The storm broke faster than the forecast dared to predict, a sudden fury that plunged the evening sky into dark.

Bethany had just finished stacking another armload of firewood on Richard’s porch when the heavens cracked open. Rain lashed sideways, thunder rolling so low it rattled the windows of the old Victorian next door. Richard, her quiet, silver-haired neighbor of years, appeared at his front door, umbrella in one hand, concern in his eyes.

“You’ll be soaked before you make it home,” he called, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind. “Bethany, come in. Wait it out.”

She hesitated only a moment. The street was already flooding; her little bungalow sat lower than his. Through sheets of rain, she could barely make out the lighthouse on the point, its beam swallowed by the storm. She stepped inside, dripping on his mat, and he closed the door for her against the roar.

Richard’s home smelled of cedar and coffee. He lifted her coat from her shoulders, hung it by the fire he quickly built, and pressed a warm mug into her hands. They sat on opposite ends of his couch at first, talking about nothing—the garden she’d helped him plant last spring, the way the maple in his yard dropped leaves earlier this year. Simple things.

But her breath caught when the power to the neighborhood flickered, then died, leaving only the orange glow of the hearth, burning between them. Shadows danced across his face, softening the lines around his eyes, the silver at his temples. Bethany found herself gazing at this man: his strong hands that had steadied her ladder more than once, his warm, steady voice that always asked how her day had gone. He was older—fifty-five to her thirty-eight—but loneliness had a way of making age irrelevant.

Their conversation drifted. She admitted, quietly, that she hadn’t been touched in longer than she cared to remember. Not since the breakup that sent her running to this small town years ago.

They eased closer, and Richard listened without judgment, then confessed the same: years since his divorce, years of mornings that started and ended alone. “She said I gave too much,” he added quietly. “That I lost myself in trying to please her,” his eyes on the dying fire. “In the end, it wasn’t enough.”

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, their gentle fire began to build.

He reached for her hand first—just that. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, slow, deliberate. When she didn’t pull away, he leaned in and kissed her, warm and unhurried, tasting of coffee and rain. She kissed him back—surprised by how natural this felt.

As the fire died, they moved to his bedroom. Candlelight flickered over his dresser, painting gold across his sheets. Their clothes peeled away slowly—her sweater, his shirt—until nothing was left but skin and breath and want.

Richard paused at the edge of his bed, gazing at Bethany's natural beauty with reverence. “Tell me what you need,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint.

Her heart pounded. She had never asked for this—not out loud. But her words came anyway.

“I want to wake up to your tongue on me,” she breathed in the candlelight. “Every morning. Slow. Just… you tasting me until I come apart. Nothing else. Not yet.”

His eyes darkened with his own need, but he knelt between her thighs without hesitation, hands sliding beneath her hips to lift her gently. His first broad lick drew a shuddering breath from her core. He tasted her slowly—salt and warm woman, groaning softly as he settled—his tongue circling her pearl with patient devotion. She threaded her fingers through his silver hair, guiding him closer, her hips rolling in small, instinctive circles.

He learned what she loved quickly: the steady pressure she needed just beneath her pearl, the broad strokes that make her plush thighs tremble, the soft suction that pulled quiet cries from her throat. And when she came, pleasure broke gently through her at first, then in long, rolling waves. Tears pricked her eyes—aching with the tender relief of being wanted exactly as she was.

Afterwards, he rested his cheek against her inner thigh, inhaling her scent. She stroked his hair as they fell quiet in the candlelight.

“Every morning?” he asked her quietly, his voice enthralled against her flushed skin.

“Every morning,” she confirmed, smiling into the dark.

Their storm finally passed before the dawn. Power returned to Richard’s home with a soft hum. Bethany could have left for home—should have, perhaps. Instead, she stayed.

The morning sunlight finally pooled around her, and Richard’s tongue found her: tender, unhurried, tasting her intimate warmth of sleep and the night before. Her eyes fluttered open in wonder, her body arching to him again, her breath trembling on her beloved’s name.

When she came this time, it felt like his promise.

Their days became weeks, and their ritual held. He never asked for more than she offered. Yet every morning she felt his need against his sheets: the silken bead of his wanting, feeding the fire of their hungers.

One crisp autumn morning, after he’d brought her release, she drew him up beside her and kissed him deeply, tasting her own on his tongue.

Bethany’s heart pounded again. She had never asked this of anyone—not out loud. But her words came anyway.

“Marry me,” she breathed against his lips.

Richard laughed softly, wonder in his eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Their weeks became seasons; their garden bloomed beside the maple. In their home that smelled of cedar and coffee and them, their ritual never faded. Every morning, before the world intruded, Richard woke his wife the way she loved best: slowly, reverently, until she came apart in the candlelight.

And every morning, Bethany smiled into the dark—she felt content, cherished, and utterly alive.