He’d approached her with caution—not because she wasn’t beautiful, but because he assumed she had long since turned the page on nights like this.
She was graceful, yes, and carried herself with an elegance that suggested experience, perhaps even restraint. He didn’t expect much more than gentle kisses and polite laughter. Maybe a warm embrace before sleep.
But she had other ideas.
As they lay beneath the sheets, his hand resting lightly on her hip, she shifted suddenly—surprising him with the strength in her legs as they locked tightly around his waist. No hesitation. No doubt. Just want.
His eyes met hers, and she smiled—not the bashful smile of a woman unsure of herself, but the wicked curl of lips that knew exactly what they wanted.
“You thought I was done?” she murmured, voice low, teasing. “You have no idea what I still need.”
He didn’t.
But he was about to learn.
She moved with purpose, with rhythm. Every breath she took was deliberate. Every arch of her back a statement. She didn’t ask for permission—she claimed him.
And in that moment, he saw her not as someone from a different generation, but as someone who had mastered the one thing younger lovers often missed: how to savor.