes.

He’s even more beautiful up close. His eyes are on fire, shadowed and dark, his full lips parted. I watch as his tongue slips out briefly to wet his bottom lip and pull it into his mouth. I smile. My fingers find his cock, hard and straining, and he shifts in his seat, presses into me with a slight roll of his hips.

His hand is in my lap, I realize when he reaches the top of my thighs, the sensation lessened too much by the thick wool of my skirt. I want his skin. He must feel the same because his fingers skim my outer thigh and to the hem of my skirt, slipping under and back up, his hands rough against my silk stocking. He sucks in a breath when he reaches my garter, and the shock of his skin against mine shoots through me like lightning. His fingers keep going until he slides them under the elastic of my panties and grips hard.

I’m so wet, my body aching. I can’t get close enough. I’m stroking his cock, he’s grabbing my ass, and all I want is to have him inside of me. I pull open his belt, our eyes still locked, my lips tingling as I unzip his pants and free him, trail my fingers down his hot skin. And then I stand.

I turn to face him, slip a knee up the outside of his thigh as his hands slip up mine. My fingers hook on the back of his seat, and he shifts under me to give my knees room. I arch over him as I climb into his lap and lower my hips until the length of his cock is pressed against me. Our lips are inches from each other’s, his breath warm and shallow. He grabs my hips under my skirt and pulls until our lips meet, hard and fast. They’re everything I thought they’d be, soft and demanding, hot and wet. He sucks my lip, slips his tongue into my mouth with his fingers against my skin, cock against my slit, soaking him through the small strip of satin between us.

My hands move down his chest, to his pants as he grabs me around the waist and moves to the edge of his seat, leaning me back. I grab his cock and shift my hips as he yanks my panties over. There’s almost no room to stroke, our bodies are so close, but we find a way, for a moment at least. I don’t want to wait. He doesn’t either.

His hot crown presses against my lips, throbbing in answer, wanting to pull him into me. Our eyes meet through a heartbeat until he flexes his hips, driving into me. A long moan slips past my lips as he fills me completely.

His mouth is against my neck, whispering against my skin, but I can’t think. My head hangs back, lids fluttering, the feel of him inside of me all I can comprehend. His hands find my waist, shift me to slide out and rock back in, and my hips match his rhythm easily. I want to see him, want to watch our bodies meet, and lean back further, push him pack in his seat and drag up my skirt. He holds the hem up, and we watch him disappear into me, eyes tracing the long line of my thigh, swathed in sheer black silk, the strip of milky thigh and straps of lace, the satin pulled to the side to expose my bud.

Neither of us can look away. He licks his thumb and touches my clit, pulls me down harder as I grind when our bodies meet. It’s what I needed. My pussy tightens once. He pulls me onto him again, his thumb tapping faster as I tighten again. My eyes squeeze shut as heat burns through me until I gasp, my body clenching around him, squeezing him for a long, glorious moment before I let out a cry, pussy pulsing. His hands are on my hips again as my body shudders, driving into me faster until he follows with a hot burst and a moan.

Our bodies slow, and I lean into him, our arms wound around each other, his face against my breast, my hands in his hair, his around my back, our bodies still rocking in gentle waves, without a single regret.