Chapter 1: She Rode Waves

Vivienne rode the last wave in, clean and steady, popped up with practiced ease, and stepped off onto wet sand like she’d been doing it all her life.

At seventy-six, she still surfed four mornings a week. No crowd, no chatter, just her, the board, the break. Her thighs were strong from the paddling. Her arms pulled her forward with quiet force. The cold Pacific didn’t faze her.

Up on the trail, a jogger noticed her. Slowed down.

He saw a woman dragging her board from the surf, long hair dark and wet against her back, black rash guard clinging to her torso. At a glance, she had the silhouette of someone younger. Upright, athletic, legs firm beneath a clinging sarong.

He looked closer.

He saw the streaks of gray in her hair. Crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. His face twitched. Then shifted, recognition curdling into something else. Discomfort. Dismissal. Just an old lady. He sped up.

Vivienne didn’t see him. She was unstrapping her leash, shaking water from her hair. Her breath was calm, steady, controlled. She bent to rinse her board with ocean water, her spine flexing clean and strong.

She pulled off the rash guard. Her black bikini was soaked and clinging, her skin marked with sun and time. 

She walked barefoot to the edge of the lot, where the bike was locked, a battered cruiser with a side rack for the board. She unhooked it, checked the tires, and stood astride it a moment, adjusting the strap of her bag. Her legs were wet, calves beaded with saltwater, thighs dusted with sand.

Then she lifted one leg and swung it over the seat with quiet, practiced grace.

Her hip rotated open, slow and steady. No wobble. No hesitation. Just smooth motion, muscle and joints working together. Her thigh flexed as she shifted her weight, the sarong pulling tighter around her legs, then fluttering loose again as she settled onto the saddle. Her small breasts moved beneath the soaked bikini top, hardened nipples against the thin fabric from the cold water and morning air. They shifted, leaned, and followed her body’s rhythm.

It was a small thing, just mounting a bike, but it showed everything. Control. Ease. Strength earned over years of using the body, not sculpting it. She didn’t move like someone clinging to youth. She moved like a woman who knew what she had, and how to carry it.

At seventy-six, she could still ride barefoot up the hill without pausing for breath.

She pedaled back toward home, dripping salt water, her sarong fluttering behind her. The morning sun had just started to burn off the haze.

She had plenty of time to shower before the client arrived. Wash the salt from her skin. Ease the tightness in her shoulders. And after that, he would arrive. The thirty-year-old with back pain and loads of questions. First-time client. Polite. Anxious.

Vivienne wheeled the bike up the short stone path and into the side yard, where the gate hung slightly crooked but still held. She leaned the cruiser against the wall under the overgrown bougainvillea and unlatched the board from the side rack, propping it on the hooks she’d bolted to the porch years ago.

The front door was, as always, unlocked.

She pushed it open with her hip and stepped barefoot inside. The air was cool and dry, thick with the scent of old wood, oils, and faint traces of smoked sage. The cottage was small, just three rooms.

Masks from Ghana and Nigeria hung above the archway. A carved wooden Buddha from a dusty Delhi stall smiled serenely across from a feathered Hopi dream shield. There were baskets from Mozambique, handwoven in faded colors, and a thick wool throw she’d traded for in Oaxaca. Nothing matched. Everything had a story.

A massage table, folded neatly behind a linen curtain in the back room. A low shelf held ceramic jars of herbs, oils, soft cloths, beeswax candles. The room doubled as a studio and therapy space for the clients she saw.

She crossed the woven rug toward the bathroom. The stone tiles cooled her feet.

In front of the mirror, she let the sarong fall. The bikini bottom clung wet to her hips, high-cut and faded black, hugging her small, muscular ass with precision. Her legs were long and sinewy, calves still firm from decades of movement.

She lifted her arms and unhooked the top. It peeled away from her chest with a damp sigh. Her breasts were small, soft, still pink at the nipples. Today, sensitively awake from the seawater.

She slid her fingers under the waistband of the bikini bottom and pulled it down slowly. The fabric rolled over her thighs, clung just a moment to her skin, then gave way. She stepped out of it.

Between her legs, she wore a well-tended bush, dark, with a few glints of silver at the edges. Her folds were waxed, smooth, bare, sensitive. She liked it that way. The contrast. A little hair felt natural, womanly, real. But keeping the lips smooth made her feel clean, aware, even a little sharp-edged. It was how she liked to feel in her body.

She turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm. Steam gathered quickly, fogging the mirror, softening the room.

When she stepped in, her body sighed in return.

The hot water hit her back and ran down her spine, soaking into her pores, her joints, her muscles. Her head dropped forward, hair spilling like seaweed over her collarbones. Her hands moved with care. She scrubbed with a cloth, slow and deliberate, from her ankles upward—calves, knees, thighs, the curve under her ass. She washed her belly, cupped her breasts gently, traced the bar of her sternum with slick fingers. Soap foamed along her shoulders, her neck, her face.

Between her legs, she paused. Cleaned. Rinsed. Her body mattered. The heat reached her nipples, stiff again. She smiled.

When she was done, she stepped out and toweled off with long strokes. One leg, then the other. Wrists, shoulders, breasts. Her stomach, hips, back.

She pulled on soft cotton panties and a loose dress printed with mandalas, worn thin from years of washing. No bra. She didn’t need one.

Flip-flop sandals waited by the door.

Vivienne ran her fingers through her damp hair, pushed it back from her face, and looked at herself in the mirror one last time.

A beautiful seventy-six-year-old woman. Ready to meet her new client.

Chapter 2: First Touch

Gareth had been dealing with back pain for the better part of a year.

He’d tried everything: two doctors, one physical therapist, three different prescription drugs, a standing desk, a kneeling chair, foam rollers, ergonomic seat cushions with weird holes in them but no cigar. The pain settled into his lower spine.

He sat at a computer ten hours a day. That wasn’t going to change.

Months ago, when it first started, a coworker gave him a business card. Off-white, textured paper, a name, a number, and it had the word natural. He’d flipped it over and made a face. Natural was code for crystals, sage, bullshit. Definitely not for him.

Now here he was.

On the phone, she hadn’t sounded flaky. She’d sounded calm. Intelligent. Not overly spiritual, not clinical either. Just… clear. He made the appointment. Told himself it was desperation, not belief.

She’d said to just come in, sit, and wait to be called.

When he entered the house, he hesitated.

It wasn’t a clinic. There was no receptionist, no smell of disinfectant or forms to sign. Just a small living room, shelves packed with books and strange objects—feathers, bowls, masks, weavings. Nothing looked medical. It was cluttered. Unusual.

He almost turned around.

But his coworker had insisted. Said Vivienne had “magic hands.” And he wanted to believe in something that might actually work.

He sat on the low couch and waited.

Then she appeared.

Vivienne walked in barefoot, a flowy cotton dress skimming her calves. Her hair was damp, swept back from her face, streaked with gray but still somehow youthful. Sunlight cut through the gauze curtain behind her, and for a second the fabric of her dress turned sheer—not vulgar, just sudden. The outline of her legs, the gentle swell of her hips, the small rise of her breasts—there, then gone.

Gareth looked away, fast.

“Gareth?” she said. Her voice was warm, a smile audible in it. “Come on back.”

She led him through a beaded doorway into a soft, warm room that smelled faintly of citrus and sandalwood. A massage table stood in the center, towels neatly folded, candles unlit in the corners.

“I’ll give you a moment to get comfortable,” she said gently. “Undress to whatever level you feel okay with. There’s a towel here to drape yourself with.”

He cleared his throat. “I’d rather not undress.”

Her expression didn’t change. “That’s totally fine,” she said. “It’s important you feel safe and comfortable. You can leave on as much as you like. I’ll work around it.”

She handed him the towel anyway, then stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

When she returned, he was lying face down on the table, still fully dressed—shirt, undershirt, trousers—the towel folded awkwardly over his backside. Only his glasses and shoes were gone.

Vivienne smiled.

“Got it,” she said softly, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Let’s start slow. I’m going to work on your feet, just to relax the nervous system a bit. Okay?”

He nodded into the table’s face cradle. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“May I remove your socks?”

He hesitated. “They’re probably… um, I have kind of a feet smell thing.”

She chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first. Come sit over here?”

She helped him into a low, padded chair. On her knees at his feet, she peeled the socks off gently, exposing pale ankles and tense toes.

Vivienne poured a few drops of warm oil into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and began.

Her touch was firm but soothing, her thumbs pressing into his arches, his heels, the muscles below his toes. The oil smelled like orange peel and something floral he couldn’t place. His shoulders dropped. His eyelids fluttered.

She watched the tension leave his face, the way his mouth softened, how his chest slowed its rise and fall.

“Better,” she said.

When she moved behind him again, her voice stayed soft.

“Would you mind if I removed your shirt? Just to work directly on your back.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She unbuttoned the shirt herself, fingers brushing briefly against his chest as she worked. He slid it off his shoulders, then tugged off the undershirt.

“You mentioned your lower back’s the worst?” she asked.

“Yeah. Mostly when I sit too long.”

“Okay. The waistband might get in the way. If you’re comfortable taking off your pants, I can work more effectively.”

“I’d really rather not,” he said quietly.

She paused, then stepped into his field of view, kneeling beside the table.

“You’re doing great. I know it’s vulnerable. But if you trust me, I can help more.”

He looked at her—the calm in her eyes, the absence of judgment—and nodded.

He stood, awkward, turned his back to her, and slowly slipped out of his pants. His underwear stayed on. He got back on the table, belly-down. The towel settled over his lower back.

“Well done,” she murmured. Her voice was low, warm. “Let’s begin.”

She warmed more oil in her hands and pressed into his shoulders, down the spine, along the ribs. When she reached his lower back, she leaned in with her elbow and he gasped—not from pain, but relief. The ache gave way under her pressure like softened clay.

But her fingers kept catching on the waistband of his underwear.

“Gareth,” she said gently. “I’m sorry—would it be okay if I removed these? Just so I can work directly where the tension is.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

He lifted his hips slightly. She slid the briefs down, slowly, with care. Covered his butt with the towel again.

Now he was fully nude.

The massage went on. Her touch was methodical, respectful. Firm in the right places, featherlight in others. And when it ended, and he sat up to dress, he realized too late, he had a full, undeniable erection.

He grabbed for the towel. “I— I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—”

Vivienne didn’t flinch. She smiled gently, turned to give him space.

“No need to apologize. It happens. You’re fine.”

When he emerged, clothed again, she was waiting by the door with a small smile.

“I feel... better,” he said. “A lot better.”

“I’m glad.”

He paid in cash. Paused at the door.

“Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow?”

She tilted her head.

“Your muscles need a day to rest before another session,” she said kindly. “But I’d be happy to see you again soon.”

He nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

As he moved toward the door, hand already on the handle, she spoke again—lightly, like an afterthought.

“Have you ever surfed?”

Gareth turned, eyebrows rising. “Surfing? Me?”

He gave a short, nervous laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

Vivienne smiled, not unkindly. “Thought so. You’ve got that desk body. Too much thinking, not enough ocean.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t wait.

“I’ll be at San Elijo tomorrow morning. Around seven. If you’re up early. Come watch. Or maybe even give it a try.”

She shrugged, like it didn’t matter either way. “Movement keeps pain away longer than any massage.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

She met his eyes. “No pressure. Just letting you know where I’ll be.”

He nodded, almost reflexively. “Okay. Um. Thanks.”

“Take care of that back,” she said. “And don’t sit so much today.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Chapter 3: Surf’s Up

Vivienne straddled the board, legs astride it in the calm beyond the break. The Pacific moved beneath her like a living thing, cool and heavy. Her thighs gripped the slick fiberglass, lean muscle taut from the paddle out. Her skin glistened with salt and sun. The black bikini clung, wet and second-skin tight, her small breasts rising with each breath, her stomach flat but softened with age and ease.

She was waiting for the next wave to come.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement onshore.

A man. Stiff posture. Button-down shirt. Slacks. Leather loafers.

Vivienne smiled, a quiet laugh escaping her lips.

Gareth.

He looked like he’d come to file taxes at the beach.

He squinted toward the surf, unsure, one hand shielding his eyes. Then he spotted her. Raised an awkward arm in greeting. Waved—full elbow, like a kid.

She raised a hand from the board and waved back, amused.

A set rolled in.

Vivienne turned her board and paddled hard, arms slicing clean through the water.

She caught the wave mid-rise, popped to her feet in one fluid motion, knees bent, core steady. The board carved down the line, her body moving with the rhythm of water and gravity. Controlled. Beautiful.

Gareth watched, slack-jawed.

She was amazing. Like real, like alive, like something that hadn’t had a category for until now.

She rode the wave all the way to shore, stepped off clean, and started walking toward him.

He clapped, a little too eagerly.

Vivienne laughed again, wiping salt from her eyes. “I see you came dressed for surfing.”

He flushed. “I, uh… wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“Well,” she said, parking her board in the sand beside him, “I’ll tell you this much—if you do decide to paddle out, you’ll sink like a well-behaved stone in those shoes.”

She plopped onto the sand beside him, legs stretched long, toes flexing in the heat. Her board rested nearby, slick and glinting in the sun.

Gareth tried not to stare.

But her legs—long, lithe, strong—were right there. Bare and sun-kissed, dotted with salt, speckled with grains of sand that clung to her calves and ankles. Her feet were wide and capable, toes spread easily into the earth.

Her stomach rose and fell with her breath, the skin marked where she'd been sitting on the board—faint red lines creasing the lower belly, the soft give of age that made her look even more alive. Her bikini top cut low, the skin of her chest exposed in a broad triangle. The texture of it caught his eye—not smooth like an ad, but glowing, sun-touched, lightly freckled, moving gently with each inhale.

His eyes followed the curve of her neck, the slope of her collarbone, up to the lines of her jaw—the soft fold beneath her chin, the shadowed places time had settled. The curve of her mouth. He saw the creases at its corners, the folds that deepened when she smiled.

And her eyes.

There were lines there too, at the corners. They had stories. Laughs. Late nights. Tears, maybe. She was more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen on a screen.

She turned her head. Met his gaze.

He looked away instantly, his cheeks going hot.

Vivienne smiled.

“You’re sweet,” she said, not teasing. Just... kind.

He kept his eyes on the sand, heart pounding. Her presence wasn’t demanding. It just was.

They lingered on the beach for a while, Vivienne sipping water from a dented aluminum bottle, Gareth occasionally brushing sand from his pants, unsure whether to sit or stand.

“You ever want to try?” she asked, nodding toward the water.

He shrugged. “I’m not really built for it.”

“Get up,” she said gently, getting to her feet. “Come on. I’ll show you the basics. On the sand.”

He hesitated. Then followed her to a flat stretch near the shore.

She dropped to her knees beside her board, gesturing for him to do the same. He clumsily lowered himself, the stiffness in his back still lingering—though less than it used to be.

“Alright,” she said. “Step one: pop-up. It’s all hips. You’re not fighting the board, you’re using its momentum.”

She showed him—fluid, practiced. Her body moved with muscle memory and ease. He watched, trying not to be distracted by the way her small breasts shifted beneath the bikini, or how her belly flexed when she moved, or the sand catching the light along her thighs.

“Your turn,” she said.

He tried. Failed. Fell.

She laughed—not cruelly, just fully, joyfully.

“Okay, okay,” she said, kneeling beside him again. “Let me help.”

She reached down and placed her hands on his pelvis, fingers spread over his lower abdomen. He froze.

“This is where your power comes from,” she said, voice soft. “Not your arms. Here.”

Her hands were warm. Her face close. He could feel the weight of her attention on him like the sun itself.

He tried again. Still clumsy. She laughed again, eyes squinting with delight.

“You just need more lessons,” she said, brushing sand from his sleeve.

He looked at her—the glow of her skin, the curve of her mouth, the salt still clinging to the tips of her hair.

“Well,” he said, “if not knowing gives me an excuse to be around you, I might never learn.”

Vivienne’s smile deepened. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers resting lightly.

“You don’t need an excuse,” she said. “You’re welcome anytime.”

She leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow. Certain. Her mouth soft, lips warm and slightly salty. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation—she simply met him, fully, generously, with nothing held back.

For a moment, he didn’t kiss back. He was too stunned.

Then he did. Lightly. Gratefully. Like he'd always known how to.

When they pulled apart, her eyes searched his face. He looked down, dazed, smiling without meaning to.

She touched his cheek, thumb brushing a line that wasn’t there before.

“Soon,” she said, “you’ll ride the wave.”

Chapter 4: The Dinner

The door was open, as always.

Gareth hesitated on the threshold, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a slightly-too-tight bouquet of mixed flowers in the other—a grocery store bundle, still dewy and confused, stems poking through thin plastic. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he should knock after all.

“Come in,” Vivienne called from inside, before he could decide.

He stepped in, the familiar creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. The house smelled of garlic, lemon, and something floral burning slow—incense or oil, he wasn’t sure.

Vivienne emerged from the kitchen wearing a loose saffron wrap dress, her gray-brown hair swept up in a soft twist, a few strands clinging to her temples. Barefoot, glowing from the stove’s heat, she looked like she’d been dancing even if she hadn’t.

“Well, don’t you look lovely,” she said, smiling as she took him in. “And you brought wine. And flowers”

He laughed, nervous. “They’re a little—uh—aggressive, I think.”

She took the bouquet gently, brushing her fingers over a confused carnation.

“I love them,” she said. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost done.”

He followed her into the kitchen. The room was warm and low-lit, strung with amber glass lanterns and full of soft surfaces—woven textiles, painted tiles, a bowl of oranges, a string of dried herbs above the stove. Pots simmered on the range. A pan of roasted vegetables filled the air with rosemary and heat.

She placed the flowers in a tall vase and set them on a side table, next to a half-burned candle and a smooth, weathered stone.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Plates are there. You can uncork the wine if you know how.”

He did. Barely. Fumbled the opener, earned a chuckle from her. She didn’t rush. She never seemed to rush.

They ate on thick floor cushions around a low table. She’d laid out a feast: roasted squash, brown rice with toasted almonds, marinated tofu, olive tapenade, slices of fig. He didn’t recognize half of it, but he loved all of it.

She poured the wine into mismatched glasses.

He sipped. “This is really good.”

“You’re really sweet,” she said, watching him over the rim of her glass.

They talked. About small things at first—music, weather, books—but the rhythm deepened. He told her about his work, how his back hurt less now. She told him about Bali, about getting lost in Morocco, about dancing in a thunderstorm in India.

At one point, he reached to refill her glass and their fingers brushed.

Her eyes held his a moment too long.

“You’re relaxed tonight,” she said.

“I think I am,” he said.

“It suits you.”

He looked at her mouth. Her collarbone. The soft light on her bare shoulder. She smiled, slow and knowing.

“Would you like to stay a little longer?” she asked.

He nodded. His voice caught somewhere between yes and breath.

“I’d like that.”

They sat close now, side by side on the cushions, the empty plates pushed off to the corner of the table. The wine was half gone. So was the distance between them.

Vivienne turned her head slightly. Her knee brushed his.

“You have such stillness in you tonight,” she said, watching him.

He smiled, almost embarrassed. “I think I’m just… not overthinking for once.”

“Good.” She reached out and touched his jaw. Just a fingertip, tracing the line of it. “Don’t start now.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

She wasn’t young. She was luminous.

He leaned in slowly, unsure. She met him halfway.

Their mouths touched—soft at first. Her lips tasted like wine and salt and something warm. The kiss was slow, exploratory. Then again, deeper. She parted for him. Welcomed him in.

Her hand slid behind his neck, fingers threading gently through his hair. His hands found her waist, the dip of it through the soft fabric of her dress. She moved closer. Her body warm, present, real.

He kissed her harder now. She made a sound, low in her throat—not surprise, not resistance, just heat. She pressed into him, hips shifting, lips catching his bottom lip between hers.

The kiss deepened. Grew. His hand slid higher, found the curve of her ribs. She exhaled into his mouth.

She pulled back, just enough to breathe.

Her eyes were dark, smiling.

“Come to my room,” she said.

He nodded.

She stood, graceful, and held out her hand.

He took it.

She led him through the warm, quiet house—toward the low-lit bedroom.

Chapter 5: The Banquet

The lamplight gilded Vivienne’s bare shoulders as she settled onto the edge of the mattress, legs parted just enough to tease. She looked up at him with steady eyes, her breath even, calm. One hand rested on the blankets. The other lifted, fingers curling gently—come here.

Gareth’s cock throbbed before he even took a step.

Her hands were warm when she reached for his belt. Deliberate. She unsnapped the button of his jeans with a flick of her thumb, then dragged the zipper down slowly, letting the teeth rasp one by one. His breath hitched as her knuckles grazed him through his briefs, already damp at the front.

She didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just looked at him like she wanted to learn him by taste.

When she peeled his briefs down, his cock sprang free, reddened and leaking. A drop of precum glistened at the tip. Vivienne hummed, low, approving, before leaning in.

Her tongue flicked across the slit. Swirled the head. Then she took him deep, her lips stretched taut, her throat working around him.

Gareth groaned, fingers knotting in her hair.

She pulled back just to tongue the thick vein underneath before swallowing him again, deeper this time, her nose brushing the wiry hair at his base. Each drag of her mouth was filthy-wet, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes locked onto his the entire fucking time.

Watching. Making him watch.

Saliva dripped down his shaft. She swirled her tongue around his balls, lapping at the salt there, then sucked him back between her lips like she couldn’t get enough. His hips jerked. "Vivienne—" He was close, too close—

Before long, she paused and pulled off with a lewd pop. Rose up. Unfastened the soft wrap of her dress.

His cock twitched, glistening with spit, aching for more.

She stood there in her skin, unashamed, full and radiant. The folds of her belly. The lines along her thighs. The soft curve of her breasts, moving with each breath. She was beautiful, not like a statue or a magazine, but like nature itself. He felt almost dizzy with awe.

She lay back on the bed. Opened her arms. Welcomed him with her whole body, nothing airbrushed, nothing performative. Just a woman who knew her body was a feast.

He surged forward.

She laughed as he crashed into her, his mouth mapping the salt of her throat, her breasts, the dip of her navel. He buried his face into the thin cotton of her panties, inhaling—musk and heat and her.

She arched into his grip as he hooked his teeth into the fabric, stripping them down her legs.

Then she spread for him.

His breath stuttered.

She was glorious—bare, flushed and glistening. He dove in like a man starved.

Vivienne’s moan punched the air. Her thighs clamped around his ears as he licked, sucked, devoured. Every noise she made—every gasp, every whispered "Yes, right there!" lit his blood on fire. When she came, it was with her fingers knotted in his hair, her hips rolling against his mouth, her cry smothered into her own wrist.

She tugged him up, kissed him deep enough to taste herself on his tongue as she guided him between her thighs. 

When the blunt head of his cock pressed into her, she exhaled hard and locked her legs around his hips.

No slow surrender. Her body took him in one practiced tilt of her pelvis, sheathing him to the root.

Their foreheads bumped. Their eyes met.

Fuck.

Sweat already glazed her chest. Wrinkles deepened at the corners of her narrowed gaze—not fading passion but concentrating it, sharpening it on him like a blade. Her pupils swallowed every twitch of his face as he moved.

He groaned at the first thick stretch. Warm. Tight even after soaking wet. Not just softness but firm muscle underneath, squeezing slow and deliberate like she knew exactly how to milk him.

She arched up with a grunt, heels digging into his thighs, urging deeper. His hips stuttered before sinking all the way in. Her breath hissed between her teeth.

Then she moved.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. A hard upward roll of her hips, dragging him along her walls. Her pussy pulsed, adjusting, then gripped him tighter. He could feel every fucking inch—the way she clenched when he pulled halfway out, the wet snag of her body sucking him back in.

Her hands scrabbled at his back, hauling him down to fuck her deeper. The rhythm wasn’t smooth. It jerked, halted, then surged again. His knees slipped against the sheets; she locked her legs around his waist and twisted, grinding up with a throaty noise.

"Right there—" Her voice was wrecked already.

He knew what she meant. The angle shifted, cock grinding some buried spot deep inside her that made her whole body stiffen. Her fingers clawed into his shoulders.

Her eyes stayed wide open as he fucked her—not theatrical pleasure but something voracious. Watching him work. Seeing every shudder she pulled from him. Her hands moved from his back to frame his face, thumbs smearing the sweat on his cheekbones as he pistoned into her. Hipbones striking flesh.

Her breath came in sharp bursts.

Every thrust dragged harder. Wet noises filled the room. The slap of flesh, the creak of the bed frame, the choked sound she made when he bottomed out and held himself there.

Her thighs trembled.

Ragged breathing and the slick slap of skin.

When her second orgasm hit, it wasn't dramatic. Just a sudden vice-grip around his cock, a low hum in her throat, her blunt nails sinking crescent moons into his jaw to keep his gaze trapped in hers.

Sweat gathered between them. Her breath came harder.

Vivienne then straddled him in one fluid motion, guiding his cock back to her entrance.

They both groaned as she sank onto him, inch by torturous inch.

Her thighs flexed as she rode him, her hips rolling in slow, deep undulations.

She moved with freedom, not needing to be guided. Her breasts swayed. Her voice rose. She chased her own pleasure without apology.

The wet slap of skin filled the room. Sweat gleamed between her breasts, her nipples tight and flushed. He gripped her waist, mesmerized by the way her body swallowed him, the way she clenched around him with every grind.

He watched her as if seeing something sacred.

She shook—back arching, pussy fluttering around him.

"Fuck, I can feel you," he growled.

Her third orgasm hit like a storm—moaning, trembling. The vise of her around him dragged his release up fast and ruthless.

"Come inside me," she whispered.

He erupted with a ragged shout, spilling deep inside her.

After, she collapsed gently onto his chest, their breath mingling, both of them slick with heat and wonder.

She looked at him and smiled, her lips soft and curved, eyes glowing in the low light.

He couldn’t speak.

She was too beautiful.

He touched her cheek and thought, I’ll never forget this. Not the moment, not the way she looked, not the way she made him feel.

"Again?" he asked hoarsely, already feeling himself stir beneath her.

Vivienne laughed, low and rich, and reached between them. "Oh yes."

Chapter 6: Morning Light

The sheets clung to his legs, still warm from her shape, the scent of her skin weaving through the linen—salt and sage and something deeper, musk-kissed, unmistakably hers. Sunlight bled through the curtains, liquid gold, painting the room in haze. He turned his head.

And there she was.

Vivienne perched at the edge of the bed, bare as dawn, her body an offering of time and grace. The light adored her. It traced the sway of her spine, the soft valleys between her ribs, the way her waist dipped in before flaring into hips that had cradled him through the night.

She sat with one knee drawn up, arms loose around it, unashamed of the curve of her belly, the faint silver rivers etched by years and laughter and living. Her breasts rested against her thighs, nipples still flushed from his mouth, his teeth.

God, her skin. Gilded by decades of sun, freckled at the shoulders, the faintest creases at her elbows where she’d leaned into life. The tattoo on her shoulder blade, a single flower, faded just enough to prove it had been loved for years.

Her hair tumbled wild down her back, threads of silver and black tangled from sleep, from his hands.

She was a queen on the edge of her own world, thighs kissed by light. She breathed, and her body breathed with her—subtle shifts of muscle beneath the honeyed surface, the quiet rise and fall of her chest, the way her collarbone caught shadows when she tilted her chin up.

He remembered.

The heat of her around him. The salt on her neck when he licked into her pulse point. Her voice. She hadn’t just taken him—she’d devoured him, swallowed him whole, let him choke on the divinity of her gasps, her nails scoring his back as she chanted “Yes, yes, there…”

And now…

Silence.

Vivienne gazed at nothing, her lashes low, her lips parted just so. Was she replaying his mouth between her thighs? The way he’d shuddered when she rode him, slow and sure? Or was she simply being—untouchable, endless, a woman who knew her own worth and wore it naked in the sun?

He ached to ask.

Instead, he looked at her.

The way the light clung to the down on her thighs. The soft fold of her elbow. The secret hollow behind her knee. The weathered hands that had mapped his body like scripture.

Mine, he thought, wild and reverent. Mine to witness. Mine to worship.

She turned, then—eyes meeting his with a smile that curled deep in his gut.

"Morning," she murmured, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.

Gareth forgot how to speak. She was too glorious for words.

She turned fully now, stretched like a cat, careless in her skin, then stood. A slow, lazy saunter toward the bathroom.

"You make a wonderful guest," she said over her shoulder, almost playfully.  "But don’t fall in love with me, Gareth. I won’t return the favor."

The door closed gently behind her.