The Widower Who Undressed Me with His Eyes

Ever since I separated, Sundays had become strange. There were no other people’s schedules to keep, no complaints, no heavy silence of living with someone who no longer touched you but still wouldn’t let you go. I had my business, my bills paid on time, and a peace that had cost me dearly, so I began to enjoy it with a mixture of freedom and pent-up hunger.

That morning I stayed in bed longer than I should have. I ordered breakfast, took a long bath, and when I finally stepped out of the steam, I saw myself in the mirror with the kind of mood that makes you get dressed up even when you have no important plans. I chose a green dress with tiny flowers, comfortable platform shoes, and straightened my hair until it fell sleekly over my shoulders.

I wasn’t looking for anyone. I was going to buy a couple of things for the house, walk around for a while, and kill some time. But sometimes you go out with no intention of anything and end up caught in a story that leaves your legs trembling.

At the plaza, I bought an ice cream as soon as I arrived. I sat on a bench, crossed my legs, and started eating it slowly, savoring the cold and letting Sunday stretch out without hurry. I don’t know why I suddenly thought of an ex who used to lick my nipples after putting ice cream and chocolate on them; maybe that was why I got so distracted that a drop trickled down my thigh.

I laughed when I saw the stain and wiped it with a napkin. That was when I noticed the man standing a few yards in front of me, watching me with a calm smile—not mocking, almost conspiratorial. I laughed too, the way two strangers share a tiny mishap and, for a second, seem to have known each other before.

He wasn’t young. That was the first thing I liked about him. He looked genuinely grown-up, confident, well put together without overdoing it, with the kind of presence that doesn’t need to raise its voice to take up space. I thought about him for only another couple of minutes, long enough to continue my walk and enter the department store where I was going to buy pillows.

The pillows were forgotten the moment I saw the clothing section. I tried on several things that didn’t convince me until I found a polo-style dress that defined my waist without squeezing it. When I came out of the fitting room to get a better look at myself in the mirror, I lifted my chin slightly and turned slowly, judging myself honestly.

I still had a good body. Not a young girl’s body, but a woman’s body—one belonging to someone who knows herself well and knows where to look to feel good about herself. The dress hugged me in all the right places, showed plenty of leg when I sat down, and for the first time in weeks, I felt desirable again.

That was when I saw him again. The same man from the ice cream was near the fitting rooms, holding a shoebox as a clumsy excuse. He looked at me through the mirror and gave me a thumbs-up, approving the dress with such natural ease that it made me smile.

“It looks really good on you,” he said when I came out.

“Thank you,” I replied, and instead of walking on, I stayed there.

His name was Ramiro. I told him my name was Nadia. In five minutes, we had gone from polite conversation to that unexpectedly easy exchange that only happens when two people want to keep looking at each other. He was a widower and lived alone. I was stuck in a long divorce, the kind you don’t endure out of love but out of sheer exhaustion.

I accompanied him to the sporting-goods section while he chose a pair of sneakers. I sat waiting for him, crossed my legs, and settled comfortably against the backrest. There were mirrors in front of him, mirrors to one side, display cases throwing back reflections from ridiculous angles. I didn’t think about any of that; I was looking at my phone when an employee came by with a mop and asked me to lift my feet a little.

I did it without getting up, uncrossing and crossing my legs again. Ramiro took far too long to decide, but it didn’t bother me. In fact, when he finally came toward me with two different boxes and asked for my opinion, I was surprised to realize that I had enjoyed his hesitation too.

We ended up eating at the store’s restaurant. There, between simple dishes and air-conditioning, the conversation became more personal. I told him about my ex, the betrayal that finally shattered what had already been rotten, his habit of coming home late, drunk, and in the mood for nothing. Ramiro listened with genuine attention, not feigned concern.

Then he looked straight at me, rested his elbows on the table, and said something any other man would have said badly.

“I’m going to be direct with you,” he murmured. “Ever since I saw you with the ice cream, I haven’t stopped imagining you. And when you sat down in the shoe department... I watched you more than I should have.”

I raised an eyebrow, amused.

“More than you should have how?”

He didn’t look away.

“I saw your whole legs. I saw your black underwear in the reflection. I moved a mirror so I could keep watching you without anyone else doing it. I’m not proud of the trick, but I’m not going to lie to you either: you drove me crazy.”

I felt a very specific heat between my thighs. Not because of the vulgarity of his comment, but because of the calm way he said it. No stammering, no pretending to be some irresistible charmer, no excessive apologies. As if he knew I preferred the truth to cheap flirting.

“So you didn’t take that long because of the sneakers,” I said.

“No. I took that long because I was feasting on your legs.”

I laughed, but not nervously. I liked hearing it. I liked imagining him watching me in the mirror, trying to steal one more angle. And I liked it even more to admit, without pretending to be a saint, that if it had truly bothered me, I would have gotten up from that table.

We said goodbye with a vague promise to see each other another day. I thought that would be the end of it, a pleasant encounter with a daring stranger. But the next day he called me before I closed the business and said he wanted to pick me up. His tone was calm, though underneath it I could feel the desire.

I agreed.

When I came out, I expected to see a car. Instead, I saw a small bus pull up to the curb and honk. I laughed before approaching it. It was his: a clean private-transport vehicle with air-conditioning, reclining seats, and that absurd sense of borrowed space that empty public places have.

I climbed in, sat behind him, and we kept talking as if there were nothing strange about a man picking me up in a bus to go for a ride. That strangeness was precisely what turned me on. There was something brazen about accepting the invitation and something even more brazen about enjoying it.

We stopped at a place so I could buy a michelada. He ordered water because he was driving. We got back on the road, I opened a window to let the smell of beer out, and devoted myself to drinking while night fell. Between the alcohol, the wind, and the company, I began to feel loose, giggly, slightly dizzy.

Ramiro noticed. A few blocks from my house, he pulled over on a dark street, turned off the engine, and left quiet music playing. Then he got up from the driver’s seat and came to sit beside me.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, taking my hands. “But relaxed like this, you look even hotter.”

“Hotter?” I asked, leaning slightly closer.

“Yes. In that tight dress, with those legs and that look on your face like you don’t care about behaving anymore.”

I didn’t answer with words. I grabbed him by the nape and kissed him. The first kiss was slow, wet, measured; nothing clumsy, nothing rushed. Our mouths explored each other with growing hunger, as if we both wanted to confirm that the tension from the day before hadn’t been imagined.

His tongue entered my mouth firmly, and I opened my lips wider to receive it. He squeezed one of my knees with his large hand, slowly moving up my thigh until he felt the dress bunch beneath his fingers. I moaned against his mouth, not loudly, just enough of a sound for him to understand that he could continue.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered.

“Don’t stop.”

He unbuttoned my dress patiently, one button at a time, until my bra was exposed. He looked at my breasts as if he had imagined them too many times and was finally collecting something that had been owed to him. He slipped his hand inside the cup, caught one nipple between his fingers, and squeezed just enough to make me arch my back.

I gave him more room by spreading my legs. His palm moved down to my crotch and rubbed me through my thong, finding me instantly hot. He didn’t need to check twice; I was already wet, and when he slid two fingers over the clitoris, pressing down, I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning louder.

“Fuck, Nadia,” he murmured. “You’re soaked.”

“I have been for a while,” I replied.

He pulled one cup of my bra down and caught my nipple in his mouth. He sucked slowly at first, circling it with his tongue, then harder, tugging it between his lips while his hand kept working between my legs. The contrast undid me. I felt the wet pull at my breast and the exact pressure of his fingers below, rubbing where I needed it most.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, writhing on the seat, but at some point it wasn’t enough. I reached between his legs, unfastened his pants, and pulled out his cock. It was hard, hot, and heavy in my palm. It wasn’t huge, but it had the kind of thickness you feel and appreciate before putting it in your mouth.

I knelt between the seats and began sucking him. First I kissed the tip slowly, teasing it with my tongue around the glans. Then I took as much of him as I could into my mouth, letting him hit the back of my throat while I looked up at him. Ramiro let out a hoarse groan and held my hair without roughness, just to guide the rhythm.

I wanted to eat him properly. I pulled him out slowly, licked him from base to tip, spread saliva along his shaft, and took him back in, this time faster. Every time my mouth went down to the base, I felt his thighs tense. He breathed through his nose, holding himself back, and that turned me on even more.

“Slow down, fuck,” he said through his teeth. “If you keep that up, I’m going to come already.”

I let him go just long enough to smile at him.

“I don’t want you to come yet.”

He pulled me up by the arm and took me to the back seats. There was enough room for us to move, and the feeling of being inside a parked vehicle, with the windows slowly fogging up, made me hotter than I wanted to admit. He pulled my thong off one leg, crouched between my thighs, and opened my legs with his hands.

The first lick made me tremble. He ran his tongue from the entrance to the clitoris, slow and broad, gathering everything. I gripped the seatback and spread my knees wider. He repeated the movement several times, alternating long licks with brief sucks on my clitoris, until I began moving my hips without control.

“That’s what I like,” he said before burying his face in me again. “Opening yourself for me.”

He licked me hungrily, sliding his tongue inside and coming back up to press the clitoris with the tip. Then he pushed two fingers inside me, curling them with precision, and kept licking while opening me from within. I was no longer moaning softly: I was panting, crying out, saying his name like both a command and a plea.

My orgasm came quickly, rising through my belly like a hot wave. I clenched his hair, closed my legs around his shoulders, and came in his mouth with a long moan that echoed inside the bus. He didn’t pull away; he kept licking me through the spasms, wringing out every shudder until I was almost strengthless.

When I opened my eyes, I saw him looking up at me, his mouth glistening. That expression alone was worth the night.

“Now stand up,” he ordered in a low voice.

I obeyed. He turned me around, bent me over the seatback, and spread my buttocks with both hands. I felt the cold air and then his tongue, first brushing between my lips, then moving farther back. He took his time licking my ass, wet and insistent, alternating that with deep licks of my pussy. Every time he touched me back there, a shiver ran all the way up my spine.

“I didn’t know you’d like this so much,” I murmured, panting.

“There are plenty of things I want to do to you.”

He sat me down again, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and settled between them. I took his cock to guide it, rubbing it a couple of times between my wet lips before aiming it at my entrance. He pushed slowly at first, opening me inch by inch, and I let out my breath through my mouth when I felt him enter me completely.

“Fuck...” escaped me.

He stayed still for a second, buried all the way inside. I felt his pelvis pressed against mine and the pulse of his cock within me. Then he began thrusting. First at a measured pace, giving me time to adjust. Then harder, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with firm strokes that made the seat creak.

Every thrust drew a different sound from me. I gripped his forearms, watched him clench his jaw, and let myself be fucked without shame, opening my legs wider to take him better. The bus filled with the wet sounds of our bodies and my moans, impossible to hide now.

“This is how I wanted you,” he said. “Sitting across from me and unable to stop thinking about fucking you.”

“Then fuck me harder,” I shot back. “Fuck me hard.”

That was enough. He sped up. His thrusts became sharp and deep, increasingly direct, hitting exactly where they made me see stars. My breasts were half out of my bra, my dress was pulled up to my waist, and my hair was stuck to my face. I felt brazen, used in the best possible way, and that turned me on even more.

He made me stand up again. He took my hands and placed them on the ceiling rails to hold me up. Then he lifted me by the thighs just enough to bring me level with him and thrust his cock into me again. I was practically hanging from him and the rail, my body bouncing with every stroke.

That position completely undid me. The penetration was deeper, the angle more brutal, and every time I dropped onto him, I felt his pubic bone rub against my clitoris. I began moaning dirty and uncontrollably, saying obscenities I hadn’t even known I wanted to say.

“Yes, like that, don’t stop... you’re fucking wrecking me...” I panted.

He growled beside my ear and kept pounding me. I came again right there, squeezing him with my whole body, trembling against him while he kept fucking me through the orgasm. I felt my pussy clench in spasms around his cock, and it drove him wild.

He dropped me onto a seat with my back to him and bent me forward. I thought he was going to fuck me from behind right away, but first he spread my buttocks again and licked me once more, sliding his tongue between my swollen lips and getting dirty with my own wetness. That obscene detail finally made me surrender.

“Ramiro, put it in already,” I begged, my voice broken.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He entered from behind with one hard thrust that made me grip the seatback. He began fucking me like that, holding my waist and pulling me toward him every time he pushed. The rhythm was animal, with no pointless tenderness left at that point. The seat struck my knees, my breasts swung, and all I did was take him, thrust my hips back, and ask for more.

I felt his breathing change, felt him tense every time he drove all the way in. He pulled his cock out just before coming and turned my face by giving my chin a slight tug.

“Suck it.”

I knelt in front of him again without thinking. I took him immediately into my mouth, fast and wet, working the tip with my tongue while one hand held my hair. It hardly took any time. A few seconds of intense sucking were enough to make him come with a deep groan.

I felt the first hot spurt on my tongue, then more, thick and filling my mouth. I didn’t pull away. I swallowed and kept sucking the tip, cleaning it with my tongue, running my lips over the glans until not a drop remained. He watched me with the half-dazed expression that follows a well-delivered orgasm.

We spent a few minutes breathing heavily, silently straightening our clothes. The bus smelled of beer, sweat, and recent sex. I pulled down my dress, adjusted my bra, and put my thong back on without any particular concern for dignity. There was no need for it anymore.

Ramiro kissed me once more before starting the engine.

“I’m never going to ask you for anything you don’t want to give,” he told me. “But I’d love to see you again.”

I watched him as he returned to the driver’s seat. I liked that he didn’t talk about relationships or promises. At this point in my life, the last thing I needed was another man wanting to possess more than I was willing to offer.

“We can see each other,” I replied. “But let’s not complicate things.”

He smiled as if that answer were perfect.

He dropped me off a few yards from my house. I got out with my legs still weak and the taste of his come lingering in my throat. As I walked toward the door, I thought about how absurd the day I met him had been: an ice cream, a mirror, a stare that lasted too long. Sometimes you think you’re only going out to buy something for the house and end up finding another kind of hunger.

We stayed in touch. We’ve seen each other more times, sometimes to have a drink, other times to repeat what began on that bus. I never promised to be his girlfriend, and he never asked me for exclusivity. Maybe that’s why it works. Maybe because, after so many lies and so much exhaustion, all I truly wanted was this: a grown man, direct, with clear desires and hands that knew exactly what to do with my body.

And me, finally ready to enjoy myself without apologizing.