Ian

Ding-Dong. “Just a minute,” I yell at the door. “Every time. Every fucking time both hands are full, or I’m in the middle of something, the goddamned phone or doorbell rings.” I groan to myself as I plop two bags of groceries on the counter and head for the door.

“Yeah?” I ask as I yank on the knob to deliver a scornful stink-eye at the perpetrator. No sooner than my eyes recognize the face before me, then my ability for thought and speech are temporarily stunted. “Samantha? Is that you? Surely my eyes deceive me.” I’ve been trying all day to keep my mind off her, and here she is. This gorgeous, and I mean fucking GOR-GE-OUS, woman in front of me has managed to outdo the memory I had of her. How is that even possible?

“Hey, Mr. Black. I saw you pull in and I wanted to talk to you about something. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Uh, no. Not at all. I’m just back from the store putting away groceries. Is everything OK? Everything OK with the lawn?”

Really you moron, is everything ok with the lawn? Those words seemed relevant in this conversation with a twenty-one-year-old college student? What the fuck would she care about her parents’ lawn?

“Ha. No, no, everything’s fine with … the lawn. I just got home last night and, well—ok, this is going to seem kinda random, but Mom told me what happened with you and Ga—your ex,” she says bluntly.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sure, uh—I can’t really imagine what you would want to know about all that drama?” I say gesturing her inside. “I’m just in the kitchen. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.” I usher her ahead of me to steal an unfettered moment of her ass. Yep, still perfection.

I resume my task with the groceries, desperate not to think about having her all to myself, alone in my house. Focus on the produce. Do not look at what she’s wearing. Do not stare at her body. My mind is racing. Suddenly, I don’t know how to behave normally and every action I perform requires an unusual amount of cognitive power to do it correctly.

“Here, make yourself comfortable at the breakfast bar. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Oh no, I’m fine thanks.” She jumps right into the meat of things. “I don’t mean to pry, but Mom mentioned the divorce finalized last winter, so it’s been what, six months?”

“Well,” I say with a gulp. “Actually, things wrapped just before Thanksgiving, so uh—you know, the holidays were a little rough for Will and me…” Why are you whining about how hard things were? Focus man, focus. “Anyway, I guess that would make it almost eight months now. Why?” I ask growing ever more curious why any of this would be of interest to a young vixen like her.

A recurring thought flashes in my mind, pissing me off all over again. If the bitch wanted out—she only had to say so. Why lie to my face for months? And with that, the anger I’ve been actively trying to extinguish is smoldering again.

“OK, the thing is,” she starts out in an adorably coy way. “I never felt like Gail treated you at all the way you deserved! And to be honest, I can’t imagine what she thought she’d find in someone else that she didn’t already have right here, but either way, it’s her loss at this point, right?”

Now completely at a loss for words, I stutter, “Uh … OK?”

Without hesitation Samantha continues, “Yeah, just trust me on that. It’s definitely her loss. Anyway, Mom let it slip that you haven’t started dating yet?”

“Well...” I attempt an interruption, but she continues un-phased.

“See, that’s just what I was afraid of. So I had this idea. And before you say no, hear me out, OK?” she says, looking up at me with those big, beautiful brown eyes.

“OK, I’m listening.”

“Good! So, I’d really like to help you out.”

A thousand thoughts flash across my mind. She’s lying naked in my bed, I’m positioned above her, our bodies moving together in a natural rhythm. Sweat dripping from my chest.

Focus. Shit

“Help me how?” I ask, trying to play it cool.

“I’d like to help you get back out there. You know, playing the field,” she says in a gentle, but insistent voice.

I carefully, diligently go about folding the paper bags for the recycling while trying to keep my focus on anything other than Samantha. My eyes dart around the kitchen, seeking some other object to focus on but there is nothing. Reluctantly, I turn my attention to the angel sitting before me, determined not to stare her in the tits. I fail immediately.

“Let’s pretend I thought I was ready for that. At my age, I wouldn’t even know how to start getting back out there, as you say.”

“For Christ’s sake Ian, you’re forty-two years old and have a body to rival most twenty-year-olds. You are one of the kindest and sweetest guys I’ve ever met, and you are definitely not too old to date! As for where to start, that’s where I come in,” she says determined, but with a hint of sweetness in her voice.

I struggle to process everything I just heard, stumbling past the fact she just called me Ian for, I think the first time ever, and settling for a moment on the words about my body.

“So? Will you do it? Please, please, please? Trust me,” she says making a pouty face. “We can take it slow if you want. We don’t have to jump straight into a dating app if you’re uncomfortable with the idea.”

My cock stirs in my jeans as I replay we can take it slow if you want in my head.