He thought he was the one leading things. He had taken control early on—undressing her with slow, deliberate hands, placing her gently on the bed, worshipping her body inch by inch. He wanted to make her feel special, cherished. After all, she was older. He assumed she might be timid. Reserved.
But as his lips traced a path down her thighs, he paused.
She didn’t shy away. She didn’t hold back.
Instead, she arched her back—smooth, sensual, commanding. A silent but unmistakable signal. There was no hesitation in her movements, only need. Real need. And it caught him completely off guard.
Her moan wasn’t girlish or coy. It was deep. From the chest. And it told him everything: she was alive. Not just physically, but in every sense. She didn’t want to be worshipped like a delicate thing—she wanted to be devoured like a woman who’d waited too long to feel this again.
He looked up at her face. There was no fear of judgment in her eyes. Just hunger. And maybe, a little mischief.
She didn’t want to be reminded of her age. She wanted to forget it. And so did he.
At that moment, it became clear—what she lacked in youth, she more than made up for in depth, in fire, in raw, untamed response. She didn’t need to prove anything. Her body did the talking.
And he was more than ready to listen.