Foreword
This is a slow-burn, multi-part erotic story about Mia--a former Olympic gymnast, now a wife and mother--who finds herself craving more than routine and memory.
Each chapter builds on the last, both sexually and emotionally. The sex is explicit, consensual, and realistic but the focus is Mia: her choices, her arousal, and how far she's willing to go once she realizes how much she still wants.
If you're after something fast and simple, this probably isn't it. There's sex, infact it's an integral part of the story, but everything in good time.
But if you like character-driven smut with a real emotional core, welcome. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1
The sheets carried the faint musk of sweat and skin. Morning light slipped, silently, eloquently through the blinds, striping Dale's bare back like gold. He breathed deeply--slow, steady--one arm thrown over her pillow, the other resting next to him, his hand softly perched onto of a bump under the sheets, as it moved gracefully up and down.
Beneath the covers, Mia shifted. Silently, purposefully. Her cheek brushed the line of soft hair running down his abdomen, her mouth accepting the heat of him. Hard. Familiar. Hers.
Kisses traced up and down the length of the hard, thick shaft, slow, reverent right up and back down to the base. Her tongue, deliberate and warm, slid back up the length of him like worship.
He groaned. Low. Rough. "Mmm... baby... Mia..."
She hummed around him, low and full of heat, the sound vibrating deep in her throat. Every inch of him responded with it thickening, twitching against her tongue like it knew her all over again. With one hand wrapped gently at his base and her lips sliding lower, she moved in practiced rhythm, every movement deliberate, every flick of her tongue a memory made flesh.
Harder now. Thicker. Firmer. More swollen. Her jaw opened wider; spine arched in that perfect gymnast's bow she could still summon in her sleep if she so wished. She was a fantasy come to life. It wasn't just movement, it was controlled and fluid, as though this act, this rhythm, had always lived in her bones. Every breath she took drew her deeper. Every inch she swallowed with ease down her throat brought her closer to something sacred.
She adjusted her angle, sliding her knees, tilting her head, breath warm and focused, her throat opened more, pulsating, he slipped in easier, deeper, heavier. There, in that breathless moment, she felt it again. That click. That certainty. The way her body knew what to do before she did. She wasn't just good at this. She was made for it. Her mouth moved on instinct, it was the most natural thing she knew how to do, and she was damn good at it.
His fingers slid into her hair, not guiding, just enjoying the feeling of himself inside her mouth, down her throat, as she hummed, sucked and gasped. A tremble ran down his thigh, quiet but urgent. She felt it, tasted it.
"God, Mia..."
She let him fall from her lips with a slow pop, a 'slap' as the shaft smacked against his abdomen, her breath fanning warmly across his skin. "Good morning baby," she said softly, licking the head once before tracing it with her lips.
He tilted his head down, eyes heavy-lidded, voice rough from sleep and arousal. "Best one I've had in years."
Smiling, she leaned back down. This time she took him deeper--her lips sealing around him with reverence, her tongue pressing flat beneath the shaft as her nose kissed the warm skin at his base. He hissed through clenched teeth.
Her hand slid to his thigh, nails grazing skin, and she moaned around him--soft, sweet, and unfiltered. The vibration pulled a helpless gasp from his chest.
"You're gonna kill me," he muttered, hips rising, the edge catching him fast.
She didn't stop. She didn't flinch. She just sank lower, mouth and throat and tongue all working in perfect, aching sync, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She'd always been good at this--naturally good. Sex came easily to her, like rhythm or breath. Back in her teens, before kids and chaos, she'd already learned how powerful pleasure could be--how much she liked giving it, how much it stirred something hot and real in her when she did. Not power. Not control. Just pure satisfaction.
She had a libido that didn't quit, and a body built for sin, and Dale... loyal to a fault, the kind of man who wouldn't even glance at anyone else. She, on the other hand, wasn't wired that way. When she got turned on, her mind wandered--playfully, hungrily--through anyone who caught her interest. She didn't act on it, never would. But the fantasies? They were hers. Wild, unfiltered, and always leading back to him.
When he came, it was a quiet disaster--his hips bucked up, breath stuttering, one hand clenching her jaw like it was the only thing anchoring him to the bed. Her name spilled from his lips in fragments, torn and trembling, half-confession, half-praise. The first spurt hit the back of her throat--hot, thick, salted with sleep and skin and him--and she swallowed instinctively, moaning low as more followed, slower now, coating her tongue and sliding warmly down.
The taste was familiar: clean, musky, undeniably Dale. Her lips lingered over the head, suckling gently, cleaning him with slow reverence. She didn't rush. She wanted it all. Every last drop.
When he twitched under her mouth, oversensitive and gasping, she finally released him, letting him fall free with a wet, satisfied sound. Her lips were slick, her cheeks flushed.
She slid up his body, her skin brushing his--the faint sweat on his chest, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the tremble still in his thighs. She kissed him on the sternum, tasting salt. Then higher. His collarbone. The crook of his neck. Finally, his mouth.
Sticky. Breathless. Intimate.
He didn't flinch at the taste. He opened to her, groaning into her mouth as their tongues slid together--his hands already pulling her closer, like he needed to feel her everywhere at once.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered softly, running his hand through her delicate, soft, chestnut brown hair.
