He was kneeling, unsure of how far to go. She sat back against the cushions, her legs parted just enough to suggest—but not insist. There was silence between them, a thick, pulsing kind of silence, until she reached out, fingers tangled in his hair.
She didn’t push hard. Just a gentle pull. Downward. Direct. Her intention was clear.
And he obeyed.
As his face dipped between her thighs, the world outside the room fell away. Her scent, her warmth, the way her inner muscles seemed to respond even before he touched her—it was overwhelming.
She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t tremble with uncertainty. It was his hands that shook as he held her hips steady, his mouth tracing a path that felt less like foreplay and more like worship.
Her thighs locked around him—not to trap him, but to anchor herself. Her breath grew heavier with each second, but she never said a word. She didn’t have to.
All he could focus on was her—the way she opened for him, the way she gave without apology, the way her age became irrelevant in the heat of her desire.
And in that moment, pressed between her legs, he forgot everything else.