Harold never thought an art class would lead to this.
At seventy, he’d signed up for a weekend “figure drawing workshop,” thinking it would be a harmless way to stay busy. He wasn’t expecting her.
Martha.
Sixty-six, divorced, silver hair tied loosely, a silk blouse hugging her curves like it had been made just for her. When she walked into the studio, heads turned. But she didn’t notice, or maybe she just didn’t care.
Harold tried to focus on the charcoal sketch in front of him, but Martha kept leaning over his shoulder, her perfume warm and sweet—vanilla and musk. Her voice was soft, almost playful:
“You’re holding your pencil wrong,” she whispered, her breath brushing his ear.
Slow motion.
Harold’s hand stiffened around the pencil, and she gently placed her fingers over his, guiding the line. Her skin was cool, but her touch lingered.
After class, she suggested grabbing coffee “to talk about techniques.” He agreed immediately.
They ended up at a quiet café across the street, the air heavy with the smell of espresso and cinnamon. She crossed her legs slowly, deliberately, her skirt riding just high enough to reveal smooth, pale skin.
Harold’s throat went dry.
She caught him looking, and instead of pulling the fabric down, she tilted her head slightly and smiled—slow, knowing.
“You really should stop pretending you’re interested in the shading,” she teased, her voice low.
He chuckled awkwardly, “You noticed?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, leaning forward, her elbow brushing his hand on the table. “I notice everything.”
The next moment hung in silence.
Her gaze locked on his, unblinking, daring.
When Harold reached for his cup, his fingers brushed hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, letting his fingertips graze her palm, slow, deliberate.
“Do you want to see my sketches?” she asked, but there was something in her tone—soft, low, suggestive—that made Harold’s chest tighten.
“Yes,” he managed.
Her place was only two blocks away.
Inside, the lighting was dim, warm. A small jazz record played faintly in the background. She kicked off her heels, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud, and motioned for him to sit on the couch.
She sat close. Too close.
Her knee brushed his, lingering there. His breath caught.
Slow motion again.
Her hand rested lightly on his thigh, fingertips tracing an idle pattern. “Do I make you nervous?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Harold admitted, his voice rough.
“Good,” she said, leaning in until her lips brushed his cheek.
Then it happened.
She leaned back slightly, her skirt riding higher as she shifted on the couch, and crossed her legs again—but this time slower, wider. Her eyes stayed locked on his, deliberate, waiting.
Harold swallowed hard.
“You know,” she said softly, “men always think older women… slow down.” She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “They’re wrong.”
Her fingertips slid from his knee down to his hand, guiding it gently, firmly, exactly where she wanted it.
Every sound, every movement slowed—the faint hiss of the record player, the warmth of her breath against his neck, the soft slide of fabric.
She didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t fake.
She took.
Afterward, they sat quietly, tangled in the low glow of the lamp, breathing heavy. Martha rested her head on his shoulder, her hand draped across his chest.
“You draw better than you think,” she whispered with a faint laugh.
Harold smiled, still trying to steady his breath. “I think I just found my favorite model.”
She chuckled softly, her lips brushing his jaw as she whispered, “Next time, you won’t need the sketchbook.”