I watched her standing there, arms wrapped protectively around herself, and felt something predatory unfurl in my chest. The way she held herself—like she was already bracing for rejection—made my blood sing.
"Should you what?" I asked, my voice rougher than intended.
Her eyes flicked up briefly before darting away again. "Remove... the rest?"
The hesitation in her voice told me everything. She expected me to stop her, to come to my senses and leave. Maybe even hoped for it.
Instead, I leaned back against the wall and crossed my arms. "That's up to you."
Her breath caught—a tiny sound that went straight to my groin. She hadn't expected that response. Traditional men, in her experience, probably took control at this point, sparing her the choice.
But I wanted to watch her choose this. Wanted to see how far her sense of duty would take her.
Her hands trembled as she reached behind her back. The bra came away with a small struggle—the clasp was old, stubborn. When it finally gave way, she let it fall to join the neat pile of clothes.
I swallowed thickly.
Her breasts were smaller than I'd imagined, but perfectly shaped. The kind that would fit entirely in my palms. Pink nipples that had clearly fed a child, slightly darker than the rest of her pale skin. A thin white scar traced along her left ribcage—some old accident. The harsh life in the countryside.
She kept her eyes down as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear.
"You don't have to look away," I said quietly.
Her head snapped up, confusion flickering across her features. "I... most men prefer..."
"I'm not most men." I pushed off from the wall, taking a step closer. "And I want to see all of you."
The underwear slipped down her legs with less ceremony than everything else. She stepped out of them with the same careful precision, then straightened.
Completely bare now. Completely mine.
Her pubic hair was roughly trimmed but natural—another sign of her practical nature. Her thighs had a small gap between them. Hip bones that jutted just slightly. The curve of her waist was more pronounced because of her thinness, but it made her look delicate rather than unhealthy.
"There," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Now you can see... I'm not..."
She gestured vaguely at herself, unable to finish the sentence. Not young. Not beautiful. Not worth the trouble.
Wrong on every count.
"You're perfect," I said, and meant it.
Her eyes widened. "I'm old. Skinny. My body has been through..." She touched her stomach lightly, where I could just make out the faint silver lines that marked her as a mother. "I'm not what a man like you usually—"
"What do you think a man like me usually wants?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She opened and closed her mouth several times before answering.
"Someone young. Unmarked. Beautiful."
I moved closer, close enough that I could smell the simple soap she used, see the way her pulse fluttered at her throat.
"I've had young women," I said conversationally. "Beautiful women. Women who knew exactly what they were doing in bed." I reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and traced one finger along her collarbone. "Do you know what they all lacked?"
She shivered under my touch, but then sighed. Shaking her head, a tired but genuine smile replaced her uncertainty. Her hands came up to my flak jacket's zipper, fingers working with the same efficient precision she'd used on everything else.
"It was already plenty clear you had practice charming women," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone mothers used when stating obvious facts. Maternal but not condescending. "From the moment you walked in, those smooth words just rolled off your tongue."
The zipper came down with a soft sound, and she pushed the heavy jacket off my shoulders with movements that felt practiced, automatic. Like she'd done this a hundred times before—helped a man out of his clothes at the end of a long day.
Fuck. The domesticity of it hit me harder than any seduction technique ever had.
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face as she folded the jacket with the same careful precision she'd used for her own clothes. There was something deeply satisfying about watching her take this caring act, even in this small way.
Like she was already slipping into a role that felt natural.
The way her spine curved, her hip jutting subtly as she leaned to put the jacket aside—thin, almost frail beneath the skin, but still womanly. I had to curl my fingers into my thigh to keep from grabbing her.
"None of that worked on you, though," I pointed out, unable to resist the jab.
Her hands paused on my shirt, and she looked up at me with an expression of pure exasperation that belonged on a mother dealing with a particularly obtuse child.
"That's not something you should brag about to a woman," she said, her voice carrying gentle reproof. "Telling her about your... experiences with others. It's rather tactless, don't you think?"
The way she said it—like she was giving advice to a nephew who meant well but lacked manners—made me want to laugh and kiss her at the same time. Here she was, naked and preparing to let me fuck her, and she was trying to teach me proper etiquette.
A real mother.
Not like Mebuki Haruno, who'd spread her legs at the first hint of social advancement, more concerned with status than her own daughter's well-being.
This woman had substance, had endured actual hardship, and come out with her dignity intact.
A dignity I was about to….. my dick throbbed harder.
I breathed hard through my nose, the domesticity and maternal nature of her actions doing something dangerous to my self-control. She was making me even more aroused than I'd thought possible, and that was saying something considering I'd been walking around half-hard for days.
I grabbed her hands before she could lift my shirt, stopping her gentle ministrations. She looked up at me— the height difference was perfect, making her seem even more delicate, with questioning dark eyes.
Time to show this twice-married woman what sex actually was.
I leaned down and finally claimed the kiss she'd denied me earlier. Her lips were exactly as I'd imagined—slightly chapped but soft, tasting faintly of the tea she'd been drinking. She went completely still against me, not resisting but not participating either, like she wasn't sure what was expected of her.
When I pulled back, her cheeks had gone a beautiful deep red that was more seen in girls half her age. She immediately looked away, one hand unconsciously touching her lips.
No matter the age or experience, a kiss was all it took to turn any woman shy—a universal constant.
I licked my lips, tasting her there, and felt my predatory instincts spike along with the painful hardness in my pants. My hands freed hers. One settling on her shoulder to trace slow patterns down her arm, the other cupping her chin to guide her face back to mine.
She was absolutely stunning like this. Flushed and uncertain, her breathing shallow, dark eyes wide with something between apprehension and anticipation. The vulnerability in her expression made every dominant instinct I possessed roar to life.
"I'm going to fuck you now," I said quietly, watching her face.
She reeled back at the vulgarity, as if the word scraped against some old-fashioned part of her, but she didn't correct me.
After a brief moment, she looked away again, but stayed silent. That particular kind of silence traditional women used—not quite consent, but not refusal either. The kind that let them maintain their decency while still acquiescing to such a shameful request.
But silence had never been enough for me. Not with Sakura when I'd had to discipline her bratty behavior, and certainly not with this woman who was about to let me inside her body.
I gripped her chin more firmly, forcing her to meet my eyes again.
"I need to hear you say it."
Her breath hitched, and for a moment I thought she might actually refuse. Then her gaze dropped briefly before returning to mine, resigned but determined.
"Yes," she whispered, then added with that same maternal practicality, "if this is what you truly want from me."
The hand on her shoulder began a slow journey down, fingertips trailing over the sharp ridge of her collarbone before finding the soft swell of her breast. She sucked in a sharp breath, her body going rigid under my touch.
Fuck, they were real. Modest and worn by time, a little slack from age and harder years, but still warm against my palm. The skin wasn't flawless—faint stretch lines, the give of tired flesh—but it was hers. When my thumb brushed her nipple, it pebbled immediately, sensitive despite it all, and she let out a sound low in her throat.
Years. It had been years since anyone had touched her like this, and it showed.
I could tell from the way her whole body trembled, from how she seemed surprised by her own reactions. Her nipples were already hard peaks, dark pink and sensitive. When I rolled one between my fingers, she gasped and tried to step back, but my other hand on her chin kept her in place.
"Easy," I murmured, angling her head just right. "I'm not going to hurt you."
This time, when I kissed her, I went slower, coaxing rather than claiming. Her lips were hesitant under mine, unpracticed in a way that told me everything about her previous marriages.
Duty, not passion. Obligation, not desire.
But when I traced my tongue along the seam of her lips, they parted with a soft exhale that went straight to my cock.
Her tongue was tentative when it met mine, like she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. So I showed her, taking my time to map the inside of her mouth while my hand continued its exploration of her breast. The other nipple was just as responsive, just as neglected.
When I finally pulled back, she was breathing hard, her lips swollen and wet.
"Oh," she whispered, touching her lips with shaking fingers as if not understanding that a kiss wasn't supposed to feel that deep and could do more than just touch skin.
I couldn't wait any longer. My hand left her breast to trace down her ribs—dammit, I could count every one—to the narrow curve of her waist. Her skin bore the dull texture of someone who forgot to care for herself—dry, thinned by years of work and skipped meals. Not delicate, not pampered. Just neglected. When I reached her hip, she jumped slightly, unused to being touched there.
"Shh," I breathed against her ear, feeling her shiver. My lips found the pulse point at her neck, and I could feel how fast her heart was racing. The skin there was thin, delicate. I could see the fine lines that spoke of worry and sleepless nights, but they only made her more beautiful.
Her neck tasted like salt and sun-warmed skin, with a faint trace of old soap and days spent near woodsmoke and rice steam. When I sucked gently at the spot where her neck met her shoulder, she made a sound I'd never heard before—part surprise, part pleasure, entirely unconscious.
My hands grew bolder as she started relaxing, roaming freely now, relearning the geography of a woman's body through her responses. Her thighs were lean, almost too thin, but they trembled under my touch. The muscles were tight — not kunoichi tight — but from years of hard work as a lone widow.
When I cupped her ass, she jumped and tried to pull away again.
"I don't... that's not..." she started, but the words died when I squeezed gently.
"Not what?" I asked, my voice rough with want.
She shook her head, unable to articulate what she was feeling. Her whole body was flushed now, the pink creeping down her chest like heat sinking deeper. Even her nipples seemed darker, more swollen.
The sight tugged at some primal strings, the kind of hunger that imagined her fuller, heavier, leaking.
And fuck—somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I wouldn't even mind knocking her up.
With how wound up I was, I wasn't sure I'd have the discipline to pull out when it counted anyway.
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