At first, his touch was hesitant—gentle, almost shy. He hadn’t been with a woman in years, let alone someone older than him. There was something intimidating about her calm, the way she reclined against the pillows, watching him with half-lidded eyes. No pressure. No rush. Only that faint, mysterious smile.
She guided his hands, but not with words—with breath, with slight movements of her hips. And slowly, the tremble in his fingers faded. Not because he gained confidence, but because she gave it to him. Her body didn’t flinch under his touch—it welcomed it. Invited more.
He had expected to feel awkward. He hadn’t expected to feel reverent.
As he explored lower, she didn’t resist. In fact, she spread herself wider, deliberately, and that’s when he saw it—not just the curves and softness of her skin, but what she’d hidden beneath the surface: desire that hadn’t dulled, but matured. Controlled heat. Silent need.
It wasn’t what he expected from someone “her age.” It was better. No pretense, no games. She didn’t need to impress—she was the impression.
And in that moment, he realized: her power didn’t come from youth or beauty. It came from knowing exactly who she was—and letting him see just enough to leave him wanting more.