International liaisons are a pain in the arse, but love has a habit of finding its way. We had four months – stolen days and nights – before her visa expired and she returned to a life she loathed.

An hour ago, we met again in the airport concourse: a fierce hug, then a long, wet, tongue-heavy kiss in the car park. Now we’re speeding up the M40, Dora quiet beside me, her hand resting gently on my left thigh, and it feels like she never left.

._.

My mind drifts back to the meadow at Packwood, the first time we met. She’d slipped in the mud, face and clothes smeared, miserable in the mess. I offered my hand, and she took it. That was the start.

We drove back to Rose Cottage in convoy. I tossed her filthy clothes into the machine while she bathed. Later, I found her curled on the bed, wrapped in my bath sheet like a gift. I handed her a tumbler of water. Not much was said, but when she reached out and stroked my bare arm, something shifted. That gentle and deliberate touch led to a kiss. Then another, on the inked figure etched into her skin. We made love, fierce and tender.

We had just two nights before she vanished into her holiday itinerary. But our texts flew thick and fast; later, she came to me, and our love blossomed. And now, she’s on the way back to my nest.

._.

The miles roll under the wheels until it’s time to leave the motorway and drive the old trunk road, passing the Boot Inn, where we enjoyed our first meal together last year.

Slowing. I turn and ease into Rose Lane, where the boughs of ancient beech and oak arch overhead, heavy with the pale green flush of spring. A few hundred metres more, and I turn into a driveway that is marked by a wooden sign, ‘Rose Cottage’.

I unbuckle my belt, twist in my seat, and lean across to kiss her cheek. “Welcome home, Dora.” She smiles, soft and familiar, and her fingers brush my face.

By the front door, I hear a faint scratching inside and glance at her. “I think he knows you’re here.”

I set her case down, step ahead, place my hand on the door handle, and ease it open. A blur of fur squeezes through the gap and launches upward, paws scrabbling at her belly. Dora kneels, hands on his flanks, her voice joyful. “Hello, Jasper. Mommy’s back.”

Laughing, I step inside and head straight to the kitchen. The kettle burbles, I brew the tea, and soon we’re seated at the table, fingers laced across the wood, eyes locked. The air between us is charged – our need is palpable, though neither of us names it – until I do. “Shall we go up?”

We rise, and I glance down at Jasper, content, his eyes closed. Old dogs need their sleep; I can leave him in peace.

At the foot of the stairs, I gesture for her to lead. She ascends slowly, and I follow close, my gaze drawn to the sway of her hips, the gentle rhythm of her body in motion beneath her slacks. Desire stirs – intense and familiar. Sixty-nine, both of us, and somehow the pull only deepens.

At the landing, Dora turns. Her arms slip around my neck, drawing me in. We hold each other, close and quiet, the waiting folding into this moment. Our lips meet, and part, and our tongues play.

The bedroom door is open behind her. Sunlight streams through the doorway, catching the threads of her hair. Tangled together, I gently push her backwards into the room and kick the door shut with my heel, never breaking the kiss. My hands slide down her spine, holding her at the small of her back, pulling her closer.

"Remember how to undo these?" she murmurs against my mouth, guiding my fingers to the buttons of her blouse. They yield easily beneath my fingertips, revealing her silky skin.

"No problem," I answer, teeth nibbling her earlobe. "And I sure remember how you taste."

“Prove it!” She gives a low laugh, then pushes my jacket off my shoulders, and I let it slip to the floor. I fumble with my belt, then release it and unzip my trousers, letting them drop to my feet. My fingers find the waistband of her slacks, squeeze the top button free, then drag the zipper down and grasp the waistband, pulling the cloth over her ample hips.

Locked together, we kick off the garments around our ankles. One step to the bedside and she falls back onto the cool duvet, pulling me down on top, the bed trembling under our combined weight.  Dora’s legs wrap around my hips, anchoring me against her. Our lips connect, sealed in an everlasting shared breath.

My hand, trapped between our bodies, wriggles down and slips underneath the waistband of her panties, then between her thighs. Her legs open, and I find her slick heat. “Oh, God,” she moans as my fingers slip deep inside her wetness, then crook beneath the tender ridge. Her spine arches beneath me, strength born from arousal and desire.

My thumb finds her engorged bud, circling it in a slow, deliberate counter to the hard grasp of my fingers. "Don’t stop,” Dora groans, “don’t you dare stop.” Third, fourth and fifth fingers stretch her to the limit, and words dissolve into a long cry while her muscles pulse and grip the intrusion. Her hand claws at my hip as I slide off to lie with my erect shaft pressing against her side.

Her thighs tremble violently around my hand as I press hard against her clit. At the same time, relentless fingers drive deep inside her tunnel.

She gasps, “Oh, God, you remember,” as her hips start to jerk violently, “you still know how...” her words trailing off into a long wail as her orgasm hits.

Suddenly, she pulls my wrist away – abruptly and forcefully – rolling me onto my back in one fluid motion and straddling my hips, her knees digging into the mattress while her hands press hard against my chest.

Her eyes glisten, alive with desire. "My turn," she rasps. A hand holds my cock, and a finger presses into my foreskin, drawing little circles over my cockhead inside, before smearing wetness across my abdomen as she guides my cock against her entrance. "Sixty-nine," she breathes, sinking onto me slowly, millimetre by excruciating millimetre, "and I still want it." The stretch makes her gasp, and she grips me like a vice.

Her hips flex, she settles into a grinding rhythm and leans forward until her bra touches my chest, sliding up and down with her movement. Inside her, I am in heaven, delicious sensations surging through my shaft and across the head.

Breathlessly, she demands, “Tell me who I taste like.”

I grasp the hem of her bra and push it up; her great breasts fall free.

“Like the woman you are.” I find her stiff nipples and roll them between my fingers, listening to my love’s answering groans.

She throws her head back; I see the tendons in her throat stretched taut above me. A guttural cry is accompanied by her clenching hard on my shaft while her hips jerk against me. I am close to the edge, holding on to let her go over into ecstasy, living for her moment.

Dora lifts off me, twisting in a fluid movement, and I feel her knees brush across my front before she dips down, her lips wrapping around my cockhead. Her thighs drop across my face, and she presses down with her sopping wet pussy dripping into my mouth.

My tongue explores, finding her bud, and I press home, licking and pushing as her hips roll around. My hands frantically pull her cheeks apart, desperately seeking fresh air to breathe.

I feel my hips flex, and the surge of orgasm races up my cock. Her muffled sobs accompany my release as I shoot my life into her mouth. Her moment comes when her body stiffens on me, and she thrusts down onto my face, drowning me in the cream pouring from her body.

Dora rolls sideways onto the crumpled duvet, chest heaving, one arm flung over her eyes as dappled sunlight flickers across her flesh. Her breathless giggle breaks through the stillness. "You taste so good," she murmurs, fingers trailing through the mess on my stomach.

I know there is only one response: “You still taste like a very special woman.”

._.

We settle into a gentle routine. My house, once shared with a wife who lies in the churchyard, becomes a haven for new love. Built three centuries ago for farm labourers, its thick rendered walls have sheltered a dozen generations. The thatched roof was laid with traditions older than memory. A home that sits in the land, enduring and solid.

The garden, lovingly tended for decades, is my retreat. A green sward flanked by beds bursting with fresh growth that will soon be crowned in summer’s bloom. Across the back wall, the rambling rose shows its first flush of pink, casting a delicate scent into the air.

I sit in a cast-iron chair beneath the pear tree, its blossom a promise of sweet fruit come August, and let my gaze wander. To own this place is a privilege beyond description. The mower stands silent nearby, the lawn trimmed to perfection. I am still perspiring from the effort of mowing, my t-shirt and shorts sticky and stained, but all is well; the job is done.

Dora steps through the kitchen door, a vision in her summer dress, the fabric swaying gently as she moves across the sweet grass. I watch her – those neat calves, the generous curve of her hips, and the soft swell of her breasts. But it’s her face I cherish most: the face of a woman who wears her years with grace. She pauses before me, and I tilt my head to meet her gaze. We exchange smiles, wordless and warm. Sometimes, love asks for nothing more than silence.

She leans down and kisses me – soft at first, then deeper, her tongue slipping through to greet mine. She gathers her skirts, then straddles me, and her arms circle my neck as she settles into my lap. We lock together, my face tilted up to hers, breath mingling. Her hips begin to move, pressing gently against my stomach, stirring me from reverie into life.

Her thighs bracket mine, and her breath hitches softly when she rocks forward deliberately; the thin fabric of my shorts does nothing to mute the friction. My hands slip under her skirts and travel up her thigh, finding no barrier, and wander inwards where there is coarse hair, not the expected cotton.

Two thumbs explore her secret place, and Dora whimpers softly with the pressure on her sensitive bud. My groans mingle with hers as my knuckles press into my loins, forced onto my hardness that is trapped and throbbing beneath the thin material of my shorts.

She lifts her thighs, my fingers hook into the elastic waist, and I drag the thin cloth down to my knees. Cool air flows across my released shaft, and I lift my hands to part her lips, feeling the wetness inside. Dora gazes down at the gap between our bodies and slowly lowers her thighs. I instinctively understand and hold my cock vertical, ready to be received by her body. The gap disappears, and I feel her damp, open core touch and surround me.

My voice seems disembodied. “Please, Dora, I want you.”

Her hips slam violently against me, burying me inside her with a brutal, single motion. The sudden invasion makes her gasp as her thighs clamp viciously around my hips, trapping me against the solid iron. She envelops me entirely; her inner muscles spasm in shock. I cry out in pain, the force of her movement pulling my foreskin back as her flesh rasps across my sensitive glans. Dora is aroused but not fully wet.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, anchoring herself as she begins to ride me – hard, with no gentle build-up. Each upward shift is a near-withdrawal followed by a punishing, downward, forceful push. Sweat drips onto my chest. She doesn't speak, and her breaths fracture into choked gasps against my ear.

She thrusts herself on me, never slowing, seeking obliteration. Fingers tangled in my hair, she yanks my head back, forcing my gaze to meet hers.

"Look," she demands. "See what you do to me." Her hips slam again, deeper, the friction bordering on pain.

Suddenly, her rhythm falters, and a tremor runs through her. Her thighs clamp tighter, locking around me as guttural noises escape her lips. She collapses forward, forehead pressed hard against mine. Three frantic orgasmic convulsions, my buried cock squeezed hard with each one. She collapses, limp as a ragdoll, against me, shuddering. "Oh, my!" she breathes.

Sweat soaks her dress where it clings to my chest. Her fingers untangle from my hair, trembling as they trace a sweat-streaked line across my shoulders. She doesn't lift her gaze, and her soft lips brush my cheekbone. "Now you," she whispers, the words potent and promising.

I grip her hips, fingers digging into damp flesh. I thrust upward – sharp, urgent lunges met by Dora’s exhausted whimpers. Her surrender fuels my urgency; she’s pliant now, letting me drive the pace, head lolling against my shoulder. "Don't...stop," she rasps, words muffled against my skin.

Her hands slide down my sweat-slicked back, blunt nails scraping lightly. She arches, then goes still again, breathing rapidly against my ear as I chase my ending.

I pant, hips pushing harder – no finesse now, just the raw friction of her body. She moans softly, fingers tightening on my shoulders as I near the brink.

"Yes," she breathes. "Let me feel it." The command shatters my control. I slam into her one last time, deeper than before, and my vision whites out as release crashes through my body. Violent and shuddering, silencing the world beyond my body. A tremor runs through her at the sensation, a faint gasp escaping her parted lips.

Silence settles on us. Our breathing slows, but we remain linked, my softening shaft still buried inside. My arms link across her back, holding her there, an insurance against losing this precious moment. We kiss, deeply and passionately, her saliva running freely into my mouth.

Time holds still until our lips part. She shifts her weight with a wince, lifting herself slowly, leaving me bare to the cooling air. A staggered step backwards, her bare feet skidding on the flattened grass, then balance regained. Her dress clings to her thighs, damp and streaked with sweat. She swipes a trembling hand across her flushed face, smearing moisture and loose strands of hair.

“Oh, my goodness,” she murmurs, bending to snatch her sandals from beneath the chair.

I remain still, watching her turn and walk back into the cottage. Overhead, a blackbird sings, calling for a mate.