He hadn’t meant to go that far—at least not so soon. But when she leaned back and opened her legs, just slightly, it wasn’t an accident. It was permission.
He moved slowly, almost reverently. She was older than him—decades, perhaps—but in that moment, she carried herself with a power that made age irrelevant. Her eyes never left his as his hand slipped down, exploring the space between her thighs.
What he found there wasn’t what he expected.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t cold. It was soft—achingly soft—like time had preserved something sacred just for him. The warmth was inviting, the texture almost unreal beneath his fingertips. He paused, not out of hesitation, but out of awe.
Her breath deepened as he lingered, her thighs parting just a bit more in response. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her body had learned long ago how to say everything without words.
Most men, he thought, would never even try. They’d assume there was nothing left down there worth discovering. They’d be wrong.
What she hid between her thighs wasn’t just softness. It was memory. It was hunger. It was the quiet ache of a woman who hadn’t been touched properly in far too long—and now that she had offered herself, she was fully, breathtakingly present.
And as his fingers continued exploring, his own assumptions fell away. He wasn’t just touching a body. He was touching a history.