Holly was 54.
Confident at work, shy in desire.
Years of being a mother, a wife, then suddenly… single.
She’d almost forgotten that she had a body men once dreamed about.
Daniel was 42.
Newly transferred to her department—charming, tall, the kind of man women pretend not to watch walk by.
They were assigned to work late on a proposal.
Empty office.
Only the soft buzz of computers and the stronger buzz of want.
Holly wore a pencil skirt.
Not tight on purpose.
Just… tailored to her curves.
And Daniel kept staring—
not at her chest.
Not at her lips.
But right where her thighs met.
Her spot.
That hidden place every woman knows holds the real power.
Holly pretended not to notice.
But each time she shifted in her chair, his eyes followed—
like he felt drawn… pulled… owned.
—
They moved to sit side by side reviewing slides.
Her knee brushed his.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look away.
His gaze dropped again—
right between her legs, where the fabric dipped when she crossed her thighs.
Holly’s breath caught.
Her body tightened with a sensation she hadn’t felt in too long.
Daniel leaned closer, voice thick:
“Do you… mind that I’m staring?”
Her pulse jumped into her throat.
“Do you want me to?” she whispered.
He swallowed.
And his hand almost reached toward the hem of her skirt—
fingers twitching like he was fighting himself.
This wasn’t a cheap glance.
It was possession forming in real time.
He forced his eyes up to meet hers.
“If I keep looking there…”
His voice cracked just a little.
“It’s because I’m trying to behave.
And imagining what I’d do if I didn’t.”
Holly’s thighs pressed together.
Too late.
He saw the reaction.
And his pupils darkened… hungry.
Older women don’t melt easily.
But when they do—
it’s volcanic.
Daniel lifted a single finger, slow as sin, tracing the edge of her skirt—not touching skin yet.
“You know what it signals,” he whispered,
“When a man can’t stop gazing at your spot…”
Holly leaned in, lips almost touching his.
“What?” she breathed.
“It signals,” his hand finally slipped under the fabric, brushing the soft heat she could no longer hide,
“…that he’s already imagining you opening for him.”
Her knees fell apart the slightest, trembling.
A silent yes.
Daniel’s fingers slid higher—
discovering desire she thought had died with her marriage.
Her body reacted faster than her mind.
Heat.
Wet.
Want.
He smiled—because he caused it.
—
When a man can’t stop staring at a woman’s spot—
not her makeup, not her dress, but the place where longing lives—
it signals that:
He doesn’t just want her beauty.
He wants her permission.
Her weakness.
Her yes.
And the moment she parts her legs—
even an inch—
he’ll understand she’s already decided to give it to him.
Not because he demanded it.
But because he earned the right
to see where she burns.