His hands settled on my hips as I moved to the stove, and even when I thought he’d step back, he didn’t. He just... stayedclose. Touching me. One hand on the small of my back while I flipped bacon. Fingers trailing down my spine while I buttered toast. Standing behind me with his chin resting on my shoulder while I plated everything.
It was strange. Unfamiliar.
Twenty-five years with Terry, and he’d never been like this. Affectionate, yes. Loving, absolutely. But not... tactile. Not outside of the bedroom, anyway. Sex had been something that happened at night, in the dark, and then we’d go back to our separate routines.
Harold had been passionate, but even that had been contained. Scheduled. We’d meet, we’d have our time together, and then we’d return to our lives.
But Stephen touched me like he couldn’t help it. Like his hands needed to be on me, needed to feel me, needed to confirm I was real and here and his.
And the strangest part?
I liked it.
I liked the weight of his hand on my hip. Liked the brush of his fingers through my hair. Liked the way he kissed my temple while I poured coffee, casual and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sit,” I told him, setting plates on the table.
He did, but when I moved to sit across from him, he caught my wrist and pulled me into the chair beside him instead. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that he could reach over and rest his hand on my thigh while we ate.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, solid and real andhere.
After breakfast, I started clearing the dishes, but Stephen stopped me with a hand on my wrist.
“Leave them,” he said. “Come shower with me.”
I should have argued. Should have insisted on cleaning up first, maintaining some semblance of my normal routine. But I didn’t.
I followed him to the bathroom, watching as he turned on the water, testing the temperature. He was moving a little slower than he had earlier, and I recognized it for what it was: he needed time. He was in his seventies, after all, and what we’d done this morning had been... intense.
I understood. Didn’t mind. There was something intimate about just being together, no expectations, no pressure.
The water was hot and perfect when we stepped under the spray. Stephen pulled me against him, his hands sliding down my back, and we just stood there for a moment, letting the water cascade over us.
But as his hands moved over my skin, as I felt the solid strength of him against me, something shifted inside me. A want that had nothing to do with my own pleasure and everything to do with his.
I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were dark, watching me, and I saw the question there. The uncertainty.
I answered it by sinking to my knees.
“Trudy—” His voice was rough, surprised.
I looked up at him through the water streaming down, my hands sliding up his thighs. “Let me.”
For a moment, he just stared at me, and I saw something flicker across his face. Vulnerability. Wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
I wrapped my hand around him, feeling him already starting to harden at my touch, and leaned forward.
The first taste of him made something in my chest tighten. Not from obligation or duty or because it was expected. But because Iwantedthis. Wanted to see him lose control. Wantedto be the one who made him fall apart the way he’d broken me before breakfast.
With Terry, this had been... perfunctory. Something I did because it was part of marriage, part of the give and take. I’d never hated it, but I’d never understood why anyone would want to do it, either. It was just another task, another way to maintain the relationship.
With Harold, it had been transactional. A way to keep him interested, to prove I was still desirable, still worth his time. I’d done it because I knew it would make him stay a little longer, come back a little sooner.
But with Stephen, kneeling on the shower floor with water streaming over us both, I finally understood.
I understood the power in it. The intimacy. The way his breath caught when I took him deeper. The way his hand came to rest in my hair, not pushing, just... holding. Anchoring himself.
“Fuck, Trudy,” he groaned, his head falling back against the tile. “Jesus Christ, your mouth. That’s it. Take it all. Take every fucking inch of this cock, baby.”
