He knelt between her thighs, eyes focused, hands steady. She was laid back, legs parted, breath uneven. But it wasn’t fear or fragility that made her tremble. It was him.
His mouth moved slowly, tracing along the inside of her thighs. Every time he got close, she tensed—hips shifting, legs trembling again. It wasn’t weakness. It was anticipation. She hadn’t felt this sensitive in years.
Her hand gripped the sheet beside her as his lips brushed closer, not quite touching where she needed him most. The shaking grew more intense—not wild, not chaotic, but rhythmic. Like her body was remembering something it thought it had forgotten.
He paused only to look up at her. Her eyes were shut tight, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her legs shaking harder with every second he waited. And then, finally, he gave her what she needed—his mouth exactly where she had been aching for him.
The sound she made wasn’t loud. It was soft, raw, broken open by sensation. Her thighs wrapped around him instinctively, not to pull him in, but to hold herself together.
And still, she trembled.
Not from age. Not from weakness.
From pleasure.