His fingers hovered for a moment, unsure. The space between her thighs was warm, inviting—but he sensed it was more than just physical. As he let his touch move inward, slowly, carefully, she closed her eyes.
And then… she remembered.
It wasn’t about him. Not entirely. It was about the sensations that came flooding back—ones she thought she’d lost to time. Her breath caught as his fingertips brushed the soft skin no one had dared explore in years. The muscle memory was still there. So was the ache.
Each stroke sent a ripple of sensation through her, but more than that, it unlocked something deeper: the recollection of past lovers, secret afternoons, the weight of being desired not for youth, but for presence.
He felt it, too. That this wasn’t just touch—it was communication. Her thighs parted not in submission, but in quiet permission. And he respected that. He moved slowly, not because she was fragile, but because she mattered.
And in that quiet space between lust and memory, something stirred that neither of them expected: the feeling of being fully alive again.