Most men look at her and see gray hair, soft wrinkles, and eyes that have watched decades go by. They think of her as sweet, perhaps wise, maybe even comforting—but rarely sensual. What they don’t know is that under the quiet, composed exterior lies a woman whose heart still knows how to rush.
He touched her hand first—barely a graze as he passed her the wine glass. She smiled, but her pulse skipped. He didn’t notice. Not yet.
Later, as he stood behind her to help with her shawl, his fingers brushed the back of her neck. Her breath hitched. She hoped he didn’t feel it, but at the same time, a part of her hoped he did. The thump in her chest got louder. It had been so long since someone had made her feel like that. Her skin remembered. Her nerves remembered. And her heart? It responded like it was 25 again.
They sat together on the couch, a little closer than they needed to be. The room was quiet, but her thoughts were loud. Every time his knee accidentally touched hers, her breath caught. Every time his voice dipped low, her chest rose.
She wanted to hide it, this flurry of electricity, this soft ache in her chest—but it was no use. One more touch, and she knew her heart would give her away.
Most men don’t realize that age doesn’t turn off desire. It just hides it beneath layers of restraint, waiting for the right hand… the right voice… the right moment to awaken it again.
Her heart didn’t race because of nerves. It raced because she was alive—and finally being seen.