Page 35 of Her Age Gap Match

"Arms up," I said.

She raised her arms and I pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor and just…stopped.

No bra. Just her, in the amber light, watching me with those eyes.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," I said.

I knelt down and kissed her again, but only briefly. I wanted to look. I cupped her breasts in my hands, too big for me to hold them completely, pushed them up slightly so I could better see the freckles dusting every inch of her.

“You…” I kissed the top of one breast. “Are fucking perfect.” The other.

She watched me the whole time, never closing her eyes. I met her gaze again and moved my hands to roll her nipples between my fingers.

“Where are your toys?” I asked.

She swallowed hard. “Bedside table.”

“You like when I touch you here?”

She nodded.

Fuck, I was hard as a fucking rock.

“You’re gonna grab the dildo from the other night and fuck yourself with it while I get to know these perfect tits,” I said. “I’m big. Need you ready.”

She reached for the nightstand without hesitating, which I liked. No shyness about it–she knew what she wanted and she went and got it, and there was something about that directness that made me want to take my time with her even more. I kept my hands on her while she got herself ready, not rushing her, not rushing myself. Set the dildo beside her. A condom with it, because she was prepared like that.

Then she went for her shorts.

“Let me,” I said with a lazy smile. “I have been dying to take these stupid shorts off you since last night.”

Her breath hitched when my fingers found the waistband of the shorts…then I dragged them down, over her wide hips, her thick thighs. God, she was perfect. Every inch of her was fucking perfect, and I was going to spend the rest of my life worshiping this perfect body.

I kissed the tops of her thighs then.

Didn’t touch her pussy yet, even though it was perfect and wet and pink and covered in a thatch of red curls.

“Now,” I said, picking up the dildo. “Fuck yourself, baby.”

She took it from me, her hand a little unsteady.

I sat back on my heels and watched.

She pressed the tip of it against herself and I watched her body open around it—slow, just the first inch, her breath catching. She was tight. She'd need time, which was fine. We had time. I had all the time in the world suddenly, all the patience I'd built over years of barrels and early mornings and doing things right, and I was going to use every bit of it on her.

"Slow," I said quietly. I wanted to watch.

She went slow.

Another inch, and the sound she made was involuntary and low and went straight through me. Her thighs fell open a little wider. I could see exactly where the toy disappeared into her, could see the way her body stretched around it, the wetness coating it when she pulled back slightly before pressing deeper.

"God," she breathed.

"Keep going," I said.

She did—gradual, working herself open, her hips tilting up instinctively to find the angle she needed. Her free hand fisted in the sheets. I watched her stomach tighten, watched her chest rise and fall faster, watched a fresh slick of arousal gather on her inner thigh.