Now that he'd regained the use of his hands, George seemed intent on using them as much as possible. Muriel closed her eyes, arching her head back into the mattress as his fingers slipped over her skin, lifting herself at his urging to help him remove her bra and knickers. Then his lips were on her, trailing up her thigh, over her belly and chest, and then he was pressed up against her, skin warm and damp and firm, and she kissed him back with all the languorous need in his movements.
You're so good to me. It only registered a moment later, what he'd said, and she couldn't help but watch him for a moment, floating for a moment atop the swirling need in her body, filling instead with tenderness, with the urge to hold him tight and protect him. Good to him. The world wouldn't say so. His family wouldn't say so. But here they were, shaking and clinging to each other, and it felt right, natural, healing.
But that was too much to acknowledge, too much to allow to pass between them. Some things could be felt, and be understood to be felt, but saying them would be ruinous.
"Nonsense," she murmured, smiling, pressing her open mouth to his shoulder and marking his skin with her teeth. "I'm just a dirty old woman using you for sex."
She curled her leg around him again, felt his cock pressed hot and hard against her thigh. Rocked against him, just once. "Spread me open and take me."