Two days had passed since the young widow had agreed, almost on a whim, to spend a night with the wealthy older man who had quietly admired her for months. At first, she had thought it would be nothing more than an indulgent thrill—a fleeting escape from her quiet, lonely life. But the moment he touched her, guiding her with firm yet gentle hands, she felt something awaken deep inside her that she hadn’t known existed.
He was not just experienced—he was attentive, observing every subtle reaction, every shiver that betrayed her desire. His voice, low and confident, whispered suggestions that made her body respond before her mind could even think. She tried to resist at first, telling herself that she shouldn’t feel so drawn to someone so much older, someone who should be just a memory of safety, not temptation.
But the way he held her, pressed her softly against his chest, it was intoxicating. Every gentle brush, every slow caress seemed to unlock parts of herself that she had kept hidden, even from herself. And when she finally let go, surrendering to the sensations coursing through her, she realized how much she had wanted this—not just the physical touch, but the control, the certainty, the undeniable masculinity he exuded.
Two days later, even when he was not around, she found herself replaying every touch, every whispered word. She caught herself touching her own body absentmindedly, craving the warmth, the attention, the feeling of being guided, yet adored. She couldn’t deny it any longer: she wanted him again. And deep down, she feared she might want him forever.
