He wasn’t rushing. He knew better than to move quickly—not with her. She watched him from above, quiet and steady, as he placed both hands on her knees and parted them gently.
The moment was slow, deliberate. Her legs yielded easily, welcoming the motion with a silent understanding. And as her thighs opened for him, inch by inch, something shifted in the air.
He expected signs of age—wrinkles, dryness, maybe a sense of absence. But instead, what he saw made his breath catch.
She was beautiful down there. Warm. Full. Still glistening.
There was nothing faded or forgotten between her legs—only a softness he hadn’t anticipated, and a heat that made his pulse jump. She hadn’t been touched like this in years, but her body hadn’t forgotten how to respond. It remembered. All of it.
He looked up at her face. She wasn’t smiling—but her eyes held something deeper. Confidence. Permission. A quiet pride in the fact that she still had this kind of effect on a man.
And he? He no longer saw her as old. He saw her as woman—open, alive, and utterly unforgettable.