First Taste of Chocolate

Elena stood on the porch of her new two-story colonial, the moving truck already gone, boxes stacked haphazardly in the living room behind her. At forty-two, freshly divorced after twenty years of a passionless marriage, she felt both free and terrifyingly empty. The quiet suburban street stretched out under the late afternoon sun, lawns manicured, driveways empty except for the sleek black SUV next door. That was when she saw him.

Marcus straightened up from under the hood of his car, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. Twenty-four, tall, and built like he’d spent every free hour in a gym, his dark skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat. A tight white tank clung to the hard planes of his chest and the thick cords of his arms. He glanced over, caught her staring, and flashed a slow, confident grin that sent an unexpected jolt straight between her legs.

“New neighbor?” he called, voice deep and easy. “Marcus. Welcome to the block.”

Elena’s mouth went dry. She managed a smile, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “Elena. Just moved in today.” Her eyes flicked over the bulge of his biceps, the way his jeans sat low on his narrow hips. Something long-suppressed stirred low in her belly—curiosity, heat, the forbidden pull of a man half her age and a world apart from the pale, soft-bodied husband she’d left behind.

Over the next week the attraction only sharpened. Marcus was always outside—mowing his lawn shirtless, washing his car in basketball shorts that left little to the imagination, the heavy swing of his cock outlined against the fabric when he bent over. Elena found excuses to linger on her porch with iced tea, watching the play of muscle under that smooth black skin. At night she touched herself in the dark, fingers slick, imagining what that thick body would feel like pressing her into the mattress.

Lena came over on Friday with two bottles of pinot and an open mind. They’d been best friends since college; Lena at twenty-eight was the one who never judged, who’d listened to every miserable detail of Elena’s dead bedroom and then cheerfully suggested she get herself a young, energetic rebound.

“Jesus Christ, El,” Lena said after one long look out the kitchen window where Marcus was edging his sidewalk, bare-chested and glistening. “That’s your neighbor? I’d climb him like a tree.”

Elena flushed, swirling her wine. “He’s twenty-four. I’m old enough to be his… I don’t know. Something inappropriate.”